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<h2>CHARLES O'MALLEY, Vol. 2, by Charles Lever</h2>

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<p>Title: Charles O'Malley, Vol. 2</p>

<p>Author: Charles Lever</p>

<p>Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8674]<br>
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]<br>
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<p>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES O'MALLEY,
VOL. 2 ***</p>

<p>Produced by David Widger, Jonathan Ingram, Charles Franks<br>
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</p>
<br><br><br><br>


<h1>CHARLES O'MALLEY</h1>
<br><br>
<h3>The Irish Dragoon</h3>
<br><br><br>
<h2>BY CHARLES LEVER.</h2>
<br><br>
<h3>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ.</h3>
<br><br><br>
<h3>IN TWO VOLUMES.</h3>

<h1>VOL. II.</h1>

<a name="0001"></a>
<img alt="0001.jpg (163K)" src="0001.jpg" height="1059" width="706">


<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<p>CHAPTER</p>

<pre>
I.       THE DOCTOR'S TALE
II.      THE SKIRMISH
III.     THE LINES OF CIUDAD RODRIGO
IV.      THE DOCTOR
V.       THE COA
VI.      THE NIGHT MARCH
VII.     THE JOURNEY
VIII.    THE GHOST
IX.      LISBON
X.       A PLEASANT PREDICAMENT
XI.      THE DINNER
XII.     THE LETTER
XIII.    THE VILLA
XIV.     THE VISIT
XV.      THE CONFESSION
XVI.     MY CHARGER
XVII.    MAURICE
XVIII.   THE MASQUERADE
XIX.     THE LINES
XX.      THE RETREAT OF THE FRENCH
XXI.     PATRICK'S DAY IN THE PENINSULA
XXII.    FUENTES D'ONORO
XXIII.   THE BATTLE OF FUENTES D'ONORO
XXIV.    A RENCONTRE
XXV.     ALMEIDA
XXVI.    A NIGHT ON THE AZAVA
XXVII.   MIKE'S MISTAKE
XXVIII.  MONSOON IN TROUBLE
XXIX.    THE CONFIDENCE
XXX.     THE CANTONMENT
XXXI.    MICKEY FREE'S ADVENTURE
XXXII.   THE SAN PETRO
XXXIII.  THE COUNT'S LETTER
XXXIV.   THE TRENCHES
XXXV.    THE STORMING OF CIUDAD RODRIGO
XXXVI.   THE RAMPART
XXXVII.  THE DESPATCH
XXXVIII. THE LEAVE
XXXIX.   LONDON
XL.      THE BELL AT BRISTOL
XLI.     IRELAND
XLII.    THE RETURN
XLIII.   HOME
XLIV.    AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
XLV.     A SURPRISE
XLVI.    NEW VIEWS
XLVII.   A RECOGNITION
XLVIII.  A MISTAKE
XLIX.    BRUSSELS
L.       AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
LI.      THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND'S BALL
LII.     QUATRE BRAS
LIII.    WATERLOO
LIV.     BRUSSELS
LV.      CONCLUSION
         L'ENVOI

</pre>

<br><br><br><br>
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ IN VOL. II</h2>

<p>Etchings *<br><br>
<a href="#0001">*EXORCISING A SPIRIT</a><br>
<a href="#0034">A FLYING SHOT</a><br>
<a href="#0083">O'MALLEY FOLLOWING THE CUSTOM OF HIS COUNTRY</a><br>
<a href="#0102">MR. FREE TURNED SPANIARD</a><br>
<a href="#0124">CHARLEY TRYING A CHARGER</a><br>
<a href="#0158">GOING OUT TO DINNER</a><br>
<a href="#0163">DISADVANTAGE OF BREAKFASTING OVER A DUELLING-PARTY</a><br>
<a href="#0217">*THE TABLES TURNED</a><br>
<a href="#0225">MR. FREE PIPES WHILE HIS FRIENDS PIPE-CLAY</a><br>
<a href="#0247">A HUNTING TURN-OUT IN THE PENINSULA</a><br>
<a href="#0255">MIKE CAPTURING THE TRUMPETER</a><br>
<a href="#0317">CAPTAIN MICKEY FREE RELATING HIS HEROIC DEEDS</a><br>
<a href="#0362">BABY BLAKE</a><br>
<a href="#0410">MICKEY ASTONISHES THE NATIVES</a><br>
<a href="#0412">*THE GENTLEMEN WHO NEVER SLEEP</a><br>
<a href="#0471">DEATH OF HAMMERSLEY</a><br>
<a href="#0481">*THE WELCOME HOME</a></p>

<br><br><br><br>
<h1>CHARLES O'MALLEY.</h1>
<br>
<h2>THE IRISH DRAGOON.</h2>


<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER I.</p>

<p>THE DOCTOR'S TALE.[1]</p>

<p>"It is now some fifteen years since&mdash;if it wasn't for
O'Shaughnessy's<br>
wrinkles, I could not believe it five&mdash;we were quartered in
Loughrea. There<br>
were, besides our regiment, the Fiftieth and the Seventy-third,
and a troop<br>
or two of horse artillery, and the whole town was literally a
barrack, and<br>
as you may suppose, the pleasantest place imaginable. All the
young ladies,<br>
and indeed all those that had got their brevet some years before,
came<br>
flocking into the town, not knowing but the Devil might persuade
a raw<br>
ensign or so to marry some of them.</p>

<p>"Such dinner parties, such routs and balls, never were heard
of west of<br>
Athlone. The gayeties were incessant; and if good feeding, plenty
of<br>
claret, short whist, country dances, and kissing could have done
the thing,<br>
there wouldn't have been a bachelor with a red coat for six miles
around.</p>

<p>[Footnote 1: I cannot permit the reader to fall into the same
blunder,<br>
with regard to the worthy "Maurice," as my friend Charles
O'Malley has<br>
done. It is only fair to state that the doctor in the following
tale was<br>
hoaxing the "dragoon." A braver and a better fellow than Quill
never<br>
existed, equally beloved by his brother officers, as delighted in
for his<br>
convivial talents. His favorite amusement was to invent some
story or<br>
adventure in which, mixing up his own name with that of some
friend or<br>
companion, the veracity of the whole was never questioned. Of
this nature<br>
was the pedigree he devised in the last chapter of Vol. I. to
impose upon<br>
O'Malley, who believed implicitly all he told him.]</p>

<p>"You know the west, O'Mealey, so I needn't tell you what the
Galway girls<br>
are like: fine, hearty, free-and-easy, talking, laughing devils,
but as<br>
deep and 'cute as a Master in Chancery; ready for any fun or
merriment, but<br>
always keeping a sly look-out for a proposal or a tender
acknowledgment,<br>
which&mdash;what between the heat of a ball-room, whiskey negus, white
satin<br>
shoes, and a quarrel with your guardian&mdash;it's ten to one you fall
into<br>
before you're a week in the same town with them.</p>

<p>"As for the men, I don't admire them so much: pleasant and
cheerful enough<br>
when they're handicapping the coat off your back, and your new
tilbury for<br>
a spavined pony and a cotton umbrella, but regular devils if you
come to<br>
cross them the least in life; nothing but ten paces, three shots
apiece, to<br>
begin and end with something like Roger de Coverley, when every
one has a<br>
pull at his neighbor. I'm not saying they're not agreeable,
well-informed,<br>
and mild in their habits; but they lean overmuch to corduroys and
coroners'<br>
inquests for one's taste farther south. However, they're a fine
people,<br>
take them all in all; and if they were not interfered with, and
their<br>
national customs invaded with road-making, petty-sessions,
grand-jury laws,<br>
and a stray commission now and then, they are capable of great
things, and<br>
would astonish the world.</p>

<p>"But as I was saying, we were ordered to Loughrea after being
fifteen<br>
months in detachments about Birr, Tullamore, Kilbeggan, and all
that<br>
country; the change was indeed a delightful one, and we soon
found<br>
ourselves the centre of the most marked and determined
civilities. I told<br>
you they were wise people in the west; this was their
calculation: the<br>
line&mdash;ours was the Roscommon militia&mdash;are here to-day, there
to-morrow;<br>
they may be flirting in Tralee this week, and fighting on the
Tagus the<br>
next; not that there was any fighting there in those times, but
then there<br>
was always Nova Scotia and St. John's, and a hundred other places
that a<br>
Galway young lady knew nothing about, except that people never
came back<br>
from them. Now, what good, what use was there in falling in love
with them?<br>
Mere transitory and passing pleasure that was. But as for us:
there we<br>
were; if not in Kilkenny we were in Cork. Safe out and come
again; no<br>
getting away under pretence of foreign service; no excuse for not
marrying<br>
by any cruel pictures of the colonies, where they make
spatch-cocks of the<br>
officers' wives and scrape their infant families to death with a
small<br>
tooth-comb. In a word, my dear O'Mealey, we were at a high
premium; and<br>
even O'Shaughnessy, with his red head and the legs you see, had
his<br>
admirers. There now, don't be angry, Dan; the men, at least, were
mighty<br>
partial to you.</p>

<p>"Loughrea, if it was a pleasant, was a very expensive place.
White gloves<br>
and car hire,&mdash;there wasn't a chaise in the town,&mdash;short whist,
too (God<br>
forgive me if I wrong them, but I wonder were they honest), cost
money; and<br>
as our popularity rose, our purses fell; till at length, when the
one was<br>
at the flood, the other was something very like low water.</p>

<p>"Now, the Roscommon was a beautiful corps; no petty
jealousies, no little<br>
squabbling among the officers, no small spleen between the
major's wife<br>
and the paymaster's sister,&mdash;all was amiable, kind, brotherly,
and<br>
affectionate. To proceed, I need only mention one fine trait of
them,&mdash;no<br>
man ever refused to indorse a brother officer's bill. To think of
asking<br>
the amount or even the date would be taken personally; and thus
we went on<br>
mutually aiding and assisting each other,&mdash;the colonel drawing on
me, I<br>
on the major, the senior captain on the surgeon, and so on, a
regular<br>
cross-fire of 'promises to pay,' all stamped and regular.</p>

<p>"Not but the system had its inconveniences; for sometimes an
obstinate<br>
tailor or bootmaker would make a row for his money, and then we'd
be<br>
obliged to get up a little quarrel between the drawer and the
acceptor of<br>
the bill; they couldn't speak for some days, and a mutual friend
to both<br>
would tell the creditor that the slightest imprudence on his part
would<br>
lead to bloodshed; 'and the Lord help him! if there was a duel,
he'd be<br>
proved the whole cause of it.' This and twenty other plans were
employed;<br>
and finally, the matter would be left to arbitration among our
brother<br>
officers, and I need not say, they behaved like trumps. But
notwithstanding<br>
all this, we were frequently hard pressed for cash; as the
colonel said,<br>
'It's a mighty expensive corps.' Our dress was costly; not that
it had much<br>
lace and gold on it, but that, what between falling on the road
at night,<br>
shindies at mess, and other devilment, a coat lasted no time.
Wine, too,<br>
was heavy on us; for though we often changed our wine merchant,
and rarely<br>
paid him, there was an awful consumption at the mess!</p>

<p>"Now, what I have mentioned may prepare you for the fact that
before<br>
we were eight weeks in garrison, Shaugh and myself, upon an
accurate<br>
calculation of our conjoint finances, discovered that except some
vague<br>
promises of discounting here and there through the town, and
seven and<br>
fourpence in specie, we were innocent of any pecuniary treasures.
This was<br>
embarrassing; we had both embarked in several small schemes of
pleasurable<br>
amusement, had a couple of hunters each, a tandem, and a running
account&mdash;I<br>
think it <i>galloped</i>&mdash;at every shop in the town.</p>

<p>"Let me pause for a moment here, O'Mealey, while I moralize a
little in a<br>
strain I hope may benefit you. Have you ever considered&mdash;of
course you have<br>
not, you're too young and unreflecting&mdash;how beautifully every
climate<br>
and every soil possesses some one antidote or another to its own
noxious<br>
influences? The tropics have their succulent and juicy fruits,
cooling and<br>
refreshing; the northern latitudes have their beasts with fur and
warm skin<br>
to keep out the frost-bites; and so it is in Ireland. Nowhere on
the face<br>
of the habitable globe does a man contract such habits of small
debt, and<br>
nowhere, I'll be sworn, can he so easily get out of any scrape
concerning<br>
them. They have their tigers in the east, their antelopes in the
south,<br>
their white bears in Norway, their buffaloes in America; but we
have an<br>
animal in Ireland that beats them all hollow,&mdash;a country
attorney!</p>

<p>"Now, let me introduce you to Mr. Matthew Donevan. Mat, as he
was<br>
familiarly called by his numerous acquaintances, was a short,
florid, rosy<br>
little gentleman of some four or five-and-forty, with a
well-curled wig of<br>
the fairest imaginable auburn, the gentle wave of the front
locks, which<br>
played in infantine loveliness upon his little bullet forehead,
contrasting<br>
strongly enough with a cunning leer of his eye, and a certain
<i>nisi prius</i><br>
laugh that however it might please a client, rarely brought
pleasurable<br>
feelings to his opponent in a cause.</p>

<p>"Mat was a character in his way; deep, double, and tricky in
everything<br>
that concerned his profession, he affected the gay fellow,&mdash;liked
a jolly<br>
dinner at Brown's Hotel, would go twenty miles to see a
steeple-chase and<br>
a coursing match, bet with any one when the odds were strong in
his favor,<br>
with an easy indifference about money that made him seem, when
winning,<br>
rather the victim of good luck than anything else. As he kept a
rather<br>
pleasant bachelor's house, and liked the military much, we soon
became<br>
acquainted. Upon him, therefore, for reasons I can't explain,
both our<br>
hopes reposed; and Shaugh and myself at once agreed that if Mat
could not<br>
assist us in our distresses, the case was a bad one.</p>

<p>"A pretty little epistle was accordingly concocted, inviting
the worthy<br>
attorney to a small dinner at five o'clock the next day,
intimating that we<br>
were to be perfectly alone, and had a little business to discuss.
True to<br>
the hour, Mat was there; and as if instantly guessing that ours
was no<br>
regular party of pleasure, his look, dress, and manner were all
in keeping<br>
with the occasion,&mdash;quiet, subdued, and searching.</p>

<p>"When the claret had been superseded by the whiskey, and the
confidential<br>
hours were approaching, by an adroit allusion to some heavy wager
then<br>
pending, we brought our finances upon the <i>tapis</i>. The thing was
done<br>
beautifully,&mdash;an easy <i>adagio</i> movement, no violent transition;
but hang me<br>
if old Mat didn't catch the matter at once.</p>

<p>"'Oh, it's there ye are, Captain!' said he, with his peculiar
grin.<br>
'Two-and-sixpence in the pound, and no assets.'</p>

<p>"'The last is nearer the mark, my old boy,' said Shaugh,
blurting out the<br>
whole truth at once. The wily attorney finished his tumbler
slowly, as<br>
if giving himself time for reflection, and then, smacking his
lips in a<br>
preparatory manner, took a quick survey of the room with his
piercing green<br>
eye.</p>

<p>"'A very sweet mare of yours that little mouse-colored one is,
with the dip<br>
in the back; and she has a trifling curb&mdash;may be it's a spavin,
indeed&mdash;in<br>
the near hind-leg. You gave five-and-twenty for her, now, I'll be
bound?'</p>

<p>"'Sixty guineas, as sure as my name's Dan,' said Shaugh, not
at all pleased<br>
at the value put upon his hackney; 'and as to spavin and curb,
I'll wager<br>
double the sum she has neither the slightest trace of one nor the
other.'</p>

<p>"'I'll not take the bet,' said Mat, dryly. 'Money's scarce in
these parts.'</p>

<p>"This hit silenced us both; and our friend continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Then there's the bay horse,&mdash;a great strapping, leggy beast
he is for a<br>
tilbury; and the hunters, worth nothing here; they don't know
this country.<br>
Them's neat pistols; and the tilbury is not bad&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Confound you!' said I, losing all patience; 'we didn't ask
you here to<br>
appraise our movables. We want to raise the wind without
that.'</p>

<p>"'I see, I perceive,' said Mat, taking a pinch of snuff very
leisurely as<br>
he spoke,&mdash;'I see. Well, that is difficult, very difficult just
now. I've<br>
mortgaged every acre of ground in the two counties near us, and a
sixpence<br>
more is not to be had that way. Are you lucky at the races?'</p>

<p>"'Never win a sixpence.'</p>

<p>"'What can you do at whist?'</p>

<p>"'Revoke, and get cursed by my partner; devil a more!'</p>

<p>"'That's mighty bad, for otherwise, we might arrange something
for you.<br>
Well, I only see one thing for it; you must marry. A wife with
some money<br>
will get you out of your present difficulties; and we'll manage
that easily<br>
enough.'</p>

<p>"'Come, Dan,' said I, for Shaugh was dropping asleep; 'cheer
up, old<br>
fellow. Donevan has found the way to pull us through our
misfortunes. A<br>
girl with forty thousand pounds, the best cock shooting in
Ireland, an old<br>
family, a capital cellar, all await ye,&mdash;rouse up, there!'</p>

<p>"'I'm convanient,' said Shaugh, with a look intended to be
knowing, but<br>
really very tipsy.</p>

<p>"'I didn't say much for her personal attractions, Captain,'
said Mat; 'nor,<br>
indeed, did I specify the exact sum; but Mrs. Rogers Dooley, of
Clonakilty,<br>
might be a princess&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'And so she shall be, Mat; the O'Shaughnessys were Kings of
Ennis in the<br>
time of Nero and I'm only waiting for a trifle of money to revive
the<br>
title. What's her name?'</p>

<p>"'Mrs. Rogers Dooley.'</p>

<p>"'Here's her health, and long life to her,&mdash;</p>

<p>    'And may the Devil cut the toes<br>
    Of all her foes,<br>
    That we may know them by their limping.'</p>

<p>"This benevolent wish uttered, Dan fell flat upon the
hearth-rug, and was<br>
soon sound asleep. I must hasten on; so need only say that,
before we<br>
parted that night, Mat and myself had finished the half-gallon
bottle of<br>
Loughrea whiskey, and concluded a treaty for the hand and fortune
of Mrs.<br>
Rogers Dooley. He being guaranteed a very handsome percentage on
the<br>
property, and the lady being reserved for choice between Dan and
myself,<br>
which, however, I was determined should fall upon my more
fortunate friend.</p>

<p>"The first object which presented itself to my aching senses
the following<br>
morning was a very spacious card of invitation from Mr. Jonas
Malone,<br>
requesting me to favor him with the seductions of my society the
next<br>
evening to a ball; at the bottom of which, in Mr. Donevan's hand,
I read,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Don't fail; you know who is to be there. I've not been idle
since I saw<br>
you. Would the captain take twenty-five for the mare?'</p>

<p>"'So far so good,' thought I, as entering O'Shaughnessy's
quarters, I<br>
discovered him endeavoring to spell out his card, which, however,
had no<br>
postscript. We soon agreed that Mat should have his price; so
sending a<br>
polite answer to the invitation, we despatched a still more civil
note to<br>
the attorney, and begged of him, as a weak mark of esteem, to
accept the<br>
mouse-colored mare as a present."</p>

<p>Here O'Shaughnessy sighed deeply, and even seemed affected by
the souvenir.</p>

<p>"Come, Dan, we did it all for the best. Oh, O'Mealey, he was a
cunning<br>
fellow; but no matter. We went to the ball, and to be sure, it
was a great<br>
sight. Two hundred and fifty souls, where there was not good room
for the<br>
odd fifty; such laughing, such squeezing, such pressing of hands
and waists<br>
in the staircase, and then such a row and riot at the top,&mdash;four
fiddles, a<br>
key bugle, and a bagpipe, playing 'Haste to the wedding,' amidst
the crash<br>
of refreshment-trays, the tramp of feet, and the sounds of
merriment on all<br>
sides!</p>

<p>"It's only in Ireland, after all, people have fun. Old and
young, merry and<br>
morose, the gay and cross-grained, are crammed into a lively
country-dance;<br>
and ill-matched, ill-suited, go jigging away together to the
blast of a bad<br>
band, till their heads, half turned by the noise, the heat, the
novelty,<br>
and the hubbub, they all get as tipsy as if they were really deep
in<br>
liquor.</p>

<p>"Then there is that particularly free-and-easy tone in every
one about.<br>
Here go a couple capering daintily out of the ball-room to take a
little<br>
fresh air on the stairs, where every step has its own separate
flirtation<br>
party; there, a riotous old gentleman, with a boarding-school
girl for<br>
his partner, has plunged smack into a party at loo, upsetting
cards and<br>
counters, and drawing down curses innumerable. Here are a merry
knot round<br>
the refreshments, and well they may be; for the negus is strong
punch,<br>
and the biscuit is tipsy cake,&mdash;and all this with a running fire
of good<br>
stories, jokes, and witticisms on all sides, in the laughter for
which even<br>
the droll-looking servants join as heartily as the rest.</p>

<p>"We were not long in finding out Mrs. Rogers, who sat in the
middle of a<br>
very high sofa, with her feet just touching the floor. She was
short,<br>
fat, wore her hair in a crop, had a species of shining yellow
skin, and a<br>
turned-up nose, all of which were by no means prepossessing.
Shaugh and<br>
myself were too hard-up to be particular, and so we invited her
to dance<br>
alternately for two consecutive hours, plying her assiduously
with negus<br>
during the lulls in the music.</p>

<p>"Supper was at last announced, and enabled us to recruit for
new efforts;<br>
and so after an awful consumption of fowl, pigeon-pie, ham, and
brandy<br>
cherries, Mrs. Rogers brightened up considerably, and professed
her<br>
willingness to join the dancers. As for us, partly from
exhaustion, partly<br>
to stimulate our energies, and in some degree to drown
reflection, we drank<br>
deep, and when we reached the drawing-room, not only the
agreeable guests<br>
themselves, but even the furniture, the venerable chairs, and the
stiff old<br>
sofa seemed performing 'Sir Roger de Coverley.' How we conducted
ourselves<br>
till five in the morning, let our cramps confess; for we were
both<br>
bed-ridden for ten days after. However, at last Mrs. Rogers gave
in, and<br>
reclining gracefully upon a window-seat, pronounced it a most
elegant<br>
party, and asked me to look for her shawl. While I perambulated
the<br>
staircase with her bonnet on my head, and more wearing apparel
than would<br>
stock a magazine, Shaugh was roaring himself hoarse in the
street, calling<br>
Mrs. Rogers' coach.</p>

<p>"'Sure, Captain,' said the lady, with a tender leer, 'it's
only a chair.'</p>

<p>"'And here it is,' said I, surveying a very portly-looking old
sedan, newly<br>
painted and varnished, that blocked up half the hall.</p>

<p>"'You'll catch cold, my angel,' said Shaugh, in a whisper, for
he was<br>
coming it very strong by this; 'get into the chair. Maurice,
can't you find<br>
those fellows?' said he to me, for the chairmen had gone
down-stairs, and<br>
were making very merry among the servants.</p>

<p>"'She's fast now,' said I, shutting the door to. 'Let us do
the gallant<br>
thing, and carry her home ourselves.' Shaugh thought this a great
notion;<br>
and in a minute we mounted the poles and sallied forth, amidst a
great<br>
chorus of laughing from all the footmen, maids, and teaboys that
filled the<br>
passage.</p>

<p>"'The big house, with the bow-window and the pillars,
Captain,' said a<br>
fellow, as we issued upon our journey. "'I know it,' said I.
'Turn to the<br>
left after you pass the square.'</p>

<p>"'Isn't she heavy?' said Shaugh, as he meandered across the
narrow streets<br>
with a sidelong motion that must have suggested to our fair
inside<br>
passenger some notions of a sea voyage. In truth, I must confess
our<br>
progress was rather a devious one,&mdash;now zig-zagging from side to
side, now<br>
getting into a sharp trot, and then suddenly pulling up at a dead
stop, or<br>
running the machine chuck against a wall, to enable us to stand
still and<br>
gain breath.</p>

<p>"'Which way now?' cried he, as we swung round the angle of a
street and<br>
entered the large market-place; 'I'm getting terribly tired.'</p>

<p>"'Never give in, Dan. Think of Clonakilty and the old lady
herself.' Here<br>
I gave the chair a hoist that evidently astonished our fair
friend, for a<br>
very imploring cry issued forth immediately after.</p>

<p>"'To the right, quick-step, forward, charge!' cried I; and we
set off at a<br>
brisk trot down a steep narrow lane.</p>

<p>"'Here it is now,&mdash;the light in the window. Cheer up.'</p>

<p>"As I said this we came short up to a fine, portly-looking
doorway, with<br>
great stone pillars and cornice.</p>

<p>"'Make yourself at home, Maurice,' said he; 'bring her in.' So
saying,<br>
we pushed forward&mdash;for the door was open&mdash;and passed boldly into
a great<br>
flagged hall, silent and cold, and dark as the night itself.</p>

<p>"'Are you sure we're right?' said he.</p>

<p>"'All right,' said I; 'go ahead.'</p>

<p>"And so we did, till we came in sight of a small candle that
burned dimly<br>
at a distance from us.</p>

<p>"'Make for the light,' said I; but just as I said so Shaugh
slipped and<br>
fell flat on the flagway. The noise of his fall sent up a hundred
echoes<br>
in the silent building, and terrified us both dreadfully. After a
minute's<br>
pause, by one consent we turned and made for the door, falling
almost at<br>
every step, and frightened out of our senses, we came tumbling
together<br>
into the porch, and out in the street, and never drew breath till
we<br>
reached the barracks. Meanwhile let me return to Mrs. Rogers. The
dear<br>
old lady, who had passed an awful time since she left the ball,
had just<br>
rallied out of a fainting fit when we took to our heels; so after
screaming<br>
and crying her best, she at last managed to open the top of the
chair, and<br>
by dint of great exertions succeeded in forcing the door, and at
length<br>
freed herself from bondage. She was leisurely groping her way
round it<br>
in the dark, when her lamentations, being heard without, woke up
the old<br>
sexton of the chapel,&mdash;for it was there we placed her,&mdash;who,
entering<br>
cautiously with a light, no sooner caught a glimpse of the great
black<br>
sedan and the figure beside it than he also took to his heels,
and ran like<br>
a madman to the priest's house.</p>

<p>"'Come, your reverence, come, for the love of marcy! Sure
didn't I see him<br>
myself! Oh, wirra, wirra!'</p>

<p>"'What is it, ye ould fool?' said M'Kenny.</p>

<p>"'It's Father Con Doran, your reverence, that was buried last
week, and<br>
there he is up now, coffin and all, saying a midnight Mass as
lively as<br>
ever.'</p>

<p>"Poor Mrs. Rogers, God help her! It was a trying sight for her
when the<br>
priest and the two coadjutors and three little boys and the
sexton all came<br>
in to lay her spirit; and the shock she received that night, they
say, she<br>
never got over.</p>

<p>"Need I say, my dear O'Mealey, that our acquaintance with Mrs.
Rogers was<br>
closed? The dear woman had a hard struggle for it afterwards. Her
character<br>
was assailed by all the elderly ladies in Loughrea for going off
in our<br>
company, and her blue satin, piped with scarlet, utterly ruined
by a deluge<br>
of holy water bestowed on her by the pious sexton. It was in vain
that she<br>
originated twenty different reports to mystify the world; and
even ten<br>
pounds spent in Masses for the eternal repose of Father Con Doran
only<br>
increased the laughter this unfortunate affair gave rise to. As
for us, we<br>
exchanged into the line, and foreign service took us out of the
road of<br>
duns, debts, and devilment, and we soon reformed, and eschewed
such low<br>
company."</p>

<p>The day was breaking ere we separated; and amidst the rich and
fragrant<br>
vapors that exhaled from the earth, the faint traces of sunlight
dimly<br>
stealing told of the morning. My two friends set out for
Torrijos, and I<br>
pushed boldly forward in the direction of the Alberche.</p>

<p>It was a strange thing that although but two days before the
roads we were<br>
then travelling had been the line of retreat of the whole French
army, not<br>
a vestige of their equipment nor a trace of their
<i>mat&eacute;riel</i> had been left<br>
behind. In vain we searched each thicket by the wayside for some
straggling<br>
soldier, some wounded or wearied man; nothing of the kind was to
be seen.<br>
Except the deeply-rutted road, torn by the heavy wheels of the
artillery,<br>
and the white ashes of a wood fire, nothing marked their
progress.</p>

<p>Our journey was a lonely one. Not a man was to be met with.
The houses<br>
stood untenanted; the doors lay open; no smoke wreathed from
their deserted<br>
hearths. The peasantry had taken to the mountains; and although
the plains<br>
were yellow with the ripe harvest, and the peaches hung
temptingly upon the<br>
trees, all was deserted and forsaken. I had often seen the
blackened walls<br>
and broken rafters, the traces of the wild revenge and reckless
pillage of<br>
a retiring army. The ruined castle and the desecrated altar are
sad things<br>
to look upon; but, somehow, a far heavier depression sunk into my
heart<br>
as my eye ranged over the wide valleys and broad hills, all
redolent of<br>
comfort, of beauty, and of happiness, and yet not one man to say,
"This is<br>
my home; these are my household gods." The birds carolled gayly
in each<br>
leafy thicket; the bright stream sung merrily as it rippled
through the<br>
rocks; the tall corn, gently stirred by the breeze, seemed to
swell the<br>
concert of sweet sounds; but no human voice awoke the echoes
there. It<br>
was as if the earth was speaking in thankfulness to its Maker,
while<br>
man,&mdash;ungrateful and unworthy man,&mdash;pursuing his ruthless path
of<br>
devastation and destruction, had left no being to say, "I thank
Thee for<br>
all these."</p>

<p>The day was closing as we drew near the Alberche, and came in
sight of the<br>
watch-fires of the enemy. Far as the eye could reach their column
extended,<br>
but in the dim twilight nothing could be seen with accuracy; yet
from the<br>
position their artillery occupied, and the unceasing din of
baggage wagons<br>
and heavy carriages towards the rear, I came to the conclusion
that a still<br>
farther retreat was meditated. A picket of light cavalry was
posted upon<br>
the river's bank, and seemed to watch with vigilance the
approaches to the<br>
stream.</p>

<p>Our bivouac was a dense copse of pine-trees, exactly opposite
to the French<br>
advanced posts, and there we passed the night,&mdash;fortunately a
calm and<br>
starlight one; for we dared not light fires, fearful of
attracting<br>
attention.</p>

<p>During the long hours I lay patiently watching the movements
of the enemy<br>
till the dark shadows hid all from sight; and even then, as my
ears caught<br>
the challenge of a sentry or the footsteps of some officer in his
round,<br>
my thoughts were riveted upon them, and a hundred vague fancies
as to the<br>
future were based upon no stronger foundation than the clink of a
firelock<br>
or the low-muttered song of a patrol.</p>

<p>Towards morning I slept; and when day broke my first glance
was towards the<br>
river-side. But the French were gone, noiselessly, rapidly. Like
one man<br>
that vast army had departed, and a dense column of dust towards
the<br>
horizon alone marked the long line of march where the martial
legions were<br>
retreating.</p>

<p>My mission was thus ended; and hastily partaking of the humble
breakfast my<br>
friend Mike provided for me, I once more set out and took the
road towards<br>
headquarters.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER II.</p>

<p>THE SKIRMISH.</p>

<p>For several months after the battle of Talavera my life
presented nothing<br>
which I feel worth recording. Our good fortune seemed to have
deserted us<br>
when our hopes were highest; for from the day of that splendid
victory we<br>
began our retrograde movement upon Portugal. Pressed hard by
overwhelming<br>
masses of the enemy, we saw the fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and
Almeida<br>
fall successively into their hands. The Spaniards were defeated
wherever<br>
they ventured upon a battle; and our own troops, thinned by
sickness and<br>
desertion, presented but a shadow of that brilliant army which
only a few<br>
months previous had followed the retiring French beyond the
frontiers of<br>
Portugal.</p>

<p>However willing I now am&mdash;and who is not&mdash;to recognize the
genius and<br>
foresight of that great man who then held the destinies of the
Peninsula<br>
within his hands, I confess at the time I speak of I could ill
comprehend<br>
and still less feel contented with the successive retreats our
forces made;<br>
and while the words Torres Vedras brought nothing to my mind but
the last<br>
resting-place before embarkation, the sad fortunes of Corunna
were now<br>
before me, and it was with a gloomy and desponding spirit I
followed the<br>
routine of my daily duty.</p>

<p>During these weary months, if my life was devoid of stirring
interest or<br>
adventure, it was not profitless. Constantly employed at the
outposts,<br>
I became thoroughly inured to all the roughing of a soldier's
life, and<br>
learned in the best of schools that tacit obedience which alone
can form<br>
the subordinate or ultimately fit its possessor for command
himself.</p>

<p>Humble and unobtrusive as such a career must ever be, it was
not without<br>
its occasional rewards. From General Crawfurd I more than once
obtained<br>
most kind mention in his despatches, and felt that I was not
unknown or<br>
unnoticed by Sir Arthur Wellesley himself. At that time these
testimonies,<br>
slight and passing as they were, contributed to the pride and
glory of my<br>
existence; and even now&mdash;shall I confess it?&mdash;when some gray
hairs are<br>
mingling with the brown, and when my old dragoon swagger is
taming down<br>
into a kind of half-pay shamble, I feel my heart warm at the
recollection<br>
of them.</p>

<p>Be it so; I care not who smiles at the avowal. I know of
little better<br>
worth remembering as we grow old than what pleased us while we
were young.<br>
With the memory of the kind words once spoken come back the still
kinder<br>
looks of those who spoke them, and better than all, that early
feeling of<br>
budding manhood, when there was neither fear nor distrust. Alas!
these are<br>
the things, and not weak eyes and tottering limbs, which form the
burden of<br>
old age. Oh, if we could only go on believing, go on trusting, go
on hoping<br>
to the last, who would shed tears for the bygone feats of his
youthful<br>
days, when the spirit that evoked them lived young and vivid as
before?</p>

<p>But to my story. While Ciudad Rodrigo still held out against
the besieging<br>
French,&mdash;its battered walls and breached ramparts sadly
foretelling the<br>
fate inevitably impending,&mdash;we were ordered, together with the
16th Light<br>
Dragoons, to proceed to Gallegos, to reinforce Crawfurd's
division, then<br>
forming a corps of observation upon Massena's movements.</p>

<p>The position he occupied was a most commanding one,&mdash;the crown
of a long<br>
mountain ridge, studded with pine-copse and cork-trees,
presenting every<br>
facility for light-infantry movements; and here and there gently
sloping<br>
towards the plain, offering a field for cavalry manoeuvres.
Beneath, in<br>
the vast plain, were encamped the dark legions of France, their
heavy<br>
siege-artillery planted against the doomed fortress, while clouds
of their<br>
cavalry caracoled proudly before us, as if in taunting sarcasm at
our<br>
inactivity.</p>

<p>Every artifice which his natural cunning could suggest, every
taunt a<br>
Frenchman's vocabulary contains, had been used by Massena to
induce Sir<br>
Arthur Wellesley to come to the assistance of the beleagured
fortress:<br>
but in vain. In vain he relaxed the energy of the siege, and
affected<br>
carelessness. In vain he asserted that the English were either
afraid or<br>
else traitors to their allies. The mind of him he thus assailed
was neither<br>
accessible to menace nor to sarcasm. Patiently abiding his time,
he watched<br>
the progress of events, and provided for that future which was to
crown his<br>
country's arms with success and himself with undying glory.</p>

<p>Of a far different mettle was the general formed under whose
orders we were<br>
now placed. Hot, passionate, and impetuous, relying upon bold and
headlong<br>
heroism rather than upon cool judgment and well-matured plans,
Crawfurd<br>
felt in war all the asperity and bitterness of a personal
conflict. Ill<br>
brooking the insulting tone of the wily Frenchman, he thirsted
for any<br>
occasion of a battle, and his proud spirit chafed against the
colder<br>
counsels of his superior.</p>

<p>On the very morning we joined, the pickets brought in the
intelligence that<br>
the French patrols were nightly in the habit of visiting the
villages at<br>
the outposts and committing every species of cruel indignity upon
the<br>
wretched inhabitants. Fired at this daring insult, our general
resolved to<br>
cut them off, and formed two ambuscades for the purpose.</p>

<p>Six squadrons of the 14th were despatched to Villa del Puerco,
three of<br>
the 16th to Baguetto, while some companies of the 95th, and the
ca&ccedil;adores,<br>
supported by artillery, were ordered to hold themselves in
reserve, for the<br>
enemy were in force at no great distance from us.</p>

<p>The morning was just breaking as an aide-de-camp galloped up
with the<br>
intelligence that the French had been seen near the Villa del
Puerco, a<br>
body of infantry and some cavalry having crossed the plain, and
disappeared<br>
in that direction. While our colonel was forming us, with the
intention of<br>
getting between them and their main body, the tramp of horses was
heard in<br>
the wood behind, and in a few moments two officers rode up. The
foremost,<br>
who was a short, stoutly-built man of about forty, with a bronzed
face and<br>
eye of piercing black, shouted out as we wheeled into
column:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Halt, there! Why, where the devil are you going? That's your
ground!" So<br>
saying, and pointing straight towards the village with his hand,
he would<br>
not listen to our colonel's explanation that several stone fences
and<br>
enclosures would interfere with cavalry movements, but added,
"Forward, I<br>
say! Proceed!"</p>

<p>Unfortunately, the nature of the ground separated our
squadron, as the<br>
colonel anticipated; and although we came on at a topping pace,
the French<br>
had time to form in square upon a hill to await us, and when we
charged,<br>
they stood firmly, and firing with a low and steady aim, several
of our<br>
troopers fell. As we wheeled round, we found ourselves exactly in
front<br>
of their cavalry coming out of Baguilles; so dashing straight at
them,<br>
we revenged ourselves for our first repulse by capturing
twenty-nine<br>
prisoners, and wounding several others.</p>

<p>The French infantry were, however, still unbroken; and Colonel
Talbot rode<br>
boldly up with five squadrons of the 14th; but the charge,
pressed home<br>
with all its gallantry, failed also, and the colonel fell
mortally wounded,<br>
and fourteen of his troopers around him. Twice we rode round the
square,<br>
seeking for a weak point, but in vain; the gallant Frenchman who
commanded,<br>
Captain Guache, stood fearlessly amidst his brave followers, and
we could<br>
hear him, as he called out from time to time,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>C'est &ccedil;a mes enfans! Tr&eacute;s bien fait, mes
braves!</i>"</p>

<p>And at length they made good their retreat, while we returned
to the camp,<br>
leaving thirty-two troopers and our brave colonel dead upon the
field in<br>
this disastrous affair.</p>

<p>The repulse we had met with, so contrary to all our hopes and
expectations,<br>
made that a most gloomy day to all of us. The brave fellows we
had left<br>
behind us, the taunting cheer of the French infantry, the
unbroken ranks<br>
against which we rode time after time in vain, never left our
minds; and a<br>
sense of shame of what might be thought of us at headquarters
rendered the<br>
reflection still more painful.</p>

<p>Our bivouac, notwithstanding all our efforts, was a sad one,
and when the<br>
moon rose, some drops of heavy rain falling at intervals in the
still,<br>
unruffled air threatened a night of storm; gradually the sky grew
darker<br>
and darker, the clouds hung nearer to the earth, and a dense,
thick mass<br>
of dark mist shrouded every object. The heavy cannonade of the
siege was<br>
stilled; nothing betrayed that a vast army was encamped near us;
their<br>
bivouac fires were even imperceptible; and the only sound we
heard was the<br>
great bell of Ciudad Rodrigo as it struck the hour, and seemed,
in the<br>
mournful cadence of its chime, like the knell of the doomed
citadel.</p>

<p>The patrol which I commanded had to visit on its rounds the
most advanced<br>
post of our position. This was a small farm-house, which,
standing upon a<br>
little rising ledge of ground, was separated from the French
lines by a<br>
little stream tributary to the Aguda. A party of the 14th were
picketed<br>
here, and beneath them in the valley, scarce five hundred yards
distant,<br>
was the detachment of cuirassiers which formed the French
outpost. As we<br>
neared our picket the deep voice of the sentry challenged us; and
while<br>
all else was silent as the grave, we could hear from the opposite
side<br>
the merry chorus of a French <i>chanson &agrave; boire</i>, with its
clattering<br>
accompaniment of glasses, as some gay companions were making
merry<br>
together.</p>

<p>Within the little hut which contained <i>our</i> fellows, the scene
was a<br>
different one. The three officers who commanded sat moodily over
a wretched<br>
fire of wet wood; a solitary candle dimly lighted the dismantled
room,<br>
where a table but ill-supplied with cheer stood unminded and
uncared for.</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley," cried Baker, as I came in, "what is the
night about? And<br>
what's Crawfurd for next?"</p>

<p>"We hear," cried another, "that he means to give battle
to-morrow; but<br>
surely Sir Arthur's orders are positive enough. Gordon himself
told me<br>
that he was forbidden to fight beyond the Coa, but to retreat at
the first<br>
advance of the enemy."</p>

<p>"I'm afraid," replied I, "that retreating is his last thought
just now.<br>
Ammunition has just been served out, and I know the horse
artillery have<br>
orders to be in readiness by daybreak."</p>

<p>"All right," said Hampden, with a half-bitter tone. "Nothing
like going<br>
through with it. If he is to be brought to court-martial for
disobedience,<br>
he'll take good care we sha'n't be there to see it."</p>

<p>"Why, the French are fifty thousand strong!" said Baker. "Look
there, what<br>
does that mean, now? That's a signal from the town."</p>

<p>As he spoke a rocket of great brilliancy shot up into the sky,
and bursting<br>
at length fell in millions of red lustrous sparks on every side,
showing<br>
forth the tall fortress, and the encamped army around it, with
all the<br>
clearness of noonday. It was a most splendid sight; and though
the next<br>
moment all was dark as before, we gazed still fixedly into the
gloomy<br>
distance, straining our eyes to observe what was hid from our
view forever.</p>

<p>"That must be a signal," repeated Baker.</p>

<p>"Begad! if Crawfurd sees it he'll interpret it as a reason for
fighting. I<br>
trust he's asleep by this time," said Hampden. "By-the-bye,
O'Malley, did<br>
you see the fellows at work in the trenches? How beautifully
clear it was<br>
towards the southward!"</p>

<p>"Yes, I remarked that! and what surprised me was the openness
of their<br>
position in that direction. Towards the San Benito mole I could
not see a<br>
man."</p>

<p>"Ah, they'll not attack on that side; but if we really
are&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stay, Hampden!" said I, interrupting him, "a thought has just
struck me.<br>
At sunset, I saw, through my telescope, the French engineers
marking with<br>
their white tape the line of a new entrenchment in that quarter.
Would it<br>
not be a glorious thing to move the tape, and bring the fellows
under the<br>
fire of San Benito?"</p>

<p>"By Jove, O'Malley, that is a thought worth a troop to
you!"</p>

<p>"Far more likely to forward his promotion in the next world
than in this,"<br>
said Baker, smiling.</p>

<p>"By no means," added I. "I marked the ground this evening, and
have it<br>
perfectly in my mind. If we were to follow the bend of the river,
I'll be<br>
bound to come right upon the spot; by nearing the fortress we'll
escape the<br>
sentries; and all this portion is open to us."</p>

<p>The project thus loosely thrown out was now discussed in all
its bearings.<br>
Whatever difficulties it presented were combated so much to our
own<br>
satisfaction, that at last its very facility damped our ardor.
Meanwhile<br>
the night wore on, and the storm of rain so long impending began
to descend<br>
in very torrents; hissing along the parched ground, it rose in a
mist,<br>
while overhead the heavy thunder rolled in long unbroken peals;
the crazy<br>
door threatened to give way at each moment, and the whole
building trembled<br>
to its foundation.</p>

<p>"Pass the brandy down here, Hampden, and thank your stars
you're where you<br>
are. Eh, O'Malley? You'll defer your trip to San Benito for finer
weather."</p>

<p>"Well, to come to the point," said Hampden, "I'd rather begin
my<br>
engineering at a more favorable season; but if O'Malley's for
it&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And O'Malley <i>is</i> for it," said I, suddenly.</p>

<p>"Then faith, I'm not the man to balk his fancy; and as
Crawfurd is so bent<br>
upon fighting to-morrow, it don't make much difference. Is it a
bargain?"</p>

<p>"It is; here's my hand on it."</p>

<p>"Come, come, boys, I'll have none of this; we've been prettily
cut up this<br>
morning already. You shall not go upon this foolish
excursion."</p>

<p>"Confound it, old fellow! it's all very well for you to talk,
with the<br>
majority before you, next step; but here we are, if peace came
to-morrow,<br>
scarcely better than we left England. No, no; if O'Malley's
ready&mdash;and I<br>
see he is so before me&mdash;What have you got there? Oh, I see;
that's our tape<br>
line; capital fun, by George! The worst of it is, they'll make us
colonels<br>
of engineers. Now then, what's your plan&mdash;on foot or
mounted?"</p>

<p>"Mounted, and for this reason, the country is all open; if we
are to have a<br>
run for it, our thoroughbreds ought to distance them; and as we
must expect<br>
to pass some of their sentries, our only chance is on
horseback."</p>

<p>"My mind is relieved of a great load," said Hampden; "I was
trembling in my<br>
skin lest you should make it a walking party. I'll do anything
you like in<br>
the saddle, from robbing the mail to cutting out a frigate; but I
never was<br>
much of a foot-pad."</p>

<p>"Well, Mike," said I, as I returned to the room with my trusty
follower,<br>
"are the cattle to be depended on?"</p>

<p>"If we had a snaffle in Malachi Daly's mouth [my brown horse],
I'd be<br>
afeared of nothing, sir; but if it comes to fencing, with that
cruel<br>
bit,&mdash;but sure, you've a light hand, and let him have his head,
if it's<br>
wall."</p>

<p>"By Jove, he thinks it a fox-chase!" said Hampden.</p>

<p>"Isn't it the same, sir?" said Mike, with a seriousness that
made the whole<br>
party smile.</p>

<p>"Well, I hope we shall not be earthed, any way," said I. "Now,
the next<br>
thing is, who has a lantern? Ah! the very thing; nothing better.
Look to<br>
your pistols, Hampden; and Mike, here's a glass of grog for you;
we'll want<br>
you. And now, one bumper for good luck. Eh, Baker, won't you
pledge us?"</p>

<p>"And spare a little for me," said Hampden. "How it does rain!
If one didn't<br>
expect to be water-proofed before morning, one really wouldn't go
out in<br>
such weather."</p>

<p>While I busied myself in arranging my few preparations,
Hampden proceeded<br>
gravely to inform Mike that we were going to the assistance of
the besieged<br>
fortress, which could not possibly go on without us.</p>

<p>"Tare and ages!" said Mike, "that's mighty quare; and the blue
rocket was a<br>
letter of invitation, I suppose?"</p>

<p>"Exactly," said Hampden; "and you see there's no ceremony
between us. We'll<br>
just drop in, in the evening, in a friendly way."</p>

<p>"Well, then, upon my conscience, I'd wait, if I was you, till
the family<br>
wasn't in confusion. They have enough on their hands just
now."</p>

<p>"So you'll not be persuaded?" said Baker. "Well, I frankly
tell you, that<br>
come what will of it, as your senior officer I'll report you
to-morrow.<br>
I'll not risk myself for any such hair-brained expeditions."</p>

<p>"A mighty pleasant look-out for me," said Mike; "if I'm not
shot to-night,<br>
I may be flogged in the morning."</p>

<p>This speech once more threw us into a hearty fit of laughter,
amidst which<br>
we took leave of our friends, and set forth upon our way.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER III.</p>

<p>THE LINES OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.</p>

<p>The small, twinkling lights which shone from the ramparts of
Ciudad Rodrigo<br>
were our only guide, as we issued forth upon our perilous
expedition. The<br>
storm raged, if possible, even more violently than before, and
gusts of<br>
wind swept along the ground with the force of a hurricane; so
that at<br>
first, our horses could scarcely face the tempest. Our path lay
along the<br>
little stream for a considerable way; after which, fording the
rivulet, we<br>
entered upon the open plain, taking care to avoid the French
outpost on the<br>
extreme left, which was marked by a bivouac fire, burning under
the heavy<br>
downpour of rain, and looking larger through the dim atmosphere
around it.</p>

<p>I rode foremost, followed closely by Hampden and Mike; not a
word was<br>
spoken after we crossed the stream. Our plan was, if challenged
by a<br>
patrol, to reply in French and press on; so small a party could
never<br>
suggest the idea of attack, and we hoped in this manner to
escape.</p>

<p>The violence of the storm was such that many of our
precautions as to<br>
silence were quite unnecessary; and we had advanced to a
considerable<br>
extent into the plain before any appearance of the encampment
struck us.<br>
At length, on mounting a little rising ground, we perceived
several fires<br>
stretching far away to the northward; while still to our left,
there blazed<br>
one larger and brighter than the others. We now found that we had
not<br>
outflanked their position as we intended, and learning from the
situation<br>
of the fires, that we were still only at the outposts, we pressed
sharply<br>
forward, directing our course by the twin stars that shone from
the<br>
fortress.</p>

<p>"How heavy the ground is here!" whispered Hampden, as our
horses sunk above<br>
the fetlocks. "We had better stretch away to the right; the rise
of the<br>
hill will favor us."</p>

<p>"Hark!" said I; "did you not hear something? Pull up,&mdash;silence
now. Yes,<br>
there they come. It's a patrol; I hear their tramp." As I spoke,
the<br>
measured tread of infantry was heard above the storm, and soon
after a<br>
lantern was seen coming along the causeway near us. The column
passed<br>
within a few yards of where we stood. I could even recognize the
black<br>
covering of the shakos as the light fell on them. "Let us follow
them,"<br>
whispered I; and the next moment we fell in upon their track,
holding our<br>
cattle well in hand, and ready to start at a moment.</p>

<p>"<i>Qui va l&agrave;?</i>" a sentry demanded.</p>

<p>"<i>La deuxi&egrave;me division</i>," cried a hoarse voice.</p>

<p>"<i>Halte l&agrave;! la consigne?</i>"</p>

<p>"<i>Wagram!</i>" repeated the same voice as before, while his party
resumed<br>
their march; and the next moment the patrol was again upon his
post, silent<br>
and motionless as before.</p>

<p>"<i>En avant, Messieurs!</i>" said I, aloud, as soon as the
infantry had<br>
proceeded some distance,&mdash;"<i>en avant!</i>"</p>

<p>"<i>Qui va l&agrave;?</i>" demanded the sentry, as we came along at
a sharp trot.</p>

<p>"<i>L'&eacute;tat-major, Wagram!</i>" responded I, pressing on
without drawing rein;<br>
and in a moment we had regained our former position behind the
infantry. We<br>
had scarcely time to congratulate ourselves upon the success of
our scheme,<br>
when a tremendous clattering noise in front, mingled with the
galloping of<br>
horses and the cracking of whips, announced the approach of the
artillery<br>
as they came along by a narrow road which bisected our path; and
as they<br>
passed between us and the column, we could hear the muttered
sentences of<br>
the drivers, cursing the unseasonable time for an attack, and
swearing at<br>
their cattle in no measured tones.</p>

<p>"Did you hear that?" whispered Hampden; "the battery is about
to be<br>
directed against the San Benito, which must be far away to the
left.<br>
I heard one of the troop saying that they were to open their fire
at<br>
daybreak."</p>

<p>"All right, now," said I; "look there!"</p>

<p>From the hill we now stood upon a range of lanterns was
distinctly visible,<br>
stretching away for nearly half a mile.</p>

<p>"There are the trenches; they must be at work, too. See how
the lights are<br>
moving from place to place! Straight now. Forward!"</p>

<p>So saying, I pressed my horse boldly on.</p>

<p>We had not proceeded many minutes when the sounds of galloping
were heard<br>
coming along behind us.</p>

<p>"To the right, in the hollow," cried I. "Be still."</p>

<p>Scarcely had we moved off when several horsemen galloped up,
and drawing<br>
their reins to breathe their horses up the hill, we could hear
their voices<br>
as they conversed together.</p>

<p>In the few broken words we could catch, we guessed that the
attack upon San<br>
Benito was only a feint to induce Crawfurd to hold his position,
while<br>
the French, marching upon his flank and front, were to attack him
with<br>
overwhelming masses and crush him.</p>

<p>"You hear what's in store for us, O'Malley?" whispered
Hampden. "I think we<br>
could not possibly do better than hasten back with the
intelligence."</p>

<p>"We must not forget what we came for, first," said I; and the
next moment<br>
we were following the horsemen, who from their helmets seemed to
be<br>
horse-artillery officers.</p>

<p>The pace our guides rode at showed us that they knew their
ground. We<br>
passed several sentries, muttering something at each time, and
seeming as<br>
if only anxious to keep up with our party.</p>

<p>"They've halted," said I. "Now to the left there; gently here,
for we must<br>
be in the midst of their lines. Ha! I knew we were right. See
there!"</p>

<p>Before us, now, at a few hundred yards, we could perceive a
number of men<br>
engaged upon the field. Lights were moving from place to place
rapidly,<br>
while immediately in front a strong picket of cavalry were
halted.</p>

<p>"By Jove! there's sharp work of it to-night," whispered
Hampden. "They do<br>
intend to surprise us to-morrow."</p>

<p>"Gently now, to the left," said I, as cautiously skirting the
little hill,<br>
I kept my eye firmly fixed upon the watch-fire.</p>

<p>The storm, which for some time had abated considerably, was
now nearly<br>
quelled, and the moon again peeped forth amidst masses of black
and watery<br>
clouds.</p>

<p>"What good fortune for us!" thought I, at this moment, as I
surveyed the<br>
plain before me.</p>

<p>"I say, O'Malley, what are those fellows at yonder, where the
blue light is<br>
burning?"</p>

<p>"Ah! the very people we want; these are the sappers. Now for
it; that's our<br>
ground. We'll soon come upon their track now."</p>

<p>We pressed rapidly forward, passing an infantry party as we
went. The blue<br>
light was scarcely a hundred yards off; we could even hear the
shouting of<br>
the officers to their men in the trenches, when suddenly my horse
came down<br>
upon his head, and rolling over, crushed me to the earth.</p>

<p>"Not hurt, my boy," cried I, in a subdued tone, as Hampden
jumped down<br>
beside me.</p>

<p>It was the angle of a trench I had fallen into; and though
both my horse<br>
and myself felt stunned for the moment, we rallied the next
minute.</p>

<p>"Here is the very spot," said I. "Now, Mike, catch the bridles
and follow<br>
us closely."</p>

<p>Guiding ourselves along the edge of the trench, we crept
stealthily<br>
forward; the only watch-fire near was where the engineer party
was halted,<br>
and our object was to get outside of this.</p>

<p>"My turn this time," said Hampden, as he tripped suddenly, and
fell head<br>
foremost upon the grass.</p>

<p>As I assisted him to rise, something caught my ankle, and on
stooping I<br>
found it was a cord pegged fast into the ground, and lying only a
few<br>
inches above it.</p>

<p>"Now, steady! See here; this is their working line. Pass your
hand along it<br>
there, and let us follow it out."</p>

<p>While Hampden accordingly crept along on one side, I tracked
the cord upon<br>
the other. Here I found it terminating upon a small mound, where
probably<br>
some battery was to be erected. I accordingly gathered it
carefully up, and<br>
was returning towards my friend, when what was my horror to hear
Mike's<br>
voice, conversing, as it seemed to me, with some one in
French.</p>

<p>I stood fixed to the spot, my very heart beating almost in my
mouth as I<br>
listened.</p>

<p>"<i>Qui &ecirc;tes-vous done, mon ami?</i>" inquired a hoarse, deep
voice, a few yards<br>
off.</p>

<p>"<i>Bon cheval, non</i> beast, <i>sacr&eacute; nom de Dieu!</i>" A
hearty burst of laughter<br>
prevented my hearing the conclusion of Mike's French.</p>

<p>I now crept forward upon my hands and knees, till I could
catch the dark<br>
outline of the horses, one hand fixed upon my pistol trigger, and
my sword<br>
drawn in the other. Meanwhile the dialogue continued.</p>

<p>"<i>Vous &ecirc;tes d'Alsace, n'est-ce-pas?</i>" asked the
Frenchman, kindly supposing<br>
that Mike's French savored of Strasburg.</p>

<p>"Oh, blessed Virgin! av I might shoot him," was the muttered
reply.</p>

<p>Before I had time to see the effect of the last speech, I
pressed forward<br>
with a bold spring, and felled the Frenchman to the earth. My
hand had<br>
scarcely pressed upon his mouth, when Hampden was beside me.
Snatching up<br>
the pistol I let fall, he held it to the man's chest and
commanded him to<br>
be silent. To unfasten his girdle and bind the Frenchman's hands
behind<br>
him, was the work of a moment; and as the sharp click of the
pistol-cock<br>
seemed to calm his efforts to escape, we soon succeeded in
fastening a<br>
handkerchief tight across his mouth, and the next minute he was
placed<br>
behind Mike's saddle, firmly attached to this worthy individual
by his<br>
sword-belt.</p>

<p>"Now, a clear run home for it, and a fair start," said
Hampden, as he<br>
sprang into the saddle.</p>

<p>"Now, then, for it," I replied, as turning my horse's head
towards our<br>
lines, I dashed madly forward.</p>

<p>The moon was again obscured, but still the dark outline of the
hill which<br>
formed our encampment was discernible on the horizon. Riding side
by side,<br>
on we hurried,&mdash;now splashing through the deep wet marshes, now
plunging<br>
through small streams. Our horses were high in mettle, and we
spared them<br>
not. By taking a wide <i>d&eacute;tour</i> we had outflanked the
French pickets, and<br>
were almost out of all risk, when suddenly on coming to the verge
of rather<br>
a steep hill, we perceived beneath us a strong cavalry picket
standing<br>
around a watch-fire; their horses were ready saddled, the men
accoutred,<br>
and quite prepared for the field. While we conversed together in
whispers<br>
as to the course to follow, our deliberations were very rapidly
cut short.<br>
The French prisoner, who hitherto had given neither trouble nor
resistance,<br>
had managed to free his mouth from the encumbrance of the
handkerchief; and<br>
as we stood quietly discussing our plans, with one tremendous
effort he<br>
endeavored to hurl himself and Mike from the saddle, shouting out
as he did<br>
so,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>A moi camarades! &agrave; moi!</i>"</p>

<p>Hampden's pistol leaped from the holster as he spoke, and
levelling it with<br>
a deadly aim, he pulled the trigger; but I threw up his arm, and
the ball<br>
passed high above his head. To have killed the Frenchman would
have been to<br>
lose my faithful follower, who struggled manfully with his
adversary, and<br>
at length by throwing himself flatly forward upon the mane of his
horse,<br>
completely disabled him. Meanwhile the picket had sprung to their
saddles,<br>
and looked wildly about on every side.</p>

<p>Not a moment was to be lost; so turning our horses' heads
towards the<br>
plain, away we went. One loud cheer announced to us that we had
been seen,<br>
and the next instant the clash of the pursuing cavalry was heard
behind us.<br>
It was now entirely a question of speed, and little need we have
feared<br>
had Mike's horse not been doubly weighted. However, as we still
had<br>
considerably the start, and the gray dawn of day enabled us to
see the<br>
ground, the odds were in our favor. "Never let your horse's head
go," was<br>
my often repeated direction to Mike, as he spurred with all the
desperation<br>
of madness. Already the low meadow-land was in sight which
flanked the<br>
stream we had crossed in the morning, but unfortunately the heavy
rains had<br>
swollen it now to a considerable depth, and the muddy current,
choked with<br>
branches of trees and great stones, was hurrying down like a
torrent. "Take<br>
the river! never flinch it!" was my cry to my companions, as I
turned my<br>
head and saw a French dragoon, followed by two others, gaining
rapidly upon<br>
us. As I spoke, Mike dashed in, followed by Hampden, and the same
moment<br>
the sharp ring of a carbine whizzed past me. To take off the
pursuit from<br>
the others, I now wheeled my horse suddenly round, as if I feared
to take<br>
the stream, and dashed along by the river's bank.</p>

<a name="0034"></a>
<img alt="0034.jpg (173K)" src="0034.jpg" height="601" width="820">

[A FLYING SHOT]
<br><br>

<p>Beneath me in the foaming current the two horsemen
labored,&mdash;now stemming<br>
the rush of water, now reeling almost beneath. A sharp cry burst
from Mike<br>
as I looked, and I saw the poor fellow bend nearly to his saddle.
I could<br>
see no more, for the chase was now hot upon myself. Behind me
rode a French<br>
dragoon, his carbine pressed tightly to his side, ready to fire
as he<br>
pressed on in pursuit. I had but one chance; so drawing my pistol
I wheeled<br>
suddenly in my saddle, and fired straight at him. The Frenchman
fell, while<br>
a regular volley from his party rung around me, one ball striking
my horse,<br>
and another lodging in the pommel of my saddle. The noble animal
reeled<br>
nearly to the earth, but as if rallying for a last effort, sprang
forward<br>
with renewed energy, and plunged boldly into the river. For a
moment,<br>
so sudden was my leap, my pursuers lost sight of me; but the bank
being<br>
somewhat steep, the efforts of my horse to climb again discovered
me, and<br>
before I reached the field two pistol-balls took effect upon
me,&mdash;one<br>
slightly grazed my side, but my bridle-arm was broken by the
other, and<br>
my hand fell motionless to my side. A cheer of defiance was,
however, my<br>
reply, as I turned round in my saddle, and the next moment I was
far beyond<br>
the range of their fire.</p>

<p>Not a man durst follow, and the last sight I had of them was
the dismounted<br>
group who stood around their dead comrade. Before me rode Hampden
and Mike,<br>
still at top speed, and never turning their heads backwards. I
hastened<br>
after them; but my poor, wounded horse, nearly hamstrung by the
shot,<br>
became dead lame, and it was past daybreak ere I reached the
first outposts<br>
of our lines.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER IV.</p>

<p>THE DOCTOR.</p>

<p>"And his wound? Is it a serious one?" said a round, full
voice, as the<br>
doctor left my room at the conclusion of his visit.</p>

<p>"No, sir; a fractured bone is the worst of it,&mdash;the bullet
grazed, but did<br>
not cut the artery, and as&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, how soon will he be about again?"</p>

<p>"In a few weeks, if no fever sets in."</p>

<p>"There's no objection to my seeing him?&mdash;a few minutes
only,&mdash;I'll be<br>
cautious." So saying, and as it seemed to me, without waiting for
a reply,<br>
the door was opened by an aide-de-camp, who, announcing General
Crawfurd,<br>
closed it again, and withdrew.</p>

<p>The first glance I threw upon the general enabled me to
recognize the<br>
officer who, on the previous morning, had ridden up to the picket
and given<br>
us the orders to charge. I essayed to rise a little as he came
forward; but<br>
he motioned me with his hand to lie still, while, placing a chair
close<br>
beside my bed, he sat down.</p>

<p>"Very sorry for your mishap, sir, but glad it is no worse.
Moreton says<br>
that nothing of consequence is injured; there, you mustn't speak
except I<br>
ask you. Hampden has told me everything necessary; at least as
far as he<br>
knew. Is it your opinion, also, that any movement is in
contemplation; and<br>
from what circumstance?"</p>

<p>I immediately explained, and as briefly as I was able, the
reasons for<br>
suspecting such, with which he seemed quite satisfied. I detailed
the<br>
various changes in the positions of the troops that were taking
place<br>
during the night, the march of the artillery, and the strong
bodies of<br>
cavalry that were posted in reserve along the river.</p>

<p>"Very well, sir; they'll not move; your prisoner,
quartermaster of an<br>
infantry battalion, says not, also. Yours was a bold stroke, but
could not<br>
possibly have been of service, and the best thing I can do for
you is not<br>
to mention it,&mdash;a court-martial's but a poor recompense for a
gun-shot<br>
wound. Meanwhile, when this blows over, I'll appoint you on my
personal<br>
staff. There, not a word, I beg; and now, good-by."</p>

<p>So saying, and waving me an adieu with his hand, the gallant
veteran<br>
withdrew before I could express my gratitude for his
kindness.</p>

<p>I had little time for reflecting over my past adventure, such
numbers of my<br>
brother officers poured in upon me. All the doctor's cautions
respecting<br>
quietness and rest were disregarded, and a perfect levee sat the
entire<br>
morning in my bed-room. I was delighted to learn that Mike's
wound, though<br>
painful at the moment, was of no consequence; and indeed Hampden,
who<br>
escaped both steel and shot, was the worst off among us,&mdash;his
plunge in the<br>
river having brought on an ague he had labored under years
before.</p>

<p>"The illustrious Maurice has been twice here this morning, but
they<br>
wouldn't admit him. Your Scotch physician is afraid of his
Irish<br>
<i>confr&egrave;re</i>, and they had a rare set-to about Galen and
Hippocrates<br>
outside," said Baker.</p>

<p>"By-the-bye," said another, "did you see how Sparks looked
when Quill<br>
joined us? Egad, I never saw a fellow in such a fright; he
reddened up,<br>
then grew pale, turned his back, and slunk away at the very first
moment."</p>

<p>"Yes, I remember it. We must find out the reason; for Maurice,
depend upon<br>
it, has been hoaxing the poor fellow."</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley," growled out the senior major, "you certainly
did give<br>
Hampden a benefit. He'll not trust himself in such company again;
and<br>
begad, he says, the man is as bad as the master. That fellow of
yours never<br>
let go his prisoner till he reached the quartermaster-general,
and they<br>
were both bathed in blood by that time."</p>

<p>"Poor Mike! we must do something for him."</p>

<p>"Oh, he's as happy as a king! Maurice has been in to see him,
and they've<br>
had a long chat about Ireland, and all the national pastimes of
whiskey<br>
drinking and smashing skulls. My very temples ache at the
recollection."</p>

<p>"Is Mister O'Mealey at home?" said a very rich Cork accent, as
the<br>
well-known and most droll features of Dr. Maurice Quill appeared
at the<br>
door.</p>

<p>"Come in, Maurice," said the major; "and for Heaven's sake,
behave<br>
properly. The poor fellow must not have a row about his
bedside."</p>

<p>"A row, a row! Upon my conscience, it is little you know about
a row, and<br>
there's worse things going than a row. Which leg is it?"</p>

<p>"It's an arm, Doctor, I'm happy to say."</p>

<p>"Not your punch hand, I hope. No; all's right. A neat fellow
you have for<br>
a servant, that Mickey Free. I was asking him about a townsman of
his<br>
own&mdash;one Tim Delany,&mdash;the very cut of himself, the best servant I
ever had.<br>
I never could make out what became of him. Old Hobson of the
95th, gave<br>
him to me, saying, 'There he is for you, Maurice, and a bigger
thief and a<br>
greater blackguard there's not in the 60th.'</p>

<p>"'Strong words,' said I.</p>

<p>"'And true' said he; 'he'd steal your molar tooth while you
were laughing<br>
at him.'</p>

<p>"'Let me have him, and try my hand on him, anyway. I've got no
one just<br>
now. Anything is better than nothing.'</p>

<p>"Well I took Tim, and sending for him to my room I locked the
door, and<br>
sitting down gravely before him explained in a few words that I
was quite<br>
aware of his little propensities.</p>

<p>"'Now,' said I, 'if you like to behave well, I'll think you as
honest as<br>
the chief-justice; but if I catch you stealing, if it be only the
value of<br>
a brass snuff-box, I'll have you flogged before the regiment as
sure as my<br>
name's Maurice.'</p>

<p>"Oh, I wish you heard the volley of protestations that fell
from him fast<br>
as hail. He was a calumniated man the world conspired to wrong
him; he was<br>
never a thief nor a rogue in his life. He had a weakness, he
confessed, for<br>
the ladies; but except that, he hoped he might die so thin that
he could<br>
shave himself with his shin-bone if he ever so much as took a
pinch of salt<br>
that wasn't his own.</p>

<p>"However this might be, nothing could be better than the way
Tim and I got<br>
on together. Everything was in its place, nothing missing; and in
fact, for<br>
upwards of a year, I went on wondering when he was to show out in
his true<br>
colors, for hitherto he had been a phoenix.</p>

<p>"At last,&mdash;we were quartered in Limerick at the time,&mdash;every
morning used<br>
to bring accounts of all manner of petty thefts in the
barrack,&mdash;one fellow<br>
had lost his belt, another his shoes, a third had
three-and-sixpence in<br>
his pocket when he went to bed and woke without a farthing, and
so on.<br>
Everybody save myself was mulet of something. At length some
rumors of<br>
Tim's former propensities got abroad; suspicion was excited; my
friend<br>
Delany was rigidly watched, and some very dubious circumstances
attached to<br>
the way he spent his evenings.</p>

<p>"My brother officers called upon me about the matter, and
although nothing<br>
had transpired like proof, I sent for Tim, and opened my mind on
the<br>
subject.</p>

<p>"You may talk of the look of conscious innocence, but I defy
you to<br>
conceive anything finer than the stare of offended honor Tim gave
me as I<br>
began.</p>

<p>"'They say it's me, Doctor,' said he, 'do they? And you,&mdash;you
believe them.<br>
You allow them to revile me that way? Well, well, the world is
come to a<br>
pretty pass, anyhow! Now, let me ask your honor a few questions?
How many<br>
shirts had yourself when I entered your service? Two, and one was
more like<br>
a fishing net! And how many have ye now? Eighteen; ay, eighteen
bran new<br>
cambrie ones,&mdash;devil a hole in one of them! How many pair of
stockings had<br>
you? Three and an odd one. You have two dozen this minute. How
many pocket<br>
handkerchiefs? One,&mdash;devil a more! You could only blow your nose
two days<br>
in the week, and now you may every hour of the twenty-four! And
as to<br>
the trilling articles of small value, snuff-boxes, gloves,
bootjacks,<br>
nightcaps, and&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Stop, Tim, that's enough&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'No, sir, it is not,' said Tim, drawing himself up to his
full height;<br>
'you have wounded my feelings in a way I can't forget. It is
impossible<br>
we can have that mutual respect our position demands. Farewell,
farewell,<br>
Doctor, and forever!'</p>

<p>"Before I could say another word, the fellow had left the
room, and closed<br>
the door after him; and from that hour to this I never set eyes
on him."</p>

<p>In this vein did the worthy doctor run on till some more
discreet friend<br>
suggested that however well-intentioned the visit, I did not seem
to be<br>
fully equal to it,&mdash;my flushed cheek and anxious eye betraying
that the<br>
fever of my wound had commenced. They left me, therefore, once
more alone,<br>
and to my solitary musings over the vicissitudes of my
fortune.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER V.</p>

<p>THE COA.</p>

<p>Within a week from the occurrence of the events just
mentioned, Ciudad<br>
Rodrigo surrendered, and Crawfurd assumed another position
beneath the<br>
walls of Almeida. The Spanish contingent having left us, we were
reinforced<br>
by the arrival of two battalions, renewed orders being sent not
to risk a<br>
battle, but if the French should advance, to retire beyond the
Coa.</p>

<p>On the evening of the 21st of July a strong body of French
cavalry advanced<br>
into the plain, supported by some heavy guns; upon which Crawfurd
retired<br>
upon the Coa, intending, as we supposed, to place that river
between<br>
himself and the enemy. Three days, however, passed over without
any<br>
movement upon either side, and we still continued, with a force
of scarcely<br>
four thousand infantry and a thousand dragoons, to stand opposite
to an<br>
army of nearly fifty thousand men. Such was our position as the
night of<br>
the 24th set in. I was sitting alone in my quarters. Mike, whose
wound had<br>
been severer than at first was supposed, had been sent to
Almeida, and I<br>
was musing in solitude upon the events of the campaign, when the
noise and<br>
bustle without excited my attention,&mdash;the roll of artillery
wagons, the<br>
clash of musketry, and the distant sounds of marching, all proved
that the<br>
troops were effecting some new movement, and I burned with
anxiety to<br>
learn what it was. My brother officers, however, came not as
usual to my<br>
quarters; and although I waited with impatience while the hours
rolled by,<br>
no one appeared.</p>

<p>Long, low moaning gusts of wind swept along the earth,
carrying the leaves<br>
as they tore them from the trees, and mingling their sad sounds
with the<br>
noises of the retiring troops; for I could perceive that
gradually the<br>
sounds grew more and more remote, and only now and then could I
trace their<br>
position as the roll of a distant drum swelled upon the breeze,
or the<br>
more shrill cry of a pibroch broke upon my ear. A heavy downpour
of rain<br>
followed soon after, and in its unceasing plash drowned all other
sounds.</p>

<p>As the little building shook beneath the peals of loud
thunder, the<br>
lightning flashed in broad sheets upon the rapid river, which,
swollen and<br>
foaming, dashed impetuously beside my window. By the uncertain
but vivid<br>
glare of the flashes, I endeavored to ascertain where our force
was posted,<br>
but in vain. Never did I witness such a night of storm,&mdash;the deep
booming<br>
of the thunder seeming never for a moment to cease, while the
rush of the<br>
torrent grew gradually louder, till at length it swelled into one
deep and<br>
sullen roar like that of distant artillery.</p>

<p>Weak and nervous as I felt from the effects of my wound,
feverish and<br>
exhausted by days of suffering and sleepless nights, I paced my
little room<br>
with tottering but impatient steps. The sense of my sad and
imprisoned<br>
state impressed me deeply; and while from time to time I
replenished my<br>
fire, and hoped to hear some friendly step upon the stair, my
heart grew<br>
gradually heavier, and every gloomy and depressing thought
suggested itself<br>
to my imagination. My most constant impression was that the
troops were<br>
retiring beyond the Coa, and that, forgotten in the haste and
confusion of<br>
a night march, I had been left behind to fall a prisoner to the
enemy.</p>

<p>The sounds of the troops retiring gradually farther and
farther favored the<br>
idea, in which I was still more strengthened on finding that the
peasants<br>
who inhabited the little hut had departed, leaving me utterly
alone. From<br>
the moment I ascertained this fact, my impatience knew no bounds;
and in<br>
proportion as I began to feel some exertion necessary on my part,
so much<br>
more did my nervousness increase my debility, and at last I sank
exhausted<br>
upon my bed, while a cold perspiration broke out upon my
temples.</p>

<p>I have mentioned that the Coa was immediately beneath the
house; I must<br>
also add that the little building occupied the angle of a steep
but narrow<br>
gorge which descended from the plain to the bridge across the
stream. This,<br>
as far as I knew, was the only means we possessed of passing the
river; so<br>
that, when the last retiring sounds of the troops were heard by
me, I began<br>
to suspect that Crawfurd, in compliance with his orders, was
making a<br>
backward movement, leaving the bridge open to the French, to draw
them<br>
on to his line of march, while he should cross over at some more
distant<br>
point.</p>

<p>As the night grew later, the storm seemed to increase; the
waves of the<br>
foaming river dashed against the frail walls of the hut, while
its roof,<br>
rent by the blast, fell in fragments upon the stream, and all
threatened a<br>
speedy and perfect ruin.</p>

<p>How I longed for morning! The doubt and uncertainty I suffered
nearly drove<br>
me distracted. Of all the casualties my career as a soldier
opened, none<br>
had such terrors for me as imprisonment; the very thought of the
long years<br>
of inaction and inglorious idleness was worse than any death. My
wounds,<br>
and the state of fever I was in, increased the morbid dread upon
me, and<br>
had the French captured me at the time, I know not that madness
of which<br>
I was not capable. Day broke at last, but slowly and sullenly;
the gray<br>
clouds hurried past upon the storm, pouring down the rain in
torrents as<br>
they went, and the desolation and dreariness on all sides was
scarcely<br>
preferable to the darkness and gloom of night. My eyes were
turned ever<br>
towards the plain, across which the winter wind bore the plashing
rain in<br>
vast sheets of water; the thunder crashed louder and louder; but
except the<br>
sounds of the storm none others met my ear. Not a man, not a
human figure<br>
could I see, as I strained my sight towards the distant
horizon.</p>

<p>The morning crept over, but the storm abated not, and the same
unchanged<br>
aspect of dreary desolation prevailed without. At times I thought
I could<br>
hear, amidst the noises of the tempest, something like the roll
of distant<br>
artillery; but the thunder swelled in sullen roar above all, and
left me<br>
uncertain as before.</p>

<p>At last, in a momentary pause of the storm, a tremendous peal
of heavy<br>
guns caught my ear, followed by the long rattling of small-arms.
My heart<br>
bounded with ecstasy. The thoughts of the battle-field, with all
its<br>
changing fortunes, was better, a thousand times better, than the
despairing<br>
sense of desertion I labored under. I listened now with
eagerness, but<br>
the rain bore down again in torrents, and the crumbling walls and
falling<br>
timbers left no other sounds to be heard. Far as my eye could
reach,<br>
nothing could still be seen save the dreary monotony of the vast
plain,<br>
undulating slightly here and there, but unmarked by a sign of
man.</p>

<p>Far away towards the horizon I had remarked for some time past
that the<br>
clouds resting upon the earth grew blacker and blacker, spreading
out to<br>
either side in vast masses, and not broken or wafted along like
the rest.<br>
As I watched the phenomenon with an anxious eye, I perceived the
dense mass<br>
suddenly appear, as it were, rent asunder, while a volume of
liquid flame<br>
rushed wildly out, throwing a lurid glare on every side. One
terrific clap,<br>
louder than any thunder, shook the air at this moment, while the
very earth<br>
trembled beneath the shock.</p>

<p>As I hesitated what it might be, the heavy din of great guns
again was<br>
heard, and from the midst of the black smoke rode forth a dark
mass,<br>
which I soon recognized as the horse-artillery at full gallop.
They were<br>
directing their course towards the bridge.</p>

<p>As they mounted the little rising ground, they wheeled and
unlimbered with<br>
the speed of lightning, just as a strong column of cavalry showed
above the<br>
ridge. One tremendous discharge again shook the field, and ere
the smoke<br>
cleared away they were again far in retreat.</p>

<p>So much was my attention occupied with this movement that I
had not<br>
perceived the long line of infantry that came from the extreme
left, and<br>
were now advancing also towards the bridge at a brisk quick-step;
scattered<br>
bodies of cavalry came up from different parts, while from the
little<br>
valley, every now and then, a rifleman would mount the rising
ground,<br>
turning to fire as he retreated. All this boded a rapid and
disorderly<br>
retreat; and although as yet I could see nothing of the pursuing
enemy, I<br>
knew too well the relative forces of each to have a doubt for the
result.</p>

<p>At last the head of a French column appeared above the mist,
and I could<br>
plainly distinguish the gestures of the officers as they hurried
their men<br>
onwards. Meanwhile a loud hurra attracted my attention, and I
turned my eye<br>
towards the road which led to the river. Here a small body of the
95th had<br>
hurriedly assembled, and formed again, were standing to cover the
retreat<br>
of the broken infantry as they passed on eagerly to the bridge;
in a second<br>
after the French cuirassiers appeared. Little anticipating
resistance from<br>
a flying and disordered mass, they rode headlong forward, and
although the<br>
firm attitude and steady bearing of the Highlanders might have
appalled<br>
them, they rode heedlessly down upon the square, sabring the very
men in<br>
the front rank. Till now not a trigger had been pulled, when
suddenly the<br>
word "Fire!" was given, and a withering volley of balls sent the
cavalry<br>
column in shivers. One hearty cheer broke from the infantry in
the rear,<br>
and I could hear "Gallant Ninety-fifth!" shouted on every side
along the<br>
plain.</p>

<p>The whole vast space before me was now one animated
battle-ground. Our own<br>
troops, retiring in haste before the overwhelming forces of the
French,<br>
occupied every little vantage ground with their guns and light
infantry,<br>
charges of cavalry coursing hither and thither; while, as the
French<br>
pressed forward, the retreating columns again formed into squares
to<br>
permit stragglers to come up. The rattle of small-arms, the heavy
peal of<br>
artillery, the earth-quake crash of cavalry, rose on every side,
while the<br>
cheers which alternately told of the vacillating fortune of the
fight rose<br>
amidst the wild pibroch of the Highlanders.</p>

<p>A tremendous noise now took place on the floor beneath me; and
looking<br>
down, I perceived that a sergeant and party of sappers had taken
possession<br>
of the little hut, and were busily engaged in piercing the walls
for<br>
musketry; and before many minutes had elapsed, a company of the
Rifles were<br>
thrown into the building, which, from its commanding position
above the<br>
road, enfiladed the whole line of march. The officer in command
briefly<br>
informed me that we had been attacked that morning by the French
in force,<br>
and "devilishly well thrashed;" that we were now in retreat
beyond the Coa,<br>
where we ought to have been three days previously, and desired me
to cross<br>
the bridge and get myself out of the way as soon as I possibly
could.</p>

<p>A twenty-four pounder from the French lines struck the angle
of the house<br>
as he spoke, scattering the mortar and broken bricks about us on
all sides.<br>
This was warning sufficient for me, wounded and disabled as I
was; so<br>
taking the few things I could save in my haste, I hurried from
the hut, and<br>
descending the path, now slippery by the heavy rain, I took my
way across<br>
the bridge, and established myself on a little rising knoll of
ground<br>
beyond, from which a clear view could be obtained of the whole
field.</p>

<p>I had not been many minutes in my present position ere the
pass which led<br>
down to the bridge became thronged with troops, wagons,
ammunition carts,<br>
and hospital stores, pressing thickly forward amidst shouting and
uproar;<br>
the hills on either side of the way were crowded with troops, who
formed<br>
as they came up, the artillery taking up their position on every
rising<br>
ground. The firing had already begun, and the heavy booming of
the large<br>
guns was heard at intervals amidst the rattling crash of
musketry. Except<br>
the narrow road before me, and the high bank of the stream, I
could see<br>
nothing; but the tumult and din, which grew momentarily louder,
told that<br>
the tide of battle raged nearer and nearer. Still the retreat
continued;<br>
and at length the heavy artillery came thundering across the
narrow bridge<br>
followed by stragglers of all arms, and wounded, hurrying to the
rear. The<br>
sharpshooters and the Highlanders held the heights above the
stream, thus<br>
covering the retiring columns; but I could plainly perceive that
their fire<br>
was gradually slackening, and that the guns which flanked their
position<br>
were withdrawn, and everything bespoke a speedy retreat. A
tremendous<br>
discharge of musketry at this moment, accompanied by a deafening
cheer,<br>
announced the advance of the French, and soon the head of the
Highland<br>
brigade was seen descending towards the bridge, followed by the
Rifles and<br>
the 95th; the cavalry, consisting of the 11th and 14th Light
Dragoons, were<br>
now formed in column of attack, and the infantry deployed into
line; and in<br>
an instant after, high above the din and crash of battle, I heard
the word<br>
"Charge!" The rising crest of the hill hid them from my sight,
but my heart<br>
bounded with ecstasy as I listened to the clanging sound of the
cavalry<br>
advance. Meanwhile the infantry pressed on, and forming upon the
bank,<br>
took up a strong position in front of the bridge; the heavy guns
were<br>
also unlimbered, riflemen scattered through the low copse-wood,
and every<br>
precaution taken to defend the pass to the last. For a moment all
my<br>
attention was riveted to the movements upon our own side of the
stream,<br>
when suddenly the cavalry bugle sounded the recall, and the same
moment<br>
the staff came galloping across the bridge. One officer I could
perceive,<br>
covered with orders and trappings, his head was bare, and his
horse,<br>
splashed with blood and foam, moved lamely and with difficulty;
he turned<br>
in the middle of the bridge, as if irresolute whether to retreat
farther.<br>
One glance at him showed me the bronzed, manly features of our
leader.<br>
Whatever his resolve, the matter was soon decided for him, for
the cavalry<br>
came galloping swiftly down the slope, and in an instant the
bridge was<br>
blocked up by the retreating forces, while the French as suddenly
appearing<br>
above the height, opened a plunging fire upon their defenceless
enemies;<br>
their cheer of triumph was answered by our fellows from the
opposite bank,<br>
and a heavy cannonade thundered along the rocky valley, sending
up a<br>
hundred echoes as it went.</p>

<p>The scene now became one of overwhelming interest; the French,
posting<br>
their guns upon the height, replied to our fire, while their
line, breaking<br>
into skirmishers, descended the banks to the river's edge, and
poured<br>
in one sheet of galling musketry. The road to the bridge, swept
by our<br>
artillery, presented not a single file; and although a movement
among<br>
the French announced the threat of an attack, the deadly service
of the<br>
artillery seemed to pronounce it hopeless.</p>

<p>A strong cavalry force stood inactively spectators of the
combat, on the<br>
French side, among whom I now remarked some bustle and
preparation, and as<br>
I looked an officer rode boldly to the river's edge, and spurring
his horse<br>
forward, plunged into the stream. The swollen and angry torrent,
increased<br>
by the late rains, boiled like barm, and foamed around him as he
advanced;<br>
when suddenly his horse appeared to have lost its footing, and
the rapid<br>
current, circling around him, bore him along with it. He labored
madly, but<br>
in vain, to retrace his steps; the rolling torrent rose above his
saddle,<br>
and all that his gallant steed could do was barely sufficient to
keep<br>
afloat; both man and horse were carried down between the
contending<br>
armies. I could see him wave his hand to his comrades, as if in
adieu. One<br>
deafening cheer of admiration rose from the French lines, and the
next<br>
moment he was seen to fall from his seat, and his body, shattered
with<br>
balls, floated mournfully upon the stream.</p>

<p>This little incident, to which both armies were witnesses,
seemed to have<br>
called forth all the fiercer passions of the contending forces; a
loud yell<br>
of taunting triumph rose from the Highlanders, responded to by a
cry of<br>
vengeance from the French, and the same moment the head of a
column was<br>
seen descending the narrow causeway to the bridge, while an
officer with a<br>
whole blaze of decorations and crosses sprang from his horse and
took the<br>
lead. The little drummer, a child of scarcely ten years old,
tripped gayly<br>
on, beating his little <i>pas des charge</i>, seeming rather like the
play of<br>
infancy than the summons to death and carnage, as the heavy guns
of the<br>
French opened a volume of fire and flame to cover the attacking
column. For<br>
a moment all was hid from our eyes; the moment after the
grape-shot swept<br>
along the narrow causeway; and the bridge, which but a second
before was<br>
crowded with the life and courage of a noble column, was now one
heap of<br>
dead and dying. The gallant fellow who led them on fell among the
first<br>
rank, and the little child, as if kneeling, was struck dead
beside the<br>
parapet; his fair hair floated across his cold features, and
seemed in its<br>
motion to lend a look of life where the heart's throb had ceased
forever.<br>
The artillery again re-opened upon us; and when the smoke had
cleared away,<br>
we discovered that the French had advanced to the middle of the
bridge and<br>
carried off the body of their general. Twice they essayed to
cross, and<br>
twice the death-dealing fire of our guns covered the narrow
bridge with<br>
slain, while by the wild pibroch of the 42d, swelling madly into
notes of<br>
exultation and triumph, the Highlanders could scarcely be
prevented from<br>
advancing hand to hand with the foe. Gradually the French
slackened their<br>
fire, their great guns were one by one withdrawn from the
heights, and a<br>
dropping, irregular musketry at intervals sustained the fight,
which, ere<br>
sunset, ceased altogether; and thus ended "The Battle of the
Coa!"</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER VI.</p>

<p>THE NIGHT MARCH.</p>

<p>Scarcely had the night fallen when our retreat commenced.
Tired and weary<br>
as our brave fellows felt, but little repose was allowed them;
their<br>
bivouac fires were blazing brightly, and they had just thrown
themselves<br>
in groups around them, when the word to fall in was passed from
troop to<br>
troop, and from battalion to battalion,&mdash;no trumpet, no bugle
called them<br>
to their ranks. It was necessary that all should be done
noiselessly and<br>
speedily; while, therefore, the wounded were marched to the
front, and<br>
the heavy artillery with them, a brigade of light four pounders
and two<br>
squadrons of cavalry held the heights above the bridge, and the
infantry,<br>
forming into three columns, began their march.</p>

<p>My wound, forgotten in the heat and excitement of the
conflict, was now<br>
becoming excessively painful, and I gladly availed myself of a
place in a<br>
wagon, where, stretched upon some fresh straw, with no other
covering save<br>
the starry sky, I soon fell sound asleep, and neither the heavy
jolting of<br>
the rough conveyance, nor the deep and rutty road, were able to
disturb my<br>
slumbers. Still through my sleep I heard the sounds around me,
the heavy<br>
tramp of infantry, the clash of the moving squadrons, and the
dull roll of<br>
artillery; and ever and anon the half-stifled cry of pain,
mingling with<br>
the reckless carol of some drinking-song, all flitted through my
dreams,<br>
lending to my thoughts of home and friends a memory of glorious
war.</p>

<p>All the vicissitudes of a soldier's life passed then in review
before me,<br>
elicited in some measure by the things about. The pomp and
grandeur, the<br>
misery and meanness, the triumph, the defeat, the moment of
victory, and<br>
the hour of death were there, and in that vivid dream I lived a
life long.</p>

<p>I awoke at length, the cold and chilling air which follows
midnight blew<br>
around me, and my wounded arm felt as though it were frozen. I
tried to<br>
cover myself beneath the straw, but in vain; and as my limbs
trembled and<br>
my teeth chattered, I thought again of home, where, at that
moment, the<br>
poorest menial of my uncle's house was better lodged than I; and
strange to<br>
say, something of pride mingled with the thought, and in my
lonely heart a<br>
feeling of elation cheered me.</p>

<p>These reflections were interrupted by the sound of a voice
near me, which I<br>
at once knew to be O'Shaughnessy's; he was on foot, and speaking
evidently<br>
in some excitement.</p>

<p>"I tell you, Maurice, some confounded blunder there must be;
sure, he was<br>
left in the cottage near the bridge, and no one ever saw him
after."</p>

<p>"The French took it from the Rifles before we crossed the
river. By Jove!<br>
I'll wager my chance of promotion against a pint of sherry, he'll
turn up<br>
somewhere in the morning; those Galway chaps have as many lives
as a cat."</p>

<p>"See, now, Maurice, I wouldn't for a full colonelcy anything
would happen<br>
to him; I like the boy."</p>

<p>"So do I myself; but I tell you there's no danger of him. Did
you ask<br>
Sparks anything?"</p>

<p>"Ask Sparks! God help you! Sparks would go off in a fit at the
sight of me.<br>
No, no, poor creature! it's little use it would be my speaking to
him."</p>

<p>"Why so, Doctor!" cried I, from my straw couch.</p>

<p>"May I never, if it's not him! Charley, my son, I'm glad
you're safe.<br>
'Faith, I thought you were on your way to Verdun by this
time."</p>

<p>"Sure, I told you he'd find his way here&mdash;But, O'Mealey, dear,
you're<br>
mighty could,&mdash;a rigor, as old M'Lauchlan would call it."</p>

<p>"E'en sae, Maister Quill," said a broad Scotch accent behind
him; "and I<br>
canna see ony objection to giein' things their right names."</p>

<p>"The top of the morning to you," said Quill, familiarly
patting him on the<br>
back; "how goes it, old Brimstone?"</p>

<p>The conversation might not have taken a very amicable turn had
M'Lauchlan<br>
heard the latter part of this speech; but, as happily he was
engaged<br>
unpacking a small canteen which he had placed in the wagon, it
passed<br>
unnoticed.</p>

<p>"You'll nae dislike a toothfu' of something warm, Major," said
he,<br>
presenting a glass to O'Shaughnessy; "and if ye'll permit me, Mr.
O'Mealey,<br>
to help you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A thousand thanks, Doctor; but I fear a broken arm&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There's naething in the whiskey to prevent the proper
formation of<br>
callus."</p>

<p>"By the rock of Cashel, it never made any one callous," said
O'Shaughnessy,<br>
mistaking the import of the phrase.</p>

<p>"Ye are nae drinking frae the flask?" said the doctor, turning
in some<br>
agitation towards Quill.</p>

<p>"Devil a bit, my darling. I've a little horn convaniency here,
that holds<br>
half-a-pint, nice measure."</p>

<p>I don't imagine that our worthy friend participated in Quill's
admiration<br>
of the "convaniency," for he added, in a dry tone:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ye may as weel tak your liquor frae a glass, like a
Christian, as stick<br>
your nose in a coo's horn."</p>

<p>"By my conscience, you're no small judge of spirits, wherever
you learned<br>
it," said the major; "it's like Islay malt!"</p>

<p>"I was aye reckoned a gude ane," said the doctor, "and my
mither's brither<br>
Caimbogie had na his like in the north country. Ye may be heerd
tell what<br>
he aince said to the Duchess of Argyle, when she sent for him to
taste her<br>
claret."</p>

<p>"Never heard of it," quoth Quill; "let's have it by all means.
I'd like to<br>
hear what the duchess said to him."</p>

<p>"It was na what the duchess said to him, but what he said to
the duchess,<br>
ye ken. The way of it was this: My uncle Caimbogie was aye up at
the<br>
castle, for besides his knowledge of liquor, there was nae his
match for<br>
deer-stalking, or spearing a salmon, in those parts. He was a
great, rough<br>
carle, it's true; but ane ye'd rather crack wi' than fight
wi'.</p>

<p>"Weel, ae day they had a grand dinner at the duke's, and there
were plenty<br>
o' great southern lords and braw leddies in velvets and satin;
and vara<br>
muckle surprised they were at my uncle, when he came in wi' his
tartan<br>
kilt, in full Highland dress, as the head of a clan ought to do.
Caimbogie,<br>
however, pe'd nae attention to them; but he eat his dinner, and
drank his<br>
wine, and talked away about fallow and red deer, and at last the
duchess,<br>
for she was aye fond o' him, addressed him frae the head o' the
table:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Cambogie,' quoth she, 'I'd like to hae your opinion about
that wine. It's<br>
some the duke has just received, and we should like to hear what
you think<br>
of it.'</p>

<p>"'It's nae sae bad, my leddy,' said my uncle; for ye see he
was a man of<br>
few words, and never flattered onybody.</p>

<p>"'Then you don't approve much of it?' said the duchess.</p>

<p>"'I've drank better, and I've drank waur,' quo' he.</p>

<p>"'I'm sorry you don't like it, Caimbogie,' said the duchess,
'for it can<br>
never be popular now,&mdash;we have such a dependence upon your
taste.'</p>

<p>"'I cauna say ower muckle for my <i>taste</i>, my leddy, but ae
thing I <i>will</i><br>
say,&mdash;I've a most damnable <i>smell!</i>'</p>

<p>"I hear that never since the auld walls stood was there ever
the like o'<br>
the laughing that followed; the puir duke himsel' was carried
away, and<br>
nearly had a fit, and a' the grand lords and leddies a'most died
of it. But<br>
see here, the earle has nae left a drap o' whiskey in the
flask."</p>

<p>"The last glass I drained to your respectable uncle's health,"
said Quill,<br>
with a most professional gravity. "Now, Charlie, make a little
room for me<br>
in the straw."</p>

<p>The doctor soon mounted beside me, and giving me a share of
his ample<br>
cloak, considerably ameliorated my situation.</p>

<p>"So you knew Sparks, Doctor?" said I, with a strong curiosity
to hear<br>
something of his early acquaintance.</p>

<p>"That I did: I knew him when he was an ensign in the 10th
Foot; and, to say<br>
the truth, he is not much changed since that time,&mdash;the same
lively look of<br>
a sick cod-fish about his gray eyes; the same disorderly wave of
his yellow<br>
hair; the same whining voice, and that confounded apothecary's
laugh."</p>

<p>"Come, come, Doctor, Sparks is a good fellow at heart; I won't
have him<br>
abused. I never knew he had been in the infantry; I should think
it must<br>
have been another of the same name."</p>

<p>"Not at all; there's only one like him in the service, and
that's himself.<br>
Confound it, man, I'd know his skin upon a bush; he was only
three weeks<br>
in the Tenth, and, indeed, your humble servant has the whole
merit of his<br>
leaving it so soon."</p>

<p>"Do let us hear how that happened."</p>

<p>"Simply thus: The jolly Tenth were some four years ago the
pleasantest<br>
corps in the army; from the lieutenant-colonel down to the last
joined<br>
sub., all were out-and-outers,&mdash;real gay fellows. The mess was,
in fact,<br>
like a pleasant club, and if you did not suit it, the best thing
you could<br>
do was to sell out or exchange into a slower regiment; and,
indeed, this<br>
very wholesome truth was not very long in reaching your ears some
way or<br>
other, and a man that could remain after being given this hint,
was likely<br>
to go afterwards without one."</p>

<p>Just as Dr. Quill reached this part of his story, an orderly
dragoon<br>
galloped furiously past, and the next moment an aide-de-camp rode
by,<br>
calling as he passed us,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Close up, there! Close up! Get forward, my lads! get
forward!"</p>

<p>It was evident, from the stir and bustle about, that some
movement was<br>
being made; and soon after, a dropping, irregular fire from the
rear showed<br>
that our cavalry were engaged with the enemy. The affair was
scarcely of<br>
five minutes' duration, and our march resumed all its former
regularity<br>
immediately after.</p>

<p>I now turned to the doctor to resume his story, but he was
gone; at what<br>
moment he left I could not say, but O'Shaughnessy was also
absent, nor did<br>
I again meet with them for a considerable time after.</p>

<p>Towards daybreak we halted at Bonares, when, my wound
demanding rest and<br>
attention, I was billeted in the village, and consigned to all
the miseries<br>
of a sick bed.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER VII.</p>

<p>THE JOURNEY.</p>

<p>With that disastrous day my campaigning was destined, for some
time<br>
at least, to conclude. My wound, which grew from hour to hour
more<br>
threatening, at length began to menace the loss of the arm, and
by the<br>
recommendation of the regimental surgeons, I was ordered back to
Lisbon.</p>

<p>Mike, by this time perfectly restored, prepared everything for
my<br>
departure, and on the third day after the battle of the Coa, I
began my<br>
journey with downcast spirits and depressed heart. The poor
fellow was,<br>
however, a kind and affectionate nurse, and unlike many others,
his cares<br>
were not limited to the mere bodily wants of his patient,&mdash;he
sustained,<br>
as well as he was able, my drooping resolution, rallied my
spirits, and<br>
cheered my courage. With the very little Portuguese he possessed,
he<br>
contrived to make every imaginable species of bargain; always
managed a<br>
good billet; kept every one in good humor, and rarely left his
quarters in<br>
the morning without a most affective leave-taking, and reiterated
promises<br>
to renew his visit.</p>

<p>Our journeys were usually short ones, and already two days had
elapsed,<br>
when, towards nightfall, we entered the little hamlet of Jaffra.
During the<br>
entire of that day, the pain of my wounded limb had been
excruciating; the<br>
fatigue of the road and the heat had brought back violent
inflammation, and<br>
when at last the little village came in sight, my reason was fast
yielding<br>
to the torturing agonies of my wound. But the transports with
which I<br>
greeted my resting-place were soon destined to a change; for as
we drew<br>
near, not a light was to be seen, not a sound to be heard, not
even a dog<br>
barked as the heavy mule-cart rattled over the uneven road. No
trace of<br>
any living thing was there. The little hamlet lay sleeping in the
pale<br>
moonlight, its streets deserted, and its homes tenantless; our
own<br>
footsteps alone echoed along the dreary causeway. Here and there,
as we<br>
advanced farther, we found some relics of broken furniture and
house-gear;<br>
most of the doors lay open, but nothing remained within save bare
walls;<br>
the embers still smoked in many places upon the hearth, and
showed us that<br>
the flight of the inhabitants had been recent. Yet everything
convinced<br>
us that the French had not been there; there was no trace of the
reckless<br>
violence and wanton cruelty which marked their footsteps
everywhere.</p>

<p>All proved that the desertion had been voluntary; perhaps in
compliance<br>
with an order of our commander-in-chief, who frequently desired
any<br>
intended line of march of the enemy to be left thus a desert. As
we<br>
sauntered slowly on from street to street, half hoping that some
one human<br>
being yet remained behind, and casting our eyes from side to side
in search<br>
of quarters for the night, Mike suddenly came running up,
saying,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I have it, sir; I've found it out. There's people living down
that small<br>
street there; I saw a light this minute as I passed."</p>

<p>I turned immediately, and accompanied by the mule-driver,
followed Mike<br>
across a little open square into a small and narrow street, at
the end<br>
of which a light was seen faintly twinkling. We hurried on and in
a few<br>
minutes reached a high wall of solid masonry, from a niche of
which we now<br>
discovered, to our utter disappointment, the light proceeded. It
was a<br>
small lamp placed before a little waxen image of the Virgin, and
was<br>
probably the last act of piety of some poor villager ere he left
his home<br>
and hearth forever. There it burned, brightly and tranquilly,
throwing its<br>
mellow ray upon the cold, deserted stones.</p>

<p>Whatever impatience I might have given way to in a moment of
chagrin was<br>
soon repressed, as I saw my two followers, uncovering their heads
in silent<br>
reverence, kneel down before the little shrine. There was
something at once<br>
touching and solemn in this simultaneous feeling of homage from
the hearts<br>
of those removed in country, language, and in blood. They bent
meekly down,<br>
their heads bowed upon their bosoms, while with muttering voices
each<br>
offered up his prayer. All sense of their disappointment, all
memory of<br>
their forlorn state, seemed to have yielded to more powerful and
absorbing<br>
thoughts, as they opened their hearts in prayer.</p>

<p>My eyes were still fixed upon them when suddenly Mike, whose
devotion<br>
seemed of the briefest, sprang to his legs, and with a spirit of
levity<br>
but little in accordance with his late proceedings, commenced a
series of<br>
kicking, rapping, and knocking at a small oak postern sufficient
to have<br>
aroused a whole convent from their cells. "House there! Good
people<br>
within!"&mdash;bang, bang, bang; but the echoes alone responded to his
call,<br>
and the sounds died away at length in the distant streets,
leaving all as<br>
silent and dreary as before.</p>

<p>Our Portuguese friend, who by this time had finished his
orisons, now began<br>
a vigorous attack upon the small door, and with the assistance of
Mike,<br>
armed with a fragment of granite about the size of a man's head,
at length<br>
separated the frame from the hinges, and sent the whole mass
prostrate<br>
before us.</p>

<p>The moon was just rising as we entered the little park, where
gravelled<br>
walks, neatly kept and well-trimmed, bespoke recent care and
attention;<br>
following a handsome alley of lime-trees, we reached a little
<i>jet d'eau</i>,<br>
whose sparkling fountain shone diamond-like in the moonbeams, and
escaping<br>
from the edge of a vast shell, ran murmuring amidst mossy stones
and<br>
water-lilies that, however naturally they seemed thrown around,
bespoke<br>
also the hand of taste in their position. On turning from the
spot, we came<br>
directly in front of an old but handsome ch&acirc;teau, before
which stretched<br>
a terrace of considerable extent. Its balustraded parapet lined
with<br>
orange-trees, now in full blossom, scented the still air with
delicious<br>
odor; marble statues peeped here and there amidst the foliage,
while a rich<br>
acacia, loaded with flowers, covered the walls of the building,
and hung in<br>
vast masses of variegated blossom across the tall windows.</p>

<p>As leaning on Mike's arm I slowly ascended the steps of the
terrace, I was<br>
more than ever struck with the silence and death-like stillness
around;<br>
except the gentle plash of the fountain, all was at rest; the
very plants<br>
seemed to sleep in the yellow moonlight, and not a trace of any
living<br>
thing was there.</p>

<p>The massive door lay open as we entered the spacious hall
flagged with<br>
marble and surrounded with armorial bearings. We advanced farther
and came<br>
to a broad and handsome stair, which led us to a long gallery,
from which<br>
a suit of rooms opened, looking towards the front part of the
building.<br>
Wherever we went, the furniture appeared perfectly untouched;
nothing was<br>
removed; the very chairs were grouped around the windows and the
tables;<br>
books, as if suddenly dropped from their readers' hands, were
scattered<br>
upon the sofas and the ottomans; and in one small apartment,
whose blue<br>
satin walls and damask drapery bespoke a boudoir, a rich mantilla
of<br>
black velvet and a silk glove were thrown upon a chair. It was
clear the<br>
desertion had been most recent, and everything indicated that no
time had<br>
been given to the fugitives to prepare for flight. What a sad
picture of<br>
war was there! To think of those whose home was endeared to them
by all<br>
the refinements of cultivated life and all the associations of
years of<br>
happiness sent out upon the wide world wanderers and houseless,
while<br>
their hearth, sacred by every tie that binds us to our kindred,
was to<br>
be desecrated by the ruthless and savage hands of a ruffian
soldiery. I<br>
thought of them,&mdash;perhaps at that very hour their thoughts were
clinging<br>
round the old walls, remembering each well-beloved spot, while
they took<br>
their lonely path through mountain and through valley,&mdash;and felt
ashamed<br>
and abashed at my own intrusion there. While thus my revery ran
on, I<br>
had not perceived that Mike, whose views were very practical upon
all<br>
occasions, had lighted a most cheerful fire upon the hearth, and
disposing<br>
a large sofa before it, had carefully closed the curtains; and
was, in<br>
fact, making himself and his master as much at home as though he
had spent<br>
his life there.</p>

<p>"Isn't it a beautiful place, Misther Charles? And this little
room, doesn't<br>
it remind you of the blue bed-room in O'Malley Castle, barrin'
the elegant<br>
view out upon the Shannon, and the mountain of Scariff?"</p>

<p>Nothing short of Mike's patriotism could forgive such a
comparison; but,<br>
however, I did not contradict him as he ran on:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Faith, I knew well there was luck in store for us this
evening; and ye see<br>
the handful of prayers I threw away outside wasn't lost.
Jos&eacute;'s making<br>
the beasts comfortable in the stable, and I'm thinking we'll none
of us<br>
complain of our quarters. But you're not eating your supper; and
the<br>
beautiful hare-pie that I stole this morning, won't you taste it?
Well, a<br>
glass of Malaga? Not a glass of Malaga? Oh, mother of Moses!
what's this<br>
for?"</p>

<p>Unfortunately, the fever produced by the long and toilsome
journey had<br>
gained considerably on me, and except copious libations of cold
water, I<br>
could touch nothing; my arm, too, was much more painful than
before. Mike<br>
soon perceived that rest and quietness were most important to me
at the<br>
moment, and having with difficulty been prevailed upon to swallow
a few<br>
hurried mouthfuls, the poor fellow disposed cushions around me in
every<br>
imaginable form for comfort; and then, placing my wounded limb in
its<br>
easiest position, he extinguished the lamp, and sat silently down
beside<br>
the hearth, without speaking another word.</p>

<p>Fatigue and exhaustion, more powerful than pain, soon produced
their<br>
effects upon me, and I fell asleep; but it was no refreshing
slumber which<br>
visited my heavy eyelids; the, slow fever of suffering had been
hour by<br>
hour increasing, and my dreams presented nothing but scenes of
agony and<br>
torture. Now I thought that, unhorsed and wounded, I was trampled
beneath<br>
the clanging hoofs of charging cavalry; now I felt the sharp
steel piercing<br>
my flesh, and heard the loud cry of a victorious enemy; then,
methought, I<br>
was stretched upon a litter, covered by gore and mangled by a
grape-shot.<br>
I thought I saw my brother officers approach and look sadly upon
me, while<br>
one, whose face I could not remember, muttered: "I should not
have known<br>
him." The dreadful hospital of Talavera, and all its scenes of
agony, came<br>
up before me, and I thought that I lay waiting my turn for
amputation. This<br>
last impression, more horrible to me than all the rest, made me
spring from<br>
my couch, and I awoke. The cold drops of perspiration stood upon
my brow,<br>
my mouth was parched and open, and my temples throbbed so that I
could<br>
count their beatings; for some seconds I could not throw off the
frightful<br>
illusion I labored under, and it was only by degrees I
recovered<br>
consciousness and remembered where I was. Before me, and on one
side of the<br>
bright wood-fire, sat Mike, who, apparently deep in thought,
gazed fixedly<br>
at the blaze. The start I gave on awaking had not attracted his
attention,<br>
and I could see, as the flickering glare fell upon his features,
that he<br>
was pale and ghastly, while his eyes were riveted upon the fire;
his lips<br>
moved rapidly, as if in prayer, and his locked hands were
pressed<br>
firmly upon his bosom; his voice, at first inaudible, I could
gradually<br>
distinguish, and at length heard the following muttered
sentences:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, mother of mercy! So far from his home and his people, and
so young to<br>
die in a strange land&mdash;There it is again." Here he appeared
listening<br>
to some sounds from without. "Oh, wirra, wirra, I know it
well!&mdash;the<br>
winding-sheet, the winding-sheet! There it is; my own eyes saw
it!"<br>
The tears coursed fast upon his pale cheeks, and his voice grew
almost<br>
inaudible, as rocking to and fro, for some time he seemed in a
very stupor<br>
of grief; when at last, in a faint, subdued tone, he broke into
one of<br>
those sad and plaintive airs of his country, which only need the
moment of<br>
depression to make them wring the very heart in agony.</p>

<p>His song was that to which Moore has appended the beautiful
lines, "Come<br>
rest on this bosom." The following imperfect translation may
serve to<br>
convey some impression of the words, which in Mike's version were
Irish:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "The day was declining,<br>
    The dark night drew near,<br>
    And the old lord grew sadder<br>
    And paler with fear:<br>
    'Come listen, my daughter,<br>
    Come nearer, oh, near!<br>
    Is't the wind or the water<br>
    That sighs in my ear?'</p>

<p>    "Not the wind nor the water<br>
    Now stirred the night air,<br>
    But a warning far sadder,&mdash;.<br>
    The Banshee was there!<br>
    Now rising, now swelling,<br>
    On the night wind it bore<br>
    One cadence, still telling,<br>
    'I want thee, Rossmore!'</p>

<p>    "And then fast came his breath,<br>
    And more fixed grew his eye;<br>
    And the shadow of death<br>
    Told his hour was nigh.<br>
    Ere the dawn of that morning<br>
    The struggle was o'er,<br>
    For when thrice came the warning<br>
    A corpse was Rossmore!"</p>

<p>The plaintive air to which these words were sung fell heavily
upon my<br>
heart, and it needed but the low and nervous condition I was in
to make me<br>
feel their application to myself. But so it is; the very
superstition your<br>
reason rejects and your sense spurns, has, from old association,
from<br>
habit, and from mere nationality too, a hold upon your hopes and
fears that<br>
demands more firmness and courage than a sick-bed possesses to
combat with<br>
success; and I now listened with an eager ear to mark if the
Banshee<br>
cried, rather than sought to fortify myself by any recurrence to
my own<br>
convictions. Meanwhile Mike's attitude became one of listening
attention.<br>
Not a finger moved; he scarce seemed even to breathe; the state
of suspense<br>
I suffered from was maddening; and at last, unable to bear it
longer, I<br>
was about to speak, when suddenly, from the floor beneath us,
one<br>
long-sustained note swelled upon the air and died away again,
and<br>
immediately after, to the cheerful sounds of a guitar, we heard
the husky<br>
voice of our Portuguese guide indulging himself in a
love-ditty.</p>

<p>Ashamed of myself for my fears, I kept silent; but Mike, who
felt only one<br>
sensation,&mdash;that of unmixed satisfaction at his mistake,&mdash;rubbed
his hands<br>
pleasantly, filled up his glass, drank it, and refilled; while
with an<br>
accent of reassured courage, he briefly remarked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, Mr. Jos&eacute;, if that be singing, upon my conscience
I wonder what<br>
crying is like!"</p>

<p>I could not forbear a laugh at the criticism; and in a moment,
the poor<br>
fellow, who up to that moment believed me sleeping, was beside
me. I saw<br>
from his manner that he dreaded lest I had been listening to his
melancholy<br>
song, and had overheard any of his gloomy forebodings; and as he
cheered<br>
my spirits and spoke encouragingly, I could remark that he made
more than<br>
usual endeavors to appear light-hearted and at ease. Determined,
however,<br>
not to let him escape so easily, I questioned him about his
belief in<br>
ghosts and spirits, at which he endeavored, as he ever did when
the subject<br>
was an unpleasing one, to avoid the discussion; but rather
perceiving that<br>
I indulged in no irreverent disrespect of these matters, he grew
gradually<br>
more open, treating the affair with that strange mixture of
credulity and<br>
mockery which formed his estimate of most things,&mdash;now seeming to
suppose<br>
that any palpable rejection of them might entail sad consequences
in<br>
future, now half ashamed to go the whole length in his
credulity.</p>

<p>"And so, Mike, you never saw a ghost yourself?&mdash;that you
acknowledge?"</p>

<p>"No, sir, I never saw a real ghost; but sure there's many a
thing I never<br>
saw; but Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, seen two. And your
grandfather that's<br>
gone&mdash;the Lord be good to him!&mdash;used to walk once a year in Lurra
Abbey;<br>
and sure you know the story about Tim Clinchy that was seen every
Saturday<br>
night coming out of the cellar with a candle and a mug of wine
and a pipe<br>
in his mouth, till Mr. Barry laid him. It cost his honor your
uncle ten<br>
pounds in Masses to make him easy; not to speak of a new lock and
two bolts<br>
on the cellar door."</p>

<p>"I have heard all about that; but as you never yourself saw
any of these<br>
things&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But sure my father did, and that's the same any day. My
father seen the<br>
greatest ghost that ever was seen in the county Cork, and spent
the evening<br>
with him, that's more."</p>

<p>"Spent the evening with him!&mdash;what do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Just that, devil a more nor less. If your honor wasn't so
weak, and the<br>
story wasn't a trying one, I'd like to tell it to you."</p>

<p>"Out with it by all means, Mike; I am not disposed to sleep;
and now that<br>
we are upon these matters, my curiosity is strongly excited by
your worthy<br>
father's experience."</p>

<p>Thus encouraged, having trimmed the fire and reseated himself
beside the<br>
blaze, Mike began; but as a ghost is no every-day personage in
our history,<br>
I must give him a chapter to himself.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER VIII.</p>

<p>THE GHOST.</p>

<p>"Well, I believe your honor heard me tell long ago how my
father left the<br>
army, and the way that he took to another line of life that was
more to his<br>
liking. And so it was, he was happy as the day was long; he drove
a hearse<br>
for Mr. Callaghan of Cork for many years, and a pleasant place it
was; for<br>
ye see, my father was a 'cute man, and knew something of the
world; and<br>
though he was a droll devil, and could sing a funny song when he
was among<br>
the boys, no sooner had he the big black cloak on him and the
weepers, and<br>
he seated on the high box with the six long-tailed blacks before
him, you'd<br>
really think it was his own mother was inside, he looked so
melancholy and<br>
miserable. The sexton and gravedigger was nothing to my father;
and he had<br>
a look about his eye&mdash;to be sure there was a reason for it&mdash;that
you'd<br>
think he was up all night crying; though it's little indulgence
he took<br>
that way.</p>

<p>"Well, of all Mr. Callaghan's men, there was none so great a
favorite as my<br>
father. The neighbors were all fond of him.</p>

<p>"'A kind crayture, every inch of him!' the women would say.
'Did ye see his<br>
face at Mrs. Delany's funeral?'</p>

<p>"'True for you,' another would remark; 'he mistook the road
with grief, and<br>
stopped at a shebeen house instead of Kilmurry church.'</p>

<p>"I need say no more, only one thing,&mdash;that it was principally
among the<br>
farmers and the country people my father was liked so much. The
great<br>
people and the quality&mdash;ax your pardon; but sure isn't it true,
Mister<br>
Charles?&mdash;they don't fret so much after their fathers and
brothers, and<br>
they care little who's driving them, whether it was a decent,
respectable<br>
man like my father, or a chap with a grin on him like a rat-trap.
And so<br>
it happened that my father used to travel half the county; going
here and<br>
there wherever there was trade stirring; and faix, a man didn't
think<br>
himself rightly buried if my father wasn't there; for ye see, he
knew all<br>
about it: he could tell to a quart of spirits what would be
wanting for a<br>
wake; he knew all the good criers for miles round; and I've heard
it was a<br>
beautiful sight to see him standing on a hill, arranging the
procession as<br>
they walked into the churchyard, and giving the word like a
captain,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Come on, the stiff; now the friends of the stiff; now the
pop'lace.'</p>

<p>"That's what he used to say, and troth he was always repeating
it, when he<br>
was a little gone in drink,&mdash;for that's the time his spirits
would rise,<br>
and he'd think he was burying half Munster.</p>

<p>"And sure it was a real pleasure and a pride to be buried in
them times;<br>
for av it was only a small farmer with a potato garden, my father
would<br>
come down with the black cloak on him, and three yards of crape
behind his<br>
hat, and set all the children crying and yelling for half a mile
round;<br>
and then the way he'd walk before them with a spade on his
shoulder, and<br>
sticking it down in the ground, clap his hat on the top of it, to
make it<br>
look like a chief mourner. It was a beautiful sight!"</p>

<p>"But Mike, if you indulge much longer in this flattering
recollection of<br>
your father, I'm afraid we shall lose sight of the ghost
entirely."</p>

<p>"No fear in life, your honor; I'm coming to him now. Well, it
was this<br>
way it happened: In the winter of the great frost, about
forty-two or<br>
forty-three years ago, the ould priest of Tullonghmurray took ill
and died.<br>
He was sixty years priest of the parish, and mightily beloved by
all<br>
the people, and good reason for it; a pleasanter man, and a
more<br>
social crayture never lived,&mdash;'twas himself was the life of the
whole<br>
country-side. A wedding nor a christening wasn't lucky av he
wasn't there,<br>
sitting at the top of the table, with may be his arm round the
bride<br>
herself, or the baby on his lap, a smoking jug of punch before
him, and as<br>
much kindness in his eye as would make the fortunes of twenty
hypocrites if<br>
they had it among them. And then he was so good to the poor; the
Priory was<br>
always so full of ould men and ould women sitting around the big
fire in<br>
the kitchen that the cook could hardly get near it. There they
were, eating<br>
their meals and burning their shins till they were speckled like
a trout's<br>
back, and grumbling all the time; but Father Dwyer liked them,
and he would<br>
have them.</p>

<p>"'Where have they to go,' he'd say, 'av it wasn't to me? Give
Molly<br>
Kinshela a lock of that bacon. Tim, it's a could morning; will ye
have a<br>
taste of the "dew?"'</p>

<p>"Ah, that's the way he'd spake to them; but sure goodness is
no warrant<br>
for living, any more than devilment, and so he got could in his
feet at a<br>
station, and he rode home in the heavy snow without his big
coat,&mdash;for he<br>
gave it away to a blind man on the road; in three days he was
dead.</p>

<p>"I see you're getting impatient, so I'll not stop to say what
grief was<br>
in the parish when it was known; but troth, there never was seen
the like<br>
before,&mdash;not a crayture would lift a spade for two days, and
there was more<br>
whiskey sold in that time than at the whole spring fair. Well, on
the third<br>
day the funeral set out, and never was the equal of it in them
parts:<br>
first, there was my father,&mdash;he came special from Cork with the
six horses<br>
all in new black, and plumes like little poplar-trees,&mdash;then came
Father<br>
Dwyer, followed by the two coadjutors in beautiful surplices,
walking<br>
bare-headed, with the little boys of the Priory school,
two-and-two."</p>

<p>"Well, Mike, I'm sure it was very fine; but for Heaven's sake,
spare me all<br>
these descriptions, and get on to the ghost!"</p>

<p>"'Faith, yer honor's in a great hurry for the ghost,&mdash;may be
ye won't like<br>
him when ye have him; but I'll go faster, if ye please. Well,
Father Dwyer,<br>
ye see, was born at Aghan-lish, of an ould family, and he left it
in his<br>
will that he was to be buried in the family vault; and as
Aghan-lish was<br>
eighteen miles up the mountains, it was getting late when they
drew near.<br>
By that time the great procession was all broke up and gone home.
The<br>
coadjutors stopped to dine at the 'Blue Bellows' at the
cross-roads; the<br>
little boys took to pelting snowballs; there was a fight or two
on the way<br>
besides,&mdash;and in fact, except an ould deaf fellow that my father
took to<br>
mind the horses, he was quite alone. Not that he minded that
same; for when<br>
the crowd was gone, my father began to sing a droll song, and
told the deaf<br>
chap that it was a lamentation. At last they came in sight of
Aghan-lish.<br>
It was a lonesome, melancholy-looking place with nothing near it
except two<br>
or three ould fir-trees and a small slated house with one window,
where the<br>
sexton lived, and even that was shut up and a padlock on the
door. Well,<br>
my father was not over much pleased at the look of matters; but
as he was<br>
never hard put to what to do, he managed to get the coffin into
the vestry,<br>
and then when he had unharnessed the horses, he sent the deaf
fellow with<br>
them down to the village to tell the priest that the corpse was
there, and<br>
to come up early in the morning and perform Mass. The next thing
to do was<br>
to make himself comfortable for the night; and then he made a
roaring fire<br>
on the ould hearth,&mdash;for there was plenty of bog-fir
there,&mdash;closed the<br>
windows with the black cloaks, and wrapping two round himself, he
sat down<br>
to cook a little supper he brought with him in case of need.</p>

<p>"Well, you may think it was melancholy enough to pass the
night up there<br>
alone with a corpse, in an ould ruined church in the middle of
the<br>
mountains, the wind howling about on every side, and the
snowdrift beating<br>
against the walls; but as the fire burned brightly, and the
little plate of<br>
rashers and eggs smoked temptingly before him, my father mixed a
jug of the<br>
strongest punch, and sat down as happy as a king. As long as he
was eating<br>
away he had no time to be thinking of anything else; but when all
was done,<br>
and he looked about him, he began to feel very low and melancholy
in his<br>
heart. There was the great black coffin on three chairs in one
corner; and<br>
then the mourning cloaks that he had stuck up against the windows
moved<br>
backward and forward like living things; and outside, the wild
cry of the<br>
plover as he flew past, and the night-owl sitting in a nook of
the old<br>
church. 'I wish it was morning, anyhow,' said my father, 'for
this is a<br>
lonesome place to be in; and faix, he'll be a cunning fellow that
catches<br>
me passing the night this way again.' Now there was one thing
distressed<br>
him most of all,&mdash;my father used always to make fun of the ghosts
and<br>
sperits the neighbors would tell of, pretending there was no such
thing;<br>
and now the thought came to him, 'May be they'll revenge
themselves on me<br>
to-night when they have me up here alone;' and with that he made
another<br>
jug stronger than the first, and tried to remember a few prayers
in case of<br>
need, but somehow his mind was not too clear, and he said
afterwards he<br>
was always mixing up ould songs and toasts with the prayers, and
when he<br>
thought he had just got hold of a beautiful psalm, it would turn
out to be<br>
'Tatter Jack Walsh' or 'Limping James' or something like that.
The storm,<br>
meanwhile, was rising every moment, and parts of the old abbey
were falling<br>
as the wind shook the ruin; and my father's spirits,
notwithstanding the<br>
punch, wore lower than ever.</p>

<p>"'I made it too weak,' said he, as he set to work on a new
jorum; and<br>
troth, this time that was not the fault of it, for the first sup
nearly<br>
choked him.</p>

<p>"'Ah,' said he, now, 'I knew what it was; this is like the
thing; and Mr.<br>
Free, you are beginning to feel easy and comfortable. Pass the
jar. Your<br>
very good health and song. I'm a little hoarse, it's true, but if
the<br>
company will excuse&mdash;'</p>

<p>"And then he began knocking on the table with his knuckles, as
if there was<br>
a room full of people asking him to sing. In short, my father was
drunk as<br>
a fiddler; the last brew finished him; and he began roaring away
all kinds<br>
of droll songs, and telling all manner of stories as if he was at
a great<br>
party.</p>

<p>"While he was capering this way about the room, he knocked
down his hat,<br>
and with it a pack of cards he put into it before leaving home,
for he was<br>
mighty fond of a game.</p>

<p>"'Will ye take a hand, Mr. Free?' said he, as he gathered them
up and sat<br>
down beside the fire.</p>

<p>"'I'm convanient,' said he, and began dealing out as if there
was a partner<br>
fornenst him.</p>

<p>"When my father used to get this far in the story, he became
very confused.<br>
He says that once or twice he mistook the liquor, and took a pull
at the<br>
bottle of poteen instead of the punch; and the last thing he
remembers was<br>
asking poor Father Dwyer if he would draw near to the fire, and
not be<br>
lying there near the door.</p>

<p>"With that he slipped down on the ground and fell fast asleep.
How long he<br>
lay that way he could never tell. When he awoke and looked up,
his hair<br>
nearly stood on an end with fright. What do you think he seen
fornenst him,<br>
sitting at the other side of the fire, but Father Dwyer himself.
There he<br>
was, divil a lie in it, wrapped up in one of the mourning cloaks,
trying to<br>
warm his hands at the fire. "'<i>Salve hoc nomine patri!</i>' said my
father,<br>
crossing himself, 'av it's your ghost, God presarve me!'</p>

<p>"'Good-evening t'ye, Mr. Free,' said the ghost; 'and av I
might be bould,<br>
what's in the jug?'&mdash;for ye see, my father had it under his arm
fast, and<br>
never let it go when he was asleep.</p>

<p>"'<i>Pater noster qui es in</i>,&mdash;poteen, sir,' said my father; for
the ghost<br>
didn't look pleased at his talking Latin.</p>

<p>"'Ye might have the politeness to ax if one had a mouth on
him, then,' says<br>
the ghost.</p>

<p>"'Sure, I didn't think the likes of you would taste
sperits.'</p>

<p>"'Try me,' said the ghost; and with that he filled out a
glass, and tossed<br>
it off like a Christian.</p>

<p>"'Beamish!' says the ghost, smacking his lips.</p>

<p>"'The same,' says my father; 'and sure what's happened you has
not spoiled<br>
your taste.'</p>

<p>"'If you'd mix a little hot,' says the ghost, 'I'm thinking it
would be<br>
better,&mdash;the night is mighty sevare.'</p>

<p>"'Anything that your reverance pleases,' says my father, as he
began to<br>
blow up a good fire to boil the water.</p>

<p>"'And what news is stirring?' says the ghost.</p>

<p>"'Devil a word, your reverance,&mdash;your own funeral was the only
thing doing<br>
last week. Times is bad; except the measles, there's nothing in
our parts.'</p>

<p>"'And we're quite dead hereabouts, too,' says the ghost.</p>

<p>"'There's some of us so, anyhow, says my father, with a sly
look. 'Taste<br>
that, your reverance.'</p>

<p>"'Pleasant and refreshing,' says the ghost; 'and now, Mr.
Free, what do you<br>
say to a little "spoilt five," or "beggar my neighbor"?'</p>

<p>"'What will we play for? 'says my father, for a thought just
struck<br>
him,&mdash;'may be it's some trick of the Devil to catch my soul.'</p>

<p>"'A pint of Beamish,' says the ghost.</p>

<p>"'Done!' says my father; 'cut for deal. The ace of clubs,&mdash;you
have it.'</p>

<p>"Now the whole time the ghost was dealing the cards, my father
never took<br>
his eyes off of him, for he wasn't quite aisy in his mind at all;
but when<br>
he saw him turn up the trump, and take a strong drink afterwards,
he got<br>
more at ease, and began the game.</p>

<p>"How long they played it was never rightly known; but one
thing is sure,<br>
they drank a cruel deal of sperits. Three quart bottles my father
brought<br>
with him were all finished, and by that time his brain was so
confused with<br>
the liquor, and all he lost,&mdash;for somehow he never won a
game,&mdash;that he was<br>
getting very quarrelsome.</p>

<p>"'You have your own luck to it,' says he, at last.</p>

<p>"'True for you; and besides, we play a great deal where I come
from.'</p>

<p>"'I've heard so,' says my father. 'I lead the knave, sir;
spades! Bad cess<br>
to it, lost again!'</p>

<p>"Now it was really very distressing; for by this time, though
they only<br>
began for a pint of Beamish, my father went on betting till he
lost the<br>
hearse and all the six horses, mourning cloaks, plumes, and
everything.</p>

<p>"'Are you tired, Mr. Free? May be you'd like to stop?'</p>

<p>"'Stop! faith it's a nice time to stop; of course not.'</p>

<p>"'Well, what will ye play for now?'</p>

<p>"The way he said these woods brought a trembling all over my
father, and<br>
his blood curdled in his heart. 'Oh, murther!' says he to
himself, 'it's my<br>
sowl he's wanting all the time.'</p>

<p>"'I've mighty little left,' says my father, looking at him
keenly, while he<br>
kept shuffling the cards quick as lightning.</p>

<p>"'Mighty little; no matter, we'll give you plenty of time to
pay,&mdash;and if<br>
you can't do it, it shall never trouble you as long as you
live.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, you murthering devil!' says my father, flying at him
with a spade<br>
that he had behind his chair, 'I've found you out.'</p>

<p>"With one blow he knocked him down, and now a terrible fight
begun, for the<br>
ghost was very strong, too; but my father's blood was up, and
he'd have<br>
faced the Devil himself then. They rolled over each other several
times,<br>
the broken bottles cutting them to pieces, and the chairs and
tables<br>
crashing under them. At last the ghost took the bottle that lay
on the<br>
hearth, and levelled my father to the ground with one blow. Down
he fell,<br>
and the bottle and the whiskey were both dashed into the fire.
That was<br>
the end of it, for the ghost disappeared that moment in a blue
flame that<br>
nearly set fire to my father as he lay on the floor.</p>

<p>"Och, it was a cruel sight to see him next morning, with his
cheek cut open<br>
and his hands all bloody, lying there by himself,&mdash;all the broken
glass and<br>
the cards all round him,&mdash;the coffin, too, was knocked down off
the chair,<br>
may be the ghost had trouble getting into it. However that was,
the funeral<br>
was put off for a day, for my father couldn't speak; and as for
the sexton,<br>
it was a queer thing, but when they came to call him in the
morning, he had<br>
two black eyes, and a gash over his ear, and he never knew how he
got them.<br>
It was easy enough to know the ghost did it; but my father kept
the secret,<br>
and never told it to any man, woman, or child in them parts."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER IX.</p>

<p>LISBON.</p>

<p>I have little power to trace the events which occupied the
succeeding three<br>
weeks of my history. The lingering fever which attended my wound
detained<br>
me during that time at the ch&acirc;teau; and when at last I did
leave for<br>
Lisbon, the winter was already beginning, and it was upon a cold
raw<br>
evening that I once more took possession of my old quarters at
the Quay de<br>
Soderi.</p>

<p>My eagerness and anxiety to learn something of the campaign
was ever<br>
uppermost, and no sooner had I reached my destination than I
despatched<br>
Mike to the quartermaster's office to pick up some news, and hear
which of<br>
my friends and brother officers were then at Lisbon. I was
sitting in a<br>
state of nervous impatience watching for his return, when at
length I heard<br>
footsteps approaching my room, and the next moment Mike's voice,
saying,<br>
"The ould room, sir, where he was before." The door suddenly
opened, and my<br>
friend Power stood before me.</p>

<p>"Charley, my boy!"&mdash;"Fred, my fine fellow!" was all either
could say for<br>
some minutes. Upon my part, the recollection of his bold and
manly bearing<br>
in my behalf choked all utterance; while upon his, my haggard
cheek and<br>
worn look produced an effect so sudden and unexpected that he
became<br>
speechless.</p>

<p>In a few minutes, however, we both rallied, and opened our
store of mutual<br>
remembrances since we parted. My career I found he was perfectly
acquainted<br>
with, and his consisted of nothing but one unceasing round of
gayety and<br>
pleasure. Lisbon had been delightful during the summer,&mdash;parties
to Cintra,<br>
excursions through the surrounding country, were of daily
occurrence; and<br>
as my friend was a favorite everywhere, his life was one of
continued<br>
amusement.</p>

<p>"Do you know, Charley, had it been any other man than
yourself, I should<br>
not have spared him; for I have fallen head over ears in love
with your<br>
little dark-eyed Portuguese."</p>

<p>"Ah, Donna Inez, you mean?"</p>

<p>"Yes, it is she I mean, and you need not affect such an air of
uncommon<br>
<i>nonchalance</i>. She's the loveliest girl in Lisbon, and with
fortune to pay<br>
off all the mortgages in Connemara."</p>

<p>"Oh, faith! I admire her amazingly; but as I never flattered
myself upon<br>
any preference&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come, come, Charley, no concealment, my old fellow; every one
knows the<br>
thing's settled. Your old friend, Sir George Dashwood, told me
yesterday."</p>

<p>"Yesterday! Why, is he here, at Lisbon?"</p>

<p>"To be sure he is; didn't I tell you that before? Confound it,
what a head<br>
I have! Why, man, he's come out as deputy adjutant-general; but
for him I<br>
should not have got renewed leave."</p>

<p>"And Miss Dashwood, is she here?"</p>

<p>"Yes, she came with him. By Jove, how handsome she is,&mdash;quite
a different<br>
style of thing from our dark friend, but, to my thinking, even
handsomer.<br>
Hammersley seems of my opinion, too."</p>

<p>"How! Is Hammersley at Lisbon?"</p>

<p>"On the staff here. But, confound it, what makes you so red,
you have no<br>
ill-feeling towards him now. I know he speaks most warmly of you;
no later<br>
than last night, at Sir George's&mdash;"</p>

<p>What Power was about to add I know not, for I sprang from my
chair with a<br>
sudden start, and walked to the window, to conceal my agitation
from him.</p>

<p>"And so," said I, at length regaining my composure in some
measure, "Sir<br>
George also spoke of my name in connection with the senhora?"</p>

<p>"To be sure he did. All Lisbon does. What can you mean? But I
see, my dear<br>
boy; you know you are not of the strongest, and we've been
talking far too<br>
long. Come now, Charley, I'll say good-night. I'll be with you at
breakfast<br>
to-morrow, and tell you all the gossip; meanwhile promise me to
get quietly<br>
to bed, and so good-night."</p>

<p>Such was the conflicting state of feeling I suffered from that
I made no<br>
effort to detain Power. I longed to be once more alone, to think,
calmly if<br>
I could, over the position I stood in, and to resolve upon my
plans for the<br>
future.</p>

<p>My love for Lucy Dashwood had been long rather a devotion than
a hope. My<br>
earliest dawn of manly ambition was associated with the first
hour I met<br>
her. She it was who first touched my boyish heart, and suggested
a sense<br>
of chivalrous ardor within me; and even though lost to me
forever, I could<br>
still regard her as the mainspring of my actions, and dwell upon
my passion<br>
as the thing that hallowed every enterprise of my life.</p>

<p>In a word, my love, however little it might reach her heart,
was everything<br>
to mine. It was the worship of the devotee to his protecting
saint. It was<br>
the faith that made me rise above misfortune and mishap, and led
me onward;<br>
and in this way I could have borne anything, everything, rather
than the<br>
imputation of fickleness.</p>

<p>Lucy might not&mdash;nay, I felt she did not&mdash;love me. It was
possible that some<br>
other was preferred before me; but to doubt my own affection, to
suspect my<br>
own truth, was to destroy all the charm of my existence, and to
extinguish<br>
within me forever the enthusiasm that made me a hero to my own
heart.</p>

<p>It may seem but poor philosophy; but alas, how many of our
happiest, how<br>
many of our brightest thoughts here are but delusions like this!
The<br>
dayspring of youth gilds the tops of the distant mountains before
us, and<br>
many a weary day through life, when clouds and storms are
thickening around<br>
us, we live upon the mere memory of the past. Some fast-flitting
prospect<br>
of a bright future, some passing glimpse of a sunlit valley,
tinges all our<br>
after-years.</p>

<p>It is true that he will suffer fewer disappointments, he will
incur fewer<br>
of the mishaps of the world, who indulges in no fancies such as
these; but<br>
equally true is it that he will taste none of that exuberant
happiness<br>
which is that man's portion who weaves out a story of his life,
and who, in<br>
connecting the promise of early years with the performance of
later, will<br>
seek to fulfil a fate and destiny.</p>

<p>Weaving such fancies, I fell sound asleep, nor woke before the
stir and<br>
bustle of the great city aroused me. Power, I found, had been
twice at my<br>
quarters that morning, but fearing to disturb me, had merely left
a few<br>
lines to say that, as he should be engaged on service during the
day,<br>
we could not meet before the evening. There were certain
preliminaries<br>
requisite regarding my leave which demanded my appearing before a
board of<br>
medical officers, and I immediately set about dressing; resolving
that, as<br>
soon as they were completed, I should, if permitted, retire to
one of the<br>
small cottages on the opposite bank of the Tagus, there to remain
until my<br>
restored health allowed me to rejoin my regiment.</p>

<p>I dreaded meeting the Dashwoods. I anticipated with a heavy
heart how<br>
effectually one passing interview would destroy all my day-dreams
of<br>
happiness, and I preferred anything to the sad conviction of
hopelessness<br>
such a meeting must lead to.</p>

<p>While I thus balanced with myself how to proceed, a gentle
step came to the<br>
door, and as it opened slowly, a servant in a dark livery
entered.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, sir?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said I, wondering to whom my arrival could be thus
early known.</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood requests you will step over to him as
soon as you go<br>
out," continued the man; "he is so engaged that he cannot leave
home, but<br>
is most desirous to see you."</p>

<p>"It is not far from here?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; scarcely five minutes' walk."</p>

<p>"Well, then, if you will show me the way, I'll follow
you."</p>

<p>I cast one passing glance at myself to see that all was right
about my<br>
costume, and sallied forth.</p>

<p>In the middle of the Black Horse Square, at the door of a
large,<br>
stone-fronted building, a group of military men were assembled,
chatting<br>
and laughing away together,&mdash;some reading the lately-arrived
English<br>
papers; others were lounging upon the stone parapet, carelessly
puffing<br>
their cigars. None of the faces were known to me; so threading my
way<br>
through the crowd, I reached the steps. Just as I did so, a
half-muttered<br>
whisper met my ear:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Who did you say?"</p>

<p>"O'Malley, the young Irishman who behaved so gallantly at the
Douro."</p>

<p>The blood rushed hotly to my cheek, my heart bounded with
exultation; my<br>
step, infirm and tottering but a moment before, became fixed and
steady,<br>
and I felt a thrill of proud enthusiasm playing through my veins.
How<br>
little did the speaker of those few and random words know what
courage he<br>
had given to a drooping heart, what renewed energy to a breaking
spirit!<br>
The voice of praise, too, coming from those to whom we had
thought<br>
ourselves unknown, has a magic about it that must be felt to be
understood.<br>
So it happened that in a few seconds a revolution had taken place
in all<br>
my thoughts and feelings, and I, who had left my quarters
dispirited and<br>
depressed, now walked confidently and proudly forward.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, sir," said the servant to the officer waiting,
as we entered<br>
the antechamber.</p>

<p>"Ah, Mr. O'Malley," said the aide-de-damp, in his blandest
accent, "I hope<br>
you're better. Sir George is most anxious to see you; he is at
present<br>
engaged with the staff&mdash;"</p>

<p>A bell rang at that moment, and cut short the sentence; he
flew to the door<br>
of the inner room, and returning in an instant, said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Will you follow me? This way, if you please."</p>

<p>The room was crowded with general officers and aides-de-camp,
so that for<br>
a second or two I could not distinguish the parties; but no
sooner was my<br>
name announced, than Sir George Dashwood, forcing his way
through, rushed<br>
forward to meet me.</p>

<p>"O'Malley, my brave fellow, delighted to shake your hand
again! How much<br>
grown you are,&mdash;twice the man I knew you; and the arm, too, is it
getting<br>
on well?"</p>

<p>Scarcely giving me a moment to reply, and still holding my
hand tightly in<br>
his grasp, he introduced me on every side.</p>

<p>"My young Irish friend, Sir Edward, the man of the Douro. My
Lord, allow me<br>
to present Lieutenant O'Malley, of the Fourteenth."</p>

<p>"A very dashing thing, that of yours, sir, at Ciudad
Rodrigo."</p>

<p>"A very senseless one, I fear, my Lord."</p>

<p>"No, no, I don't agree with you at all; even when no great
results follow,<br>
the <i>morale</i> of an army benefits by acts of daring."</p>

<p>A running fire of kind and civil speeches poured in on me from
all<br>
quarters, and amidst all that crowd of bronzed and war-worn
veterans, I<br>
felt myself the lion of the moment. Crawfurd, it appeared, had
spoken most<br>
handsomely of my name, and I was thus made known to many of those
whose own<br>
reputations were then extending over Europe.</p>

<p>In this happy trance of excited pleasure I passed the morning.
Amidst<br>
the military chit-chat of the day around me, treated as an equal
by the<br>
greatest and the most distinguished, I heard all the confidential
opinions<br>
upon the campaign and its leaders; and in that most entrancing
of<br>
all flatteries,&mdash;the easy tone of companionship of our elders
and<br>
betters,&mdash;forgot my griefs, and half believed I was destined for
great<br>
things.</p>

<p>Fearing, at length, that I had prolonged my visit too far, I
approached<br>
Sir George to take my leave, when, drawing my arm within his, he
retired<br>
towards one of the windows.</p>

<p>"A word, O'Malley, before you go. I've arranged a little plan
for you;<br>
mind, I shall insist upon obedience. They'll make some difficulty
about<br>
your remaining here, so that I have appointed you one of our
extra<br>
aides-de-camp. That will free you from all trouble, and I shall
not be very<br>
exacting in my demands upon you. You must, however, commence your
duties<br>
to-day, and as we dine at seven precisely, I shall expect you. I
am<br>
aware of your wish to stay in Lisbon, my boy, and if all I hear
be true,<br>
congratulate you sincerely; but more of this another time, and so
good-by."<br>
So saying, he shook my hand once more, warmly; and without well
feeling how<br>
or why, I found myself in the street.</p>

<p>The last few words Sir George had spoken threw a gloom over
all my<br>
thoughts. I saw at once that the report Power had alluded to had
gained<br>
currency at Lisbon. Sir George believed it; doubtless, Lucy, too;
and<br>
forgetting in an instant all the emulative ardor that so lately
stirred my<br>
heart, I took my path beside the river, and sauntered slowly
along, lost in<br>
my reflections.</p>

<p>I had walked for above an hour before paying any attention to
the path I<br>
followed. Mechanically, as it were, retreating from the noise and
tumult-of<br>
the city, I wandered towards the country. My thoughts fixed but
upon<br>
one theme, I had neither ears nor eyes for aught around me; the
great<br>
difficulty of my present position now appearing to me in this
light,&mdash;my<br>
attachment to Lucy Dashwood, unrequited and unreturned as I felt
it,<br>
did not permit of my rebutting any report which might have
reached her<br>
concerning Donna Inez. I had no right, no claim to suppose her
sufficiently<br>
interested about me to listen to such an explanation, had I even
the<br>
opportunity to make it. One thing was thus clear to me,&mdash;all my
hopes had<br>
ended in that quarter; and as this conclusion sank into my mind,
a species<br>
of dogged resolution to brave my fortune crept upon me, which
only waited<br>
the first moment of my meeting her to overthrow and destroy
forever.</p>

<p>Meanwhile I walked on,&mdash;now rapidly, as some momentary rush of
passionate<br>
excitement, now slowly, as some depressing and gloomy notion
succeeded;<br>
when suddenly my path was arrested by a long file of bullock cars
which<br>
blocked up the way. Some chance squabble had arisen among the
drivers, and<br>
to avoid the crowd and collision, I turned into a gateway which
opened<br>
beside me, and soon found myself in a lawn handsomely planted and
adorned<br>
with flowering shrubs and ornamental trees.</p>

<p>In the half-dreamy state my musings had brought me to, I
struggled to<br>
recollect why the aspect of the place did not seem altogether
new. My<br>
thoughts were, however, far away,&mdash;now blending some memory of my
distant<br>
home with scenes of battle and bloodshed, or resting upon my
first<br>
interview with her whose chance word, carelessly and lightly
spoken, had<br>
written the story of my life. From this revery I was rudely
awakened by a<br>
rustling noise in the trees behind me, and before I could turn my
head, the<br>
two fore-paws of a large stag-hound were planted upon my
shoulders, while<br>
the open mouth and panting tongue were close beside my face. My
day-dream<br>
was dispelled quick as lightning; it was Juan, himself, the
favorite dog of<br>
the senhora, who gave me this rude welcome, and who now, by a
thousand wild<br>
gestures and bounding caresses, seemed to do the honors of his
house. There<br>
was something so like home in these joyful greetings that I
yielded myself<br>
at once his prisoner, and followed, or rather was accompanied by
him<br>
towards the villa.</p>

<p>Of course, sooner or later, I should have called upon my kind
friends; then<br>
why not now, when chance has already brought me so near? Besides,
if I<br>
held to my resolution, which I meant to do,&mdash;of retiring to some
quiet and<br>
sequestered cottage till my health was restored,&mdash;the opportunity
might not<br>
readily present itself again. This line of argument perfectly
satisfied my<br>
reason; while a strong feeling of something like curiosity piqued
me to<br>
proceed, and before many minutes elapsed, I reached the house.
The door, as<br>
usual, lay wide open; and the ample hall, furnished like a
sitting-room,<br>
had its customary litter of books, music, and flowers scattered
upon the<br>
tables. My friend Juan, however, suffered me not to linger here,
but<br>
rushing furiously at a door before me, began a vigorous attack
for<br>
admittance.</p>

<p>As I knew this to be the drawing-room, I opened the door and
walked in, but<br>
no one was to be seen; a half-open book lay upon an ottoman, and
a fan,<br>
which I recognized as an old acquaintance, was beside it, but the
owner was<br>
absent.</p>

<p>I sat down, resolved to wait patiently for her coming, without
any<br>
announcement of my being there. I was not sorry, indeed, to have
some<br>
moments to collect my thoughts, and restore my erring faculties
to<br>
something like order.</p>

<p>As I looked about the room, it seemed as if I had been there
but yesterday.<br>
The folding-doors lay open to the garden, just as I had seen them
last; and<br>
save that the flowers seemed fewer, and those which remained of a
darker<br>
and more sombre tint, all seemed unchanged. There lay the guitar
to whose<br>
thrilling chords my heart had bounded; there, the drawing over
which I had<br>
bent in admiring pleasure, suggesting some tints of light or
shadow, as the<br>
fairy fingers traced them; every chair was known to me, and I
greeted them<br>
as things I cared for.</p>

<p>While thus I scanned each object around me, I was struck by a
little china<br>
vase which, unlike its other brethren, contained a bouquet of
dead and<br>
faded flowers; the blood rushed to my cheek; I started up; it was
one I had<br>
myself presented to her the day before we parted. It was in that
same vase<br>
I placed it; the very table, too, stood in the same position
beside that<br>
narrow window. What a rush of thoughts came pouring on me! And
oh!&mdash;shall I<br>
confess it?&mdash;how deeply did such a mute testimony of remembrance
speak<br>
to my heart, at the moment that I felt myself unloved and uncared
for by<br>
another! I walked hurriedly up and down, a maze of conflicting
resolves<br>
combating in my mind, while one thought ever recurred: "Would
that I had<br>
not come there!" and yet after all it may mean nothing; some
piece of<br>
passing coquetry which she will be the very first to laugh at. I
remembered<br>
how she spoke of poor Howard; what folly to take it otherwise!
"Be it so,<br>
then," said I, half aloud; "and now for my part of the game;" and
with this<br>
I took from my pocket the light-blue scarf she had given me the
morning we<br>
parted, and throwing it over my shoulder, prepared to perform my
part in<br>
what I had fully persuaded myself to be a comedy. The time,
however, passed<br>
on, and she came not; a thousand high-flown Portuguese phrases
had time to<br>
be conned over again and again by me, and I had abundant leisure
to enact<br>
my coming part; but still the curtain did not rise. As the day
was wearing,<br>
I resolved at last to write a few lines, expressive of my regret
at not<br>
meeting her, and promising myself an early opportunity of paying
my<br>
respects under more fortunate circumstances. I sat down
accordingly, and<br>
drawing the paper towards me, began in a mixture of French and
Portuguese,<br>
as it happened, to indite my billet.</p>

<p>"Senhora Inez&mdash;" no&mdash;"Ma ch&egrave;re Mademoiselle Inez&mdash;"
confound it, that's too<br>
intimate; well, here goes: "Monsieur O'Malley presente ses
respects&mdash;" that<br>
will never do; and then, after twenty other abortive attempts, I
began<br>
thoughtlessly sketching heads upon the paper, and scribbling with
wonderful<br>
facility in fifty different ways: "Ma charmante amie&mdash;Ma plus
ch&egrave;re Inez,"<br>
etc., and in this most useful and profitable occupation did I
pass another<br>
half-hour.</p>

<p>How long I should have persisted in such an employment it is
difficult to<br>
say, had not an incident intervened which suddenly but most
effectually put<br>
an end to it. As the circumstance is one which, however little
striking in<br>
itself, had the greatest and most lasting influence upon my
future career,<br>
I shall, perhaps, be excused in devoting another chapter to its
recital.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER X.</p>

<p>A PLEASANT PREDICAMENT.</p>

<p>As I sat vainly endeavoring to fix upon some suitable and
appropriate<br>
epithet by which to commence my note, my back was turned towards
the door<br>
of the garden; and so occupied was I in my meditations, that even
had any<br>
one entered at the time, in all probability I should not have
perceived it.<br>
At length, however, I was aroused from my study by a burst of
laughter,<br>
whose girlish joyousness was not quite new to me. I knew it well;
it was<br>
the senhora herself; and the next moment I heard her voice.</p>

<p>"I tell you, I'm quite certain I saw his face in the mirror as
I passed.<br>
Oh, how delightful! and you'll be charmed with him; so, mind, you
must not<br>
steal him from me; I shall never forgive you if you do; and look,
only<br>
look! he has got the blue scarf I gave him when he marched to the
Douro."</p>

<p>While I perceived that I was myself seen, I could see nothing
of the<br>
speaker, and wishing to hear something further, appeared more
than ever<br>
occupied in the writing before me.</p>

<p>What her companion replied I could not, however, catch, but
only guess at<br>
its import by the senhora's answer. "<i>Fi done!</i>&mdash;I really am very
fond of<br>
him; but, never fear, I shall be as stately as a queen. You shall
see how<br>
meekly he will kiss my hand, and with what unbending reserve I'll
receive<br>
him."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" thought I; "mayhap, I'll mar your plot a little; but
let us<br>
listen."</p>

<p>Again her friend spoke, but too low to be heard.</p>

<p>"It is so provoking," continued Inez; "I never can remember
names, and his<br>
was something too absurd; but never mind, I shall make him a
grandee of<br>
Portugal. Well, but come along, I long to present him to
you."</p>

<p>Here a gentle struggle seemed to ensue; for I heard the
senhora coaxingly<br>
entreat her, while her companion steadily resisted.</p>

<p>"I know very well you think I shall be so silly, and perhaps
wrong; eh, is<br>
it not so? but you are quite mistaken. You'll be surprised at my
cold and<br>
dignified manner. I shall draw myself proudly up, thus, and
curtsying<br>
deeply, say, 'Monsieur, j'ai l' honneur de vous saluer.'"</p>

<p>A laugh twice as mirthful as before interrupted her account of
herself,<br>
while I could hear the tones of her friend evidently in
expostulation.</p>

<a name="0083"></a>
<img alt="0083.jpg (166K)" src="0083.jpg" height="641" width="777">

<p>[O'MALLEY FOLLOWING THE CUSTOM OF HIS COUNTRY.]</p>
<br><br>
<p>"Well, then, to be sure, you are provoking, but you really
promise to<br>
follow me. Be it so; then give me that moss-rose. How you have
fluttered<br>
me; now for it!"</p>

<p>So saying, I heard her foot upon the gravel, and the next
instant upon the<br>
marble step of the door. There is something in expectation that
sets the<br>
heart beating, and mine throbbed against my side. I waited,
however, till<br>
she entered, before lifting my head, and then springing suddenly
up, with<br>
one bound clasped her in my arms, and pressing my lips upon her
roseate<br>
cheek, said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>Mar charmante amie!</i>" To disengage herself from me, and to
spring<br>
suddenly back was her first effort; to burst into an immoderate
fit of<br>
laughing, her second; her cheek was, however, covered with a deep
blush,<br>
and I already repented that my malice had gone so far.</p>

<p>"Pardon, Mademoiselle," said I, in affected innocence, "if I
have so far<br>
forgotten myself as to assume a habit of my own country to a
stranger."</p>

<p>A half-angry toss of the head was her only reply, and turning
towards the<br>
garden, she called to her friend:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Come here, dearest, and instruct my ignorance upon your
national customs;<br>
but first let me present to you,&mdash;never know his name,&mdash;the
Chevalier de<br>
&mdash;&mdash;What is it?"</p>

<p>The glass door opened as she spoke; a tall and graceful figure
entered, and<br>
turning suddenly round, showed me the features of Lucy Dashwood.
We both<br>
stood opposite each other, each mute with amazement. <i>My</i>
feelings let me<br>
not attempt to convey; shame, for the first moment stronger than
aught<br>
else, sent the blood rushing to my face and temples, and the next
I was<br>
cold and pale as death. As for her, I cannot guess at what passed
in<br>
her mind. She curtsied deeply to me, and with a half-smile of
scarce<br>
recognition passed by me, and walked towards a window.</p>

<p>"<i>Comme vous &ecirc;tes amiable!</i>" said the lively Portuguese,
who comprehended<br>
little of this dumb show; "here have I been flattering myself
what friends<br>
you'd be the very moment you meet, and now you'll not even look
at each<br>
other."</p>

<p>What was to be done? The situation was every instant growing
more and more<br>
embarrassing; nothing but downright effrontery could get through
with<br>
it now; and never did a man's heart more fail him than did mine
at this<br>
conjuncture. I made the' effort, however, and stammered out
certain<br>
unmeaning commonplaces. Inez replied, and I felt myself
conversing with the<br>
headlong recklessness of one marching to a scaffold, a coward's
fear at his<br>
heart, while he essayed to seem careless and indifferent.</p>

<p>Anxious to reach what I esteemed safe ground, I gladly
adverted to the<br>
campaign; and at last, hurried on by the impulse to cover my
embarrassment,<br>
was describing some skirmish with a French outpost. Without
intending, I<br>
had succeeded in exciting the senhora's interest, and she
listened with<br>
sparkling eye and parted lips to the description of a sweeping
charge in<br>
which a square was broken, and several prisoners carried off.
Warming with<br>
the eager avidity of her attention, I grew myself more excited,
when just<br>
as my narrative reached its climax, Miss Dashwood walked gently
towards the<br>
bell, rang it, and ordered her carriage. The tone of perfect
<i>nonchalance</i><br>
of the whole proceeding struck me dumb; I faltered, stammered,
hesitated,<br>
and was silent. Donna Inez turned from one to the other of us
with a look<br>
of unfeigned astonishment and I heard her mutter to herself
something<br>
like a reflection upon "national eccentricities." Happily,
however,<br>
her attention was now exclusively turned towards her friend, and
while<br>
assisting her to shawl, and extorting innumerable promises of an
early<br>
visit, I got a momentary reprieve; the carriage drew up also, and
as the<br>
gravel flew right and left beneath the horses' feet, the very
noise and<br>
bustle relieved me. "<i>Adios</i>," then said Inez, as she kissed her
for the<br>
last time, while she motioned to me to escort her to her
carriage. I<br>
advanced, stopped, made another step forward, and again grew
irresolute;<br>
but Miss Dashwood speedily terminated the difficulty; for making
me a<br>
formal curtsey, she declined my scarce-proffered attention, and
left the<br>
room.</p>

<p>As she did so, I perceived that on passing the table, her eyes
fell upon<br>
the paper I had been scribbling over so long, and I thought that
for<br>
an instant an expression of ineffable scorn seemed to pass across
her<br>
features, save which&mdash;and perhaps even in this I was
mistaken&mdash;her manner<br>
was perfectly calm, easy, and indifferent.</p>

<p>Scarce had the carriage rolled from the door, when the
senhora, throwing<br>
herself upon her chair, clapped her hands in childish ecstasy,
while she<br>
fell into a fit of laughing that I thought would never have an
end. "Such<br>
a scene!" cried she; "I would not have lost it for the world;
what<br>
cordiality! what <i>empressement</i> to form acquaintance! I shall
never forget<br>
it, Monsieur le Chevalier; your national customs seem to run
sadly in<br>
extremes. One would have thought you deadly enemies; and poor me,
after a<br>
thousand delightful plans about you both!"</p>

<p>As she ran on thus, scarce able to control her mirth at each
sentence, I<br>
walked the room with impatient strides, now, resolving to hasten
after the<br>
carriage, stop it, explain in a few words how all had happened,
and then<br>
fly from her forever; then the remembrance of her cold, impassive
look<br>
crossed me, and I thought that one bold leap into the Tagus might
be the<br>
shortest and easiest solution to all my miseries. Perfect
abasement,<br>
thorough self-contempt had broken all my courage, and I could
have cried<br>
like a child. What I said, or how I comforted myself after, I
know not; but<br>
my first consciousness came to me as I felt myself running at the
top of my<br>
speed far upon the road towards Lisbon.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XI.</p>

<p>THE DINNER.</p>

<p>It may easily be imagined that I had little inclination to
keep my promise<br>
of dining that day with Sir George Dashwood. However, there was
nothing<br>
else for it; the die was cast,&mdash;my prospects as regarded Lucy
were ruined<br>
forever. We were not, we never could be anything to each other;
and as for<br>
me, the sooner I braved my altered fortunes the better; and after
all, why<br>
should I call them altered. She evidently never had cared for me;
and even<br>
supposing that my fervent declaration of attachment had
interested her, the<br>
apparent duplicity and falseness of my late conduct could only
fall the<br>
more heavily upon me.</p>

<p>I endeavored to philosophize myself into calmness and
indifference. One by<br>
one I exhausted every argument for my defence, which, however
ingeniously<br>
put forward, brought no comfort to my own conscience. I pleaded
the<br>
unerring devotion of my heart, the uprightness of my motives, and
when<br>
called on for the proofs,&mdash;alas! except the blue scarf I wore in
memory of<br>
another, and my absurd conduct at the villa, I had none. From the
current<br>
gossip of Lisbon, down to my own disgraceful folly, all, all was
against<br>
me.</p>

<p>Honesty of intention, rectitude of purpose, may be, doubtless
they are,<br>
admirable supports to a rightly constituted mind; but even then
they must<br>
come supported by such claims to probability as make the injured
man feel<br>
he has not lost the sympathy of all his fellows. Now, I had none
of these,<br>
had even my temperament, broken by sickness and harassed by
unlucky<br>
conjectures, permitted my appreciating them.</p>

<p>I endeavored to call my wounded pride to my aid, and thought
over the<br>
glance of haughty disdain she gave me as she passed on to her
carriage; but<br>
even this turned against me, and a humiliating sense of my own
degraded<br>
position sank deeply into my heart. "This impression at least,"
thought I,<br>
"must be effaced. I cannot permit her to believe&mdash;"</p>

<p>"His Excellency is waiting dinner, sir," said a lackey,
introducing a<br>
finely powdered head gently within the door. I looked at my
watch, it was<br>
eight o'clock; so snatching my sabre, and shocked at my delay,
I<br>
hastily followed the servant down-stairs, and thus at once cut
short my<br>
deliberations.</p>

<p>The man must be but little observant or deeply sunk in his own
reveries,<br>
who, arriving half-an-hour too late for dinner, fails to detect
in the<br>
faces of the assembled and expectant guests a very palpable
expression of<br>
discontent and displeasure. It is truly a moment of awkwardness,
and one<br>
in which few are found to manage with success; the blushing,
hesitating,<br>
blundering apology of the absent man, is scarcely better than
the<br>
ill-affected surprise of the more practised offender. The
bashfulness of<br>
the one is as distasteful as the cool impertinence of the other;
both are<br>
so thoroughly out of place, for we are thinking of neither; our
thoughts<br>
are wandering to cold soups and rechauff&eacute;d
p&acirc;t&eacute;s, and we neither care for<br>
nor estimate the cause, but satisfy our spleen by cursing the
offender.</p>

<p>Happily for me I was clad in a triple insensibility to such
feelings,<br>
and with an air of most perfect unconstraint and composure walked
into<br>
a drawing-room where about twenty persons were busily discussing
what<br>
peculiar amiability in my character could compensate for my
present<br>
conduct.</p>

<p>"At last, O'Malley, at last!" said Sir George. "Why, my dear
boy, how very<br>
late you are!"</p>

<p>I muttered something about a long walk,&mdash;distance from Lisbon,
etc.</p>

<p>"Ah! that was it. I was right, you see!" said an old lady in a
spangled<br>
turban, as she whispered something to her friend beside her, who
appeared<br>
excessively shocked at the information conveyed; while a fat,
round-faced<br>
little general, after eying me steadily through his glass,
expressed a<br>
<i>sotto voce</i> wish that I was upon <i>his</i> staff. I felt my cheek
reddening<br>
at the moment, and stared around me like one whose trials were
becoming<br>
downright insufferable, when happily dinner was announced, and
terminated<br>
my embarrassment.</p>

<p>As the party filed past, I perceived that Miss Dashwood was
not among them;<br>
and with a heart relieved for the moment by the circumstance, and
inventing<br>
a hundred conjectures to account for it, I followed with the
aides-de-camp<br>
and the staff to the dinner-room.</p>

<p>The temperament is very Irish, I believe, which renders a man
so elastic<br>
that from the extreme of depression to the very climax of high
spirits,<br>
there is but one spring. To this I myself plead guilty, and thus,
scarcely<br>
was I freed from the embarrassment which a meeting with Lucy
Dashwood must<br>
have caused, when my heart bounded with lightness.</p>

<p>When the ladies withdrew, the events of the campaign became
the subject of<br>
conversation, and upon these, very much to my astonishment, I
found myself<br>
consulted as an authority. The Douro, from some fortunate
circumstance, had<br>
given me a reputation I never dreamed of, and I heard my opinions
quoted<br>
upon topics of which my standing as an officer, and my rank in
the service,<br>
could not imply a very extended observation. Power was absent on
duty; and<br>
happily for my supremacy, the company consisted entirely of
generals in the<br>
commissariat or new arrivals from England, all of whom knew still
less than<br>
myself.</p>

<p>What will not iced champagne and flattery do? Singly, they are
strong<br>
impulses; combined, their power is irresistible. I now heard for
the first<br>
time that our great leader had been elevated to the peerage by
the title of<br>
Lord Wellington, and I sincerely believe&mdash;however now I may smile
at the<br>
confession&mdash;that, at the moment, I felt more elation at the
circumstance<br>
than he did. The glorious sensation of being in any way, no
matter how<br>
remotely, linked with the career of those whose path is a high
one, and<br>
whose destinies are cast for great events, thrilled through me;
and in<br>
all the warmth of my admiration and pride for our great captain,
a secret<br>
pleasure stirred within me as I whispered to myself, "And I, too,
am a<br>
soldier!"</p>

<p>I fear me that very little flattery is sufficient to turn the
head of a<br>
young man of eighteen; and if I yielded to the "pleasant
incense," let my<br>
apology be that I was not used to it; and lastly, let me avow, if
I did get<br>
tipsy, I liked the liquor. And why not? It is the only tipple I
know of<br>
that leaves no headache the next morning to punish you for the
glories of<br>
the past night. It may, like all other strong potations, it is
true, induce<br>
you to make a fool of yourself when under its influence; but like
the<br>
nitrous-oxide gas, its effects are passing, and as the pleasure
is an<br>
ecstasy for the time, and your constitution none the worse when
it is over,<br>
I really see no harm in it.</p>

<p>Then the benefits are manifest; for while he who gives becomes
never the<br>
poorer for his benevolence, the receiver is made rich indeed. It
matters<br>
little that some dear, kind friend is ready with his bitter
draught to<br>
remedy what he is pleased to call its unwholesome sweetness; you
betake<br>
yourself with only the more pleasure to the "blessed elixir,"
whose<br>
fascinations neither the poverty of your pocket, nor the penury
of your<br>
brain, can withstand, and by the magic of whose spell you are
great and<br>
gifted. "<i>Vive la bagatelle!</i>" saith the Frenchman. "Long live
flattery!"<br>
say I, come from what quarter it will,&mdash;the only wealth of the
poor man,<br>
the only reward of the unknown one; the arm that supports us in
failure;<br>
the hand that crowns us in success; the comforter in our
affliction; the<br>
gay companion in our hours of pleasure; the lullaby of the
infant; the<br>
staff of old age; the secret treasure we lock up in our own
hearts, and<br>
which ever grows greater as we count it over. Let me not be told
that the<br>
coin is fictitious, and the gold not genuine; its clink is as
musical to<br>
the ear as though it bore the last impression of the mint, and
I'm not the<br>
man to cast an aspersion upon its value.</p>

<p>This little digression, however seemingly out of place, may
serve to<br>
illustrate what it might be difficult to convey in other
words,&mdash;namely,<br>
that if Charles O'Malley became, in his own estimation, a very
considerable<br>
personage that day at dinner, the fault lay not entirely with
himself, but<br>
with his friends, who told him he was such. In fact, my good
reader, I was<br>
the lion of the party, the man who saved Laborde, who charged
through a<br>
brigade of guns, who performed feats which newspapers quoted,
though he<br>
never heard of them himself. At no time is a man so successful in
society<br>
as when his reputation heralds him; and it needs but little
conversational<br>
eloquence to talk well, if you have but a willing and ready
auditory. Of<br>
mine, I could certainly not complain; and as, drinking deeply, I
poured<br>
forth a whole tide of campaigning recital, I saw the old colonels
of<br>
recruiting districts exchanging looks of wonder and admiration
with<br>
officers of the ordnance; while Sir George himself, evidently
pleased at my<br>
<i>d&eacute;but</i>, went back to an early period of our acquaintance,
and related the<br>
rescue of his daughter in Galway.</p>

<p>In an instant the whole current of my thoughts was changed. My
first<br>
meeting with Lucy, my boyhood's dream of ambition, my plighted
faith,<br>
my thought of our last parting in Dublin, when, in a moment of
excited<br>
madness, I told my tale of love. I remembered her downcast look,
as her<br>
cheek now flushing, now growing pale, she trembled while I spoke.
I thought<br>
of her, as in the crash of battle her image flashed across my
brain, and<br>
made me feel a rush of chivalrous enthusiasm to win her heart by
"doughty<br>
deeds."</p>

<p>I forgot all around and about me. My head reeled, the wine,
the excitement,<br>
my long previous illness, all pressed upon me; and as my temples
throbbed<br>
loudly and painfully, a chaotic rush of discordant, ill-connected
ideas<br>
flitted across my mind. There seemed some stir and confusion in
the room,<br>
but why or wherefore I could not think, nor could I recall my
scattered<br>
senses, till Sir George Dashwood's voice roused me once again
to<br>
consciousness.</p>

<p>"We are going to have some coffee, O'Malley. Miss Dashwood
expects us in<br>
the drawing-room. You have not seen her yet?"</p>

<p>I know not my reply; but he continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"She has some letters for you, I think."</p>

<p>I muttered something, and suffered him to pass on; no sooner
had he done<br>
so, however, than I turned towards the door, and rushed into the
street.<br>
The cold night air suddenly recalled me to myself, and I stood
for a moment<br>
endeavoring to collect myself; as I did so, a servant stopped,
and saluting<br>
me, presented me with a letter. For a second, a cold chill came
over me; I<br>
knew not what fear beset me. The letter, I at last remembered,
must be that<br>
one alluded to by Sir George, so I took it in silence, and walked
on.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XII.</p>

<p>THE LETTER.</p>

<p>As I hurried to my quarters, I made a hundred guesses from
whom the letter<br>
could have come; a kind of presentiment told me that it bore, in
some<br>
measure, upon the present crisis of my life, and I burned with
anxiety to<br>
read it.</p>

<p>No sooner had I reached the light, than all my hopes on this
head vanished;<br>
the envelope bore the well-known name of my old college chum,
Frank Webber,<br>
and none could, at the moment, have more completely dispelled all
chance<br>
of interesting me. I threw it from me with disappointment, and
sat moodily<br>
down to brood over my fate.</p>

<p>At length, however, and almost without knowing it, I drew the
lamp towards<br>
me, and broke the seal. The reader being already acquainted with
my amiable<br>
friend, there is the less indiscretion in communicating the
contents, which<br>
ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, No. 2,</p>

<p>    October 5, 1810.</p>

<p>    My Dear O'Malley,&mdash;Nothing short of your death and
burial,<br>
    with or without military honors, can possibly excuse your
very<br>
    disgraceful neglect of your old friends here. Nesbitt has
never<br>
    heard of you, neither has Smith. Ottley swears never to have
seen<br>
    your handwriting, save on the back of a protested bill. You
have<br>
    totally forgotten <i>me</i>, and the dean informs me that you have
never<br>
    condescended a single line to him; which latter inquiry on my
part<br>
    nearly cost me a rustication.</p>

<p>    A hundred conjectures to account for your silence&mdash;a new
feature<br>
    in you since you were here&mdash;are afloat. Some assert that
your<br>
    soldiering has turned your head, and that you are above
corresponding<br>
    with civilians. Your friends, however, who know you better
and<br>
    value your worth, think otherwise; and having seen a
paragraph<br>
    about a certain O'Malley being tried by court-martial for
stealing a<br>
    goose, and maltreating the woman that owned it, ascribe your
not<br>
    writing to other motives. Do, in any case, relieve our minds;
say,<br>
    is it yourself, or only a relative that's mentioned?<br>
    Herbert came over from London with a long story about
your<br>
    doing wonderful things,&mdash;capturing cannon and general
officers by<br>
    scores,&mdash;but devil a word of it is extant; and if you have
really<br>
    committed these acts, they have "misused the king's press
damnably,"<br>
    for neither in the "Times" nor the "Post" are you heard
of.<br>
    Answer this point, and say also if you have got promotion;
for what<br>
    precise sign you are algebraically expressed by at this
writing, may<br>
    serve Fitzgerald for a fellowship question. As for us, we are
jogging<br>
    along, <i>semper eadem</i>,&mdash;that is, worse and worse. Dear
Cecil<br>
    Cavendish, our gifted friend, slight of limb and soft of
voice, has<br>
    been rusticated for immersing four bricklayers in that
green<br>
    receptacle of stagnant water and duckweed, yeleped the
"Haha."<br>
    Roper, equally unlucky, has taken to reading for honors, and
obtained<br>
    a medal, I fancy,&mdash;at least his friends shy him, and it must
be<br>
    something of that kind. Belson&mdash;poor Belson (fortunately for
him he<br>
    was born in the nineteenth, not the sixteenth century, or
he'd be most<br>
    likely ornamenting a pile of fagots) ventured upon some
stray<br>
    excursions into the Hebrew verbs,&mdash;the professor himself
never having<br>
    transgressed beyond the declensions, and the consequence is,
he is<br>
    in disgrace among the seniors. And as for me, a heavy charge
hangs<br>
    over my devoted head even while I write. The senior lecturer,
it<br>
    appears, has been for some time instituting some very
singular<br>
    researches into the original state of our goodly college at
its<br>
    founding. Plans and specifications showing its extent and
magnificence<br>
    have been continually before the board for the last month;
and in such<br>
    repute have been a smashed door-sill or an old arch, that
freshmen<br>
    have now abandoned conic sections for crowbars, and instead
of the<br>
    "Principia" have taken up the pickaxe. You know, my dear
fellow,<br>
    with what enthusiasm I enter into any scheme for the
aggrandizement<br>
    of our Alma Mater, so I need not tell you how ardently I<br>
    adventured into the career now opened to me. My time was
completely<br>
    devoted to the matter; neither means nor health did I
spare,<br>
    and in my search for antiquarian lore, I have actually
undermined<br>
    the old wall of the fellows' garden, and am each morning in
expectation<br>
    of hearing that the big bell near the commons-hall has
descended<br>
    from its lofty and most noisy eminence, and is snugly
reposing in<br>
    the mud. Meanwhile accident put me in possession of a
most<br>
    singular and remarkable discovery. Our chambers&mdash;I call
them<br>
    ours for old association sake&mdash;are, you may remember, in the
Old<br>
    Square. Well, I have been fortunate enough, within the very
precincts<br>
    of my own dwelling, to contribute a very wonderful fact to
the<br>
    history of the University; alone, unassisted, unaided, I
labored<br>
    at my discovery. Few can estimate the pleasure I felt, the
fame<br>
    and reputation I anticipated. I drew up a little memoir for
the<br>
    board, most respectfully and civilly worded, having for title
the<br>
    following:&mdash;</p>

<p>    ACCOUNT<br>
    Of a remarkable Subterranean Passage lately discovered in
the<br>
    Old Building of Trinity College, Dublin;<br>
    With Observations upon its Extent, Antiquity, and Probable
Use.<br>
    By F. WEBBER, Senior Freshman.</p>

<p>    My dear O'Malley, I'll not dwell upon the pride I felt in
my new<br>
    character of antiquarian; it is enough to state, that my
very<br>
    remarkable tract was well considered and received, and a
commission<br>
    appointed to investigate the discovery, consisting of the<br>
    vice-provost, the senior lecturer, old Woodhouse, the
sub-dean, and<br>
    a few more.</p>

<p>    On Tuesday last they came accordingly in full academic
costume.<br>
    I, being habited most accurately in the like manner,
conducted<br>
    them with all form into my bed-room, where a large screen
concealed<br>
    from view the entrance to the tunnel alluded to. Assuming a
very<br>
    John Kembleish attitude, I struck this down with one hand,
pointing<br>
    with the other to the wall, as I exclaimed, "There! look<br>
    there!"</p>

<p>    I need only quote Barret's exclamation to enlighten you
upon my<br>
    discovery as, drawing in his breath with a strong effort, he
burst<br>
    out:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "May the Devil admire me, but it's a rat-hole!"</p>

<p>    I fear, Charley, he's right, and what's more, that the
board will<br>
    think so, for this moment a very warm discussion is going on
among<br>
    that amiable and learned body whether I shall any longer
remain an<br>
    ornament to the University. In fact, the terror with which
they<br>
    fled from my chambers, overturning each other in the
passage,<br>
    seemed to imply that they thought me mad, and I do believe
my<br>
    voice, look, and attitude would not have disgraced a blue
cotton<br>
    dressing-gown and a cell in "Swift's." Be this as it may, few
men<br>
    have done more for college than I have. The sun never stood
still<br>
    for Joshua with more resolution than I have rested in my
career of<br>
    freshman; and if I have contributed little to the fame, I
have done<br>
    much for the funds of the University; and when they come to
compute<br>
    the various sums I have paid in, for fines, penalties, and
what<br>
    they call properly "impositions," if they don't place a
portrait of me<br>
    in the examination hall, between Archbishop Ussher and Flood,
then<br>
    do I say there is no gratitude in mankind; not to mention the
impulse<br>
    I have given to the various artisans whose business it is
to<br>
    repair lamps, windows, chimneys, iron railings, and watchmen,
all<br>
    of which I have devoted myself to with an enthusiasm for
political<br>
    economy well known, and registered in the College Street
police-office.</p>

<p>    After all, Charley, I miss you greatly. Your second in a
ballad is<br>
    not to be replaced; besides, Carlisle Bridge has got low;
medical<br>
    students and young attorneys affect minstrelsy, and actually
frequent<br>
    the haunts sacred to our muse.</p>

<p>    Dublin is, upon the whole, I think, worse; though one
scarcely<br>
    ever gets tired laughing at the small celebrities&mdash;</p>

<p>Master Frank gets here indiscreet, so I shall skip.</p>

<p>    And so the Dashwoods are going too; this will make mine
a<br>
    pitiable condition, for I really did begin to feel tender in
that<br>
    quarter. You may have heard that she refused me; this,
however, is not<br>
    correct, though I have little doubt it might have been,&mdash;had
I<br>
    asked her.</p>

<p>    Hammersley has, you know, got his dismissal. I wonder how
the<br>
    poor fellow took it when Power gave him back his letters and
his<br>
    picture. How <i>you</i> are to be treated remains to be seen; in
any<br>
    case, you certainly stand first favorite.</p>

<p>I laid down the letter at this passage, unable to read
farther. Here, then,<br>
was the solution of the whole chaos of mystery; here the full
explanation<br>
of what had puzzled my aching brain for many a night long. These
were the<br>
very letters I had myself delivered into Hammersley's hands; this
the<br>
picture he had trodden to dust beneath his heel the morning of
our meeting.<br>
I now felt the reason of his taunting allusion to my "success,"
his cutting<br>
sarcasm, his intemperate passion. A flood of light poured at once
across<br>
all the dark passages of my history; and Lucy, too,&mdash;dare I think
of her! A<br>
rapid thought shot through my brain. What if she had really cared
for me!<br>
What if for me she had rejected another's love! What if, trusting
to my<br>
faith, my pledged and sworn faith, she had given me her heart!
Oh, the<br>
bitter agony of that thought! To think that all my hopes were
shipwrecked<br>
with the very land in sight.</p>

<p>I sprang to my feet with some sudden impulse, but as I did so
the blood<br>
rushed madly to my face and temples, which beat violently; a
parched and<br>
swollen feeling came about my throat; I endeavored to open my
collar<br>
and undo my stock, but my disabled arm prevented me. I tried to
call<br>
my servant, but my utterance was thick and my words would not
come; a<br>
frightful suspicion crossed me that my reason was tottering. I
made towards<br>
the door; but as I did so, the objects around me became confused
and<br>
mingled, my limbs trembled, and I fell heavily upon the floor. A
pang of<br>
dreadful pain shot through me as I fell; my arm was rebroken.
After this I<br>
knew no more; all the accumulated excitement of the evening bore
down with<br>
one fell swoop upon my brain. Ere day broke, I was delirious.</p>

<p>I have a vague and indistinct remembrance of hurried and
anxious faces<br>
around my bed, of whispered words and sorrowful looks; but my own
thoughts<br>
careered over the bold hills of the far west as I trod them in
my<br>
boyhood, free and high of heart, or recurred to the din and crash
of the<br>
battle-field, with the mad bounding of the war-horse, and the
loud clang of<br>
the trumpet. Perhaps the acute pain of my swollen and suffering
arm gave<br>
the character to my mental aberration; for I have more than once
observed<br>
among the wounded in battle, that even when torn and mangled by
grape<br>
from a howitzer, their ravings have partaken of a high feature
of<br>
enthusiasm,&mdash;shouts of triumph and exclamations of pleasure,
even<br>
songs have I heard, but never once the low muttering of despair
or the<br>
half-stifled cry of sorrow and affliction.</p>

<p>Such were the few gleams of consciousness which visited me;
and even to<br>
such as these I soon became insensible.</p>

<p>Few like to chronicle, fewer still to read, the sad history of
a sick-bed.<br>
Of mine, I know but little. The throbbing pulses of the erring
brain, the<br>
wild fancies of lunacy, take no note of time. There is no past
nor future;<br>
a dreadful present, full of its hurried and confused impressions,
is all<br>
that the mind beholds; and even when some gleams of returning
reason flash<br>
upon the mad confusion of the brain, they come like sunbeams
through a<br>
cloud, dimmed, darkened, and perverted.</p>

<p>It is the restless activity of the mind in fever that
constitutes its<br>
most painful anguish; the fast-flitting thoughts that rush ever
onwards,<br>
crowding sensation on sensation, an endless train of exciting
images<br>
without purpose or repose; or even worse, the straining effort to
pursue<br>
some vague and shadowy conception which evades us ever as we
follow, but<br>
which mingles with all around and about us, haunting us at
midnight as in<br>
the noontime. Of this nature was a vision which came constantly
before<br>
me, till at length, by its very recurrence, it assumed a kind of
real and<br>
palpable existence; and as I watched it, my heart thrilled with
the high<br>
ardor of enthusiasm and delight, or sunk into the dark abyss of
sorrow and<br>
despair. "The dawning of morning, the daylight sinking," brought
no other<br>
image to my aching sight; and of this alone, of all the
impressions of the<br>
period, has my mind retained any consciousness.</p>

<p>Methought I stood within an old and venerable cathedral, where
the dim<br>
yellow light fell with a rich but solemn glow upon the fretted
capitals,<br>
or the grotesque tracings of the oaken carvings, lighting up the
fading<br>
gildings of the stately monuments, and tinting the varied hues of
time-worn<br>
banners. The mellow notes of a deep organ filled the air, and
seemed to<br>
attune the sense to all the awe and reverence of the place, where
the very<br>
footfall, magnified by its many echoes, seemed half a
profanation. I stood<br>
before an altar, beside me a young and lovely girl, whose bright
brown<br>
tresses waved in loose masses upon a neck of snowy whiteness; her
hand,<br>
cold and pale, rested within my own; we knelt together, not in
prayer, but<br>
a feeling of deep reverence stole over my heart, as she repeated
some few<br>
half-uttered words after me; I knew that she was mine. Oh, the
ecstasy of<br>
that moment, as, springing to my feet, I darted forward to press
her to my<br>
heart! When, suddenly, an arm was interposed between us, while a
low but<br>
solemn voice rang in my ears, "Stir not; for thou art false and
traitorous,<br>
thy vow a perjury, and thy heart a lie!" Slowly and silently the
fair form<br>
of my loved Lucy&mdash;for it was her&mdash;receded from my sight. One
look, one last<br>
look of sorrow&mdash;it was scarce reproach&mdash;fell upon me, and I sank
back upon<br>
the cold pavement, broken-hearted and forsaken.</p>

<p>This dream came with daybreak, and with the calm repose of
evening; the<br>
still hours of the waking night brought no other image to my
eyes, and when<br>
its sad influence had spread a gloom and desolation over my
wounded heart,<br>
a secret hope crept over me, that again the bright moment of
happiness<br>
would return, and once more beside that ancient altar I'd kneel
beside my<br>
bride, and call her mine.</p>

<p>For the rest, my memory retains but little; the kind looks
which came<br>
around my bedside brought but a brief pleasure, for in their
affectionate<br>
beaming I could read the gloomy prestige of my fate. The hurried
but<br>
cautious step, the whispered sentences, the averted gaze of those
who<br>
sorrowed for me, sunk far deeper into my heart than my friends
then thought<br>
of. Little do they think, who minister to the sick or dying, how
each<br>
passing word, each flitting glance is noted, and how the pale and
stilly<br>
figure which lies all but lifeless before them counts over the
hours he has<br>
to live by the smiles or tears around him!</p>

<p>Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and still my fate hung in the
balance; and<br>
while in the wild enthusiasm of my erring faculties, I wandered
far in<br>
spirit from my bed of suffering and pain, some well-remembered
voice beside<br>
me would strike upon my ear, bringing me back, as if by magic, to
all the<br>
realities of life, and investing my almost unconscious state with
all the<br>
hopes and fears about me.</p>

<p>One by one, at length, these fancies fled from me, and to the
delirium of<br>
fever succeeded the sad and helpless consciousness of illness,
far, far<br>
more depressing; for as the conviction of sense came back, the
sorrowful<br>
aspect of a dreary future came with it.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XIII.</p>

<p>THE VILLA.</p>

<p>The gentle twilight of an autumnal evening, calm, serene, and
mellow, was<br>
falling as I opened my eyes to consciousness of life and being,
and looked<br>
around me. I lay in a large and handsomely-furnished apartment,
in which<br>
the hand of taste was as evident in all the decorations as the
unsparing<br>
employment of wealth; the silk draperies of my bed, the inlaid
tables, the<br>
ormolu ornaments which glittered upon the chimney, were one by
one so many<br>
puzzles to my erring senses, and I opened and shut my eyes again
and again,<br>
and essayed by every means in my power to ascertain if they were
not the<br>
visionary creations of a fevered mind. I stretched out my hands
to feel the<br>
objects; and even while holding the freshly-plucked flowers in my
grasp I<br>
could scarce persuade myself that they were real. A thrill of
pain at this<br>
instant recalled me to other thoughts, and I turned my eyes upon
my wounded<br>
arm, which, swollen and stiffened, lay motionless beside me.
Gradually, my<br>
memory came back, and to my weak faculties some passages of my
former<br>
life were presented, not collectedly it is true, nor in any
order, but<br>
scattered, isolated scenes. While such thoughts flew past, my
ever-rising<br>
question to myself was, "Where am I now?" The vague feeling which
illness<br>
leaves upon the mind, whispered to me of kind looks and soft
voices; and<br>
I had a dreamy consciousness about me of being watched and cared
for, but<br>
wherefore, or by whom, I knew not.</p>

<p>From a partly open door which led into a garden, a mild and
balmy air<br>
fanned my temples and soothed my heated brow; and as the light
curtain<br>
waved to and fro with the breeze, the odor of the rose and the
orange-tree<br>
filled the apartment.</p>

<p>There is something in the feeling of weakness which succeeds
to long<br>
illness of the most delicious and refined enjoyment. The spirit
emerging as<br>
it were from the thraldom of its grosser prison, rises high and
triumphant<br>
above the meaner thoughts and more petty ambitions of daily life.
Purer<br>
feelings, more ennobling hopes succeed; and dreams of our
childhood,<br>
mingling with our promises for the future, make up an ideal
existence<br>
in which the low passions and cares of ordinary life enter not or
are<br>
forgotten. 'Tis then we learn to hold converse with ourselves;
'tis then we<br>
ask how has our manhood performed the promises of its youth, or
have our<br>
ripened prospects borne out the pledges of our boyhood? 'Tis
then, in<br>
the calm justice of our lonely hearts, we learn how our failures
are but<br>
another name for our faults, and that what we looked on as the
vicissitudes<br>
of fortune are but the fruits of our own vices. Alas, how
short-lived are<br>
such intervals! Like the fitful sunshine in the wintry sky, they
throw one<br>
bright and joyous tint over the dark landscape: for a moment the
valley and<br>
the mountain-top are bathed in a ruddy glow; the leafless tree
and the dark<br>
moss seem to feel a touch of spring; but the next instant it is
past; the<br>
lowering clouds and dark shadows intervene, and the cold blast,
the moaning<br>
wind, and the dreary waste are once more before us.</p>

<p>I endeavored to recall the latest events of my career, but in
vain; the<br>
real and the visionary were inextricably mingled, and the scenes
of my<br>
campaigns were blended with hopes and fears and doubts which had
no<br>
existence save in my dreams. My curiosity to know where I was
grew now my<br>
strongest feeling, and I raised myself with one arm to look
around me. In<br>
the room all was still and silent, but nothing seemed to intimate
what I<br>
sought for. As I looked, however, the wind blew back the curtain
which<br>
half-concealed the sash-door, and disclosed to me the figure of a
man<br>
seated at a table; his back was towards me, but his broad
sombrero hat<br>
and brown mantle bespoke his nation; the light blue curl of
smoke<br>
which wreathed gently upwards, and the ample display of
long-necked,<br>
straw-wrapped flasks, also attested that he was enjoying himself
with true<br>
Peninsular gusto, having probably partaken of a long siesta.</p>

<p>It was a perfect picture in its way of the indolent luxury of
the<br>
South,&mdash;the rich and perfumed flowers, half-closing to the night
air, but<br>
sighing forth a perfumed <i>buonas noches</i> as they betook
themselves to rest;<br>
the slender shadows of the tall shrubs, stretching motionless
across the<br>
walks; the very attitude of the figure himself was in keeping as
supported<br>
by easy chairs he lounged at full length, raising his head ever
and anon as<br>
if to watch the wreath of eddying smoke as it rose upwards from
his cigar<br>
and melted away in the distance.</p>

<a name="0102"></a>
<img alt="0102.jpg (150K)" src="0102.jpg" height="638" width="803">

<p>[MR. FREE TURNED SPANIARD.]</p>
<br><br>
<p>"Yes", thought I, as I looked for some time, "such is the very
type of his<br>
nation. Surrounded by every luxury of climate, blessed with all
that earth<br>
can offer of its best and fairest, and yet only using such gifts
as mere<br>
sensual gratifications." Starting with this theme, I wove a whole
story for<br>
the unknown personage whom, in my wandering fancy, I began by
creating<br>
a grandee of Portugal, invested with rank honors, and riches; but
who,<br>
effeminated by the habits and usages of his country, had become
the mere<br>
idle voluptuary, living a life of easy and inglorious indolence.
My further<br>
musings were interrupted at this moment for the individual to
whom I<br>
had been so complimentary in my revery, slowly arose from his
recumbent<br>
position, flung his loose mantle carelessly across his left
shoulder, and<br>
pushing open the sash-door, entered my chamber. Directing his
steps to a<br>
large mirror, he stood for some minutes contemplating himself
with what,<br>
from his attitude, I judged to be no small satisfaction. Though
his back<br>
was still towards me, and the dim twilight of the room too
uncertain to see<br>
much, yet I could perceive that he was evidently admiring himself
in the<br>
glass. Of this fact I had soon the most complete proof; for as I
looked,<br>
he slowly raised his broad-leafed Spanish hat with an air of most
imposing<br>
pretension, and bowed reverently to himself.</p>

<p>"<i>Come sta vostra senoria?</i>" said he.</p>

<p>The whole gesture and style of this proceeding struck me as so
ridiculous,<br>
that in spite of all my efforts I could scarcely repress a laugh.
He turned<br>
quickly round and approached the bed. The deep shadow of the
sombrero<br>
darkened the upper part of his features, but I could distinguish
a pair of<br>
fierce-looking mustaches beneath, which curled upwards towards
his eyes,<br>
while a stiff point beard stuck straight from his chin. Fearing
lest my<br>
rude interruption had been overheard, I was framing some polite
speech in<br>
Portuguese, when he opened the dialogue by asking in that
language how I<br>
did.</p>

<p>I replied, and was about to ask some questions relative to
where, and<br>
under whose protection I then was, when my grave-looking friend,
giving a<br>
pirouette upon one leg, sent his hat flying into the air, and
cried out in<br>
a voice that not even my memory could fail to recognize,&mdash;</p>

<p>"By the rock of Cashel he's cured!&mdash;he's cured!&mdash;the fever's
over! Oh,<br>
Master Charles, dear! oh, Master, darling, and you ain't mad,
after all?"</p>

<p>"Mad! no, faith! but I shrewdly suspect you must be."</p>

<p>"Oh, devil a taste! But spake to me, honey; spake to me,
acushla!"</p>

<p>"Where am I? Whose house is this? What do you mean by that
disguise, that<br>
beard&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Whisht, I'll tell you all, av you have patience? But are you
cured? Tell<br>
me that first. Sure they was going to cut the arm off you, till
you got out<br>
of bed, and with your pistols, sent them flying, one out of the
window and<br>
the other down-stairs; and I bate the little chap with the saw
myself till<br>
he couldn't know himself in the glass."</p>

<p>While Mike ran on at this rate, I never took my eyes from him,
and it was<br>
all my poor faculties were equal to, to convince myself that the
whole<br>
scene was not some vision of a wandering intellect. Gradually,
however, the<br>
well-known features recalled me to myself, and as my doubts gave
way at<br>
length, I laughed long and heartily at the masquerade absurdity
of his<br>
appearance.</p>

<p>Mike, meanwhile, whose face expressed no small mistrust at the
sincerity of<br>
my mirth, having uncloaked himself, proceeded to lay aside his
beard and<br>
mustaches, saying, as he did so,&mdash;</p>

<p>"There now, darling; there now, Master, dear,&mdash;don't be
grinning that<br>
way,&mdash;I'll not be a Portigee any more, av you'll be quiet and
listen to<br>
reason."</p>

<p>"But, Mike, where am I? Answer me that one question."</p>

<p>"You're at home, dear; where else would you be?"</p>

<p>"At home?" said I, with a start, as my eye ranged over the
various articles<br>
of luxury and elegance around, so unlike the more simple and
unpretending<br>
features of my uncle's house,&mdash;"at home?"</p>

<p>"Ay, just so; sure, isn't it the same thing. It's ould Don
Emanuel that<br>
owns it; and won't it be your own when you're married to that
lovely<br>
crayture herself?"</p>

<p>I started up, and placing my hand upon my throbbing temples,
asked myself<br>
if I were really awake, or if some flight of fancy had not
carried me away<br>
beyond the bounds of reason and sense. "Go on, go on!" said I, at
length,<br>
in a hollow voice, anxious to gather from his words something
like a clew<br>
to this mystery. "How did this happen?"</p>

<p>"Av ye mean how you came here, faith, it was just this way.
After you got<br>
the fever, and beat the doctors, devil a one would go near you
but myself<br>
and the major."</p>

<p>"The major,&mdash;Major Monsoon?"</p>

<p>"No, Major Power himself. Well, he told your friends up here
how it was<br>
going very hard with you, and that you were like to die; and the
same<br>
evening they sent down a beautiful litter, as like a hearse as
two peas,<br>
for you, and brought you up here in state,&mdash;devil a thing was
wanting but<br>
a few people to raise the cry to make it as fine a funeral as
ever I seen.<br>
And sure, I set up a whillilew myself in the Black Horse Square,
and the<br>
devils only laughed at me.</p>

<p>"Well, you see they put you into a beautiful, elegant bed, and
the young<br>
lady herself sat down beside you, betune times fanning you with a
big<br>
fan, and then drying her eyes, for she was weeping like a
waterfall. 'Don<br>
Miguel,' says she to me,&mdash;for ye see, I put your cloak on by
mistake when I<br>
was leaving the quarters,&mdash;'Don Miguel, questa hidalgo &eacute;
vostro amigo?'</p>

<p>"'My most particular friend,' says I; 'God spare him many
years to be so.'</p>

<p>"'Then take up your quarters here,' says she, 'and don't leave
him; we'll<br>
do everything in our power to make you comfortable.'</p>

<p>"'I'm not particular,' says I; 'the run of the house&mdash;'</p>

<p>"Then this is the Villa Nuova?" said I, with a faint sigh.</p>

<p>"The same," replied Mike; "and a sweet place it is for eating
and<br>
drinking,&mdash;for wine in buckets full, av ye axed for it, for
dancing and<br>
singing every evening, with as pretty craytures as ever I set
eyes upon.<br>
Upon my conscience, it's as good as Galway; and good manners it
is they<br>
have. What's more, none of your liberties or familiarities with
strangers;<br>
but it's Don Miguel, devil a less. 'Don Miguel, av it's plazing
to you to<br>
take a drop of Xeres before your meat?' or, 'Would you have a
shaugh of a<br>
pipe or cigar when you're done?' That's the way of it."</p>

<p>"And Sir George Dashwood," said I, "has he been here? Has he
inquired for<br>
me?"</p>

<p>"Every day either himself or one of the staff comes galloping
up at<br>
luncheon time to ask after you; and then they have a bit of
tender<br>
discourse with the senhora herself. Oh, devil a bit need ye fear
them,<br>
she's true blue; and it isn't the major's fault,&mdash;upon my
conscience it<br>
isn't,&mdash;for he does be coming the blarney over her in beautiful
style."</p>

<p>"Does Miss Dashwood ever visit here?" said I, with a voice
faltering and<br>
uncertain enough to have awakened suspicion in a more practised
observer.</p>

<p>"Never once; and that's what I call unnatural behavior, after
you saving<br>
her life; and if she wasn't&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Be silent, I say."</p>

<p>"Well, well, there, I won't say any more; and sure it's time
for me to be<br>
putting on my beard again. I'm going to the Casino with Catrina,
and sure<br>
it's with real ladies I might be going av it wasn't for Major
Power, that<br>
told them I wasn't a officer; but it's all right again. I gave
them a great<br>
history of the Frees from the time of Cuilla na Toole, that was
one of the<br>
family and a cousin of Moses, I believe; and they behave well to
one that<br>
comes from an ould stock."</p>

<p>"Don Miguel! Don Miguel!" said a voice from the garden.</p>

<p>"I'm coming, my angel! I'm coming, my turtle-dove!" said Mike,
arranging<br>
his mustaches and beard with amazing dexterity. "Ah, but it would
do your<br>
heart good av you could take a peep at us about twelve o'clock,
dancing<br>
'Dirty James' for a bolero, and just see Miss Catrina, the lady's
maid,<br>
doing 'cover the buckle' as neat as Nature. There now, there's
the lemonade<br>
near your hand, and I'll leave you the lamp, and you may go
asleep as soon<br>
as you please, for Miss Inez won't come in to-night to play the
guitar, for<br>
the doctor said it might do you harm now."</p>

<p>So saying, and before I could summon presence of mind to ask
another<br>
question, Don Miguel wrapped himself in the broad folds of his
Spanish<br>
cloak, and strode from the room with the air of an hidalgo.</p>

<p>I slept but little that night; the full tide of memory,
rushing in upon me,<br>
brought back the hour of my return to Lisbon and the wreck of all
my hopes,<br>
which from the narrative of my servant I now perceived to be
complete. I<br>
dare not venture upon recording how many plans suggested
themselves to my<br>
troubled spirit, and were in turn rejected. To meet Lucy
Dashwood; to make<br>
a full and candid declaration; to acknowledge that flirtation
alone with<br>
Donna Inez (a mere passing, boyish flirtation) had given the
coloring to<br>
my innocent passion, and that in heart and soul I was hers, and
hers<br>
only,&mdash;this was my first resolve; but alas! if I had not courage
to sustain<br>
a common interview, to meet her in the careless crowd of a
drawing-room,<br>
what could I do under circumstances like these? Besides, the
matter would<br>
be cut very short by her coolly declaring that she had neither
right nor<br>
inclination to listen to such a declaration. The recollection of
her look<br>
as she passed me to her carriage came flashing across my brain
and decided<br>
this point. No, no! I'll not encounter that; however appearances
for the<br>
moment had been against me, she should not have treated me thus
coldly and<br>
disdainfully. It was quite clear she had never cared for
me,&mdash;wounded pride<br>
had been her only feeling; and so as I reasoned I ended by
satisfying<br>
myself that in that quarter all was at end forever.</p>

<p>Now then for dilemma number two, I thought. The senhora, my
first impulse<br>
was one of anything but gratitude to her by whose kind, tender
care my<br>
hours of pain and suffering had been soothed and alleviated. But
for her,<br>
I should have been spared all my present embarrassment, all my
shipwrecked<br>
fortunes; but for her I should now be the aide-de-camp residing
in Sir<br>
George Dashwood's own house, meeting with Lucy every hour of the
day,<br>
dining beside her, riding out with her, pressing my suit by every
means and<br>
with every advantage of my position; but for her and her dark
eyes&mdash;and,<br>
by-the-bye, what eyes they are! how full of brilliancy, yet how
teeming<br>
with an expression of soft and melting sweetness; and her mouth,
too,<br>
how perfectly chiselled those full lips,&mdash;how different from the
cold,<br>
unbending firmness of Miss Dashwood's! Not but I have seen Lucy
smile too,<br>
and what a sweet smile! How it lighted up her fair cheek, and
made her blue<br>
eyes darken and deepen till they looked like heaven's own vault.
Yes, there<br>
is more poetry in a blue eye. But still Inez is a very lovely
girl, and<br>
her foot never was surpassed. She is a coquette, too, about that
foot and<br>
ankle,&mdash;I rather like a woman to be so. What a sensation she
would make in<br>
England; how she would be the rage! And then I thought of home
and Galway,<br>
and the astonishment of some, the admiration of others, as I
presented her<br>
as my wife,&mdash;the congratulations of my friends, the wonder of the
men, the<br>
tempered envy of the women. Methought I saw my uncle, as he
pressed her in<br>
his arms, say, "Yes, Charley, this is a prize worth campaigning
for."</p>

<p>The stray sounds of a guitar which came from the garden broke
in upon my<br>
musings at this moment. It seemed as if a finger was straying
heedlessly<br>
across the strings. I started up, and to my surprise perceived it
was Inez.<br>
Before I had time to collect myself, a gentle tap at the window
aroused me;<br>
it opened softly, while from an unseen hand a bouquet of fresh
flowers was<br>
thrown upon my bed. Before I could collect myself to speak, the
sash closed<br>
again and I was alone.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XIV.</p>

<p>THE VISIT.</p>

<p>Mike's performances at the masquerade had doubtless been of
the most<br>
distinguished character, and demanded a compensating period of
repose, for<br>
he did not make his appearance the entire morning. Towards noon,
however,<br>
the door from the garden gently opened, and I heard a step upon
the stone<br>
terrace, and something which sounded to my ears like the clank of
a sabre.<br>
I lifted my head, and saw Fred Power beside me.</p>

<p>I shall spare my readers the recital of my friend, which,
however, more<br>
full and explanatory of past events, contained in reality little
more than<br>
Mickey Free had already told me. In fine, he informed me that our
army, by<br>
a succession of retreating movements, had deserted the northern
provinces,<br>
and now occupied the intrenched lines of Torres Vedras. That
Massena, with<br>
a powerful force, was still in march, reinforcements daily
pouring in<br>
upon him, and every expectation pointing to the probability that
he would<br>
attempt to storm our position.</p>

<p>"The wise-heads," remarked Power, "talk of our speedy
embarkation, the<br>
sanguine and the hot-brained rave of a great victory and the
retreat of<br>
Massena; but I was up at headquarters last week with despatches,
and saw<br>
Lord Wellington myself."</p>

<p>"Well, what did you make out? Did he drop any hint of his own
views?"</p>

<p>"Faith, I can't say he did. He asked me some questions about
the troops<br>
just landed; he spoke a little of the commissary department,
damned the<br>
blankets, said that green forage was bad food for the artillery
horses,<br>
sent me an English paper to read about the O. P. riots, and said
the<br>
harriers would throw off about six o'clock, and that he hoped to
see me at<br>
dinner."</p>

<p>I could not restrain a laugh at Power's catalogue of his
lordship's topics.<br>
"So," said I, "he at least does not take any gloomy views of our
present<br>
situation."</p>

<p>"Who can tell what he thinks? He's ready to fight if fighting
will do<br>
anything, and to retreat, if that be better. But that he'll sleep
an hour<br>
less, or drink a glass of claret more&mdash;come what will of it&mdash;I'll
believe<br>
from no man living.</p>

<p>"We've lost one gallant thing in any case, Charley," resumed
Power. "Busaco<br>
was, I'm told, a glorious day, and our people were in the heat of
it. So<br>
that, if we do leave the Peninsula now, that will be a confounded
chagrin.<br>
Not for you, my poor fellow, for you could not stir; but I was so
cursed<br>
foolish to take the staff appointment,&mdash;thus one folly ever
entails<br>
another."</p>

<p>There was a tone of bitterness in which these words were
uttered that left<br>
no doubt upon my mind some <i>arri&egrave;re pens&eacute;e</i>
remained lurking behind them.<br>
My eyes met his; he bit his lip, and coloring deeply, rose from
the chair,<br>
and walked towards the window.</p>

<p>The chance allusion of my man Mike flashed upon me at the
moment, and I<br>
dared not trust myself to break silence. I now thought I could
trace in my<br>
friend's manner less of that gay and careless buoyancy which ever
marked<br>
him. There was a tone, it seemed, of more grave and sombre
character, and<br>
even when he jested, the smile his features bore was not his
usual frank<br>
and happy one, and speedily gave way to an expression I had never
before<br>
remarked. Our silence which had now lasted for some minutes was
becoming<br>
embarrassing; that strange consciousness that, to a certain
extent, we were<br>
reading each other's thoughts, made us both cautious of breaking
it; and<br>
when at length, turning abruptly round, he asked, "When I hoped
to be up<br>
and about again?" I felt my heart relieved from I knew not well
what load<br>
of doubt and difficulty that oppressed it. We chatted on for some
little<br>
time longer, the news of Lisbon, and the daily gossip finishing
our topics.</p>

<p>"Plenty of gayety, Charley, dinners and balls to no end! so
get well, my<br>
boy, and make the most of it."</p>

<p>"Yes," I replied, "I'll do my best; but be assured the first
use I'll make<br>
of health will be to join the regiment. I am heartily ashamed of
myself for<br>
all I have lost already,&mdash;though not altogether my fault."</p>

<p>"And will you really join at once?" said Power, with a look of
eager<br>
anxiety I could not possibly account for.</p>

<p>"Of course I will; what have I, what can I have to detain me
here?"</p>

<p>What reply he was about to make at this moment I know not, but
the door<br>
opened, and Mike announced Sir George Dashwood.</p>

<p>"Gently, my worthy man, not so loud, if you please?" said the
mild voice of<br>
the general, as he stepped noiselessly across the room, evidently
shocked<br>
at the indiscreet tone of my follower. "Ah, Power, you here! and
our poor<br>
friend, how is he?"</p>

<p>"Able to answer for himself at last, Sir George," said I,
grasping his<br>
proffered hand.</p>

<p>"My poor lad! you've had a long bout of it; but you've saved
your arm, and<br>
that's well worth the lost time. Well, I've come to bring you
good news;<br>
there's been a very sharp cavalry affair, and our fellows have
been the<br>
conquerors."</p>

<p>"There again, Power,&mdash;listen to that! We are losing
everything!"</p>

<p>"Not so, not so, my boy," said Sir George, smiling blandly,
but archly.<br>
"There are conquests to be won here, as well as there; and in
your present<br>
state, I rather think you better fitted for such as these."</p>

<p>Power's brow grew clouded; he essayed a smile, but it failed,
and he rose<br>
and hurried towards the window.</p>

<p>As for me, my confusion must have led to a very erroneous
impression of my<br>
real feelings, and I perceived Sir George anxious to turn the
channel of<br>
the conversation.</p>

<p>"You see but little of your host, O'Malley," he resumed; "he
is ever from<br>
home; but I believe nothing could be kinder than his arrangements
for you.<br>
You are aware that he kidnapped you from us? I had sent Forbes
over to<br>
bring you to us; your room was prepared, everything in readiness,
when he<br>
met your man Mike, setting forth upon a mule, who told him you
had just<br>
taken your departure for the villa. We both had our claim upon
you and, I<br>
believe, pretty much on the same score. By-the-bye, you have not
seen Lucy<br>
since your arrival. I never knew it till yesterday, when I asked
if she did<br>
not find you altered."</p>

<p>I blundered out some absurd reply, blushed, corrected myself,
and got<br>
confused. Sir George attributing this, doubtless, to my weak
state, rose<br>
soon after, and taking Power along with him, remarked as he left
the<br>
room,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We are too much for him yet, I see that; so we'll leave him
quiet some<br>
time longer."</p>

<p>Thanking him in my heart for his true appreciation of my
state, I sank back<br>
upon my pillow to think over all I had heard and seen.</p>

<p>"Well, Mister Charles," said Mike as he came forward with a
smile, "I<br>
suppose you heard the news? The Fourteenth bate the French down
at Merca<br>
there, and took seventy prisoners; but sure it's little good
it'll do,<br>
after all."</p>

<p>"And why not, Mike?"</p>

<p>"Musha! isn't Boney coming himself? He's bringing all the
Roossians down<br>
with him, and going to destroy us entirely."</p>

<p>"Not at all, man; you mistake. He's nothing to do with Russia,
and has<br>
quite enough on his hands at this moment."</p>

<p>"God grant it was truth you were talking! But, you see, I read
it myself in<br>
the papers (or Sergeant Haggarty did, which is the same thing)
that he's<br>
coming with the Cusacks."</p>

<p>"With who?&mdash;with what?"</p>

<p>"With the Cusacks."</p>

<p>"What the devil do you mean? Who are they?"</p>

<p>"Oh, Tower of Ivory! did you never hear of the Cusacks, with
the red beards<br>
and the red breeches and long poles with pike-heads on them, that
does all<br>
the devilment on horseback,&mdash;spiking and spitting the people like
larks?"</p>

<p>"The Cossacks, is it, you mean? The Cossacks?"</p>

<p>"Ay, just so, the Cusacks. They're from Clare Island, and
thereabouts; and<br>
there's more of them in Meath. They're my mother's people, and
was always<br>
real devils for fighting."</p>

<p>I burst out into an immoderate fit of laughing at Mike's
etymology, which<br>
thus converted Hetman Platoff into a Galway man.</p>

<p>"Oh, murder! isn't it cruel to hear you laugh that way! There
now, alanna!<br>
be asy, and I'll tell you more news. We've the house to ourselves
to-day.<br>
The ould gentleman's down at Behlem, and the daughter's in
Lisbon, making<br>
great preparations for a grand ball they're to give when you are
quite<br>
well."</p>

<p>"I hope I shall be with the army in a few days, Mike; and
certainly, if I'm<br>
able to move about, I'll not remain longer in Lisbon."</p>

<p>"Arrah, don't say so, now! When was you ever so comfortable?
Upon my<br>
conscience, it's more like Paradise than anything else. If ye see
the<br>
dinner we sit down to every day; and as for drink,&mdash;if it wasn't
that I<br>
sleep on a ground-floor, I'd seldom see a blanket!"</p>

<p>"Well, certainly, Mike, I agree with you, these are hard
things to tear<br>
ourselves away from."</p>

<p>"Aren't they now, sir? And then Miss Catherine, I'm taching
her Irish!"</p>

<p>"Teaching her Irish! for Heaven's sake, what use can she make
of Irish?"</p>

<p>"Ah, the crayture, she doesn't know better; and as she was
always bothering<br>
me to learn her English, I promised one day to do it; but ye see,
somehow,<br>
I never was very proficient in strange tongues; so I thought to
myself<br>
Irish will do as well. So, you perceive, we're taking a course of
Irish<br>
literature, as Mr. Lynch says in Athlone; and, upon my
conscience, she's an<br>
apt scholar."</p>

<p>"'Good-morning to you, Katey,' says Mr. Power to her the other
day, as he<br>
passed through the hall. 'Good-morning, my dear; I hear you speak
English<br>
perfectly now?'</p>

<p>"'<i>Honia mon diaoul</i>,' says she, making a curtsey.</p>

<p>"Be the powers, I thought he'd die with the laughing.</p>

<p>"'Well, my dear, I hope you don't mean it,&mdash;do you know what
you're<br>
saying?'</p>

<p>"'Honor bright, Major!' says I,&mdash;'honor bright!' and I gave
him a wink at<br>
the same time.</p>

<p>"'Oh, that's it!' said he, 'is it!' and so he went off holding
his hands to<br>
his sides with the bare laughing; and your honor knows it wasn't
a blessing<br>
she wished him, for all that."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XV.</p>

<p>THE CONFESSION.</p>

<p>"What a strange position this of mine!" thought I, a few
mornings after<br>
the events detailed in the last chapter. "How very fascinating in
some<br>
respects, how full of all the charm of romance, and how
confoundly<br>
difficult to see one's way through!"</p>

<p>To understand my cogitation right, <i>figurez-vous</i>, my dear
reader, a large<br>
and splendidly furnished drawing-room, from one end of which an
orangery<br>
in full blossom opens; from the other is seen a delicious little
boudoir,<br>
where books, bronzes, pictures and statues, in all the artistique
disorder<br>
of a lady's sanctum, are bathed in a deep purple light from a
stained glass<br>
window of the seventeenth century.</p>

<p>On a small table beside the wood fire, whose mellow light is
flirting with<br>
the sunbeams upon the carpet, stands an antique silver
breakfast-service,<br>
which none but the hand of Benvenuto could have chiselled; beside
it sits<br>
a girl, young and beautiful; her dark eyes, beaming beneath their
long<br>
lashes, are fixed with an expression of watchful interest upon a
pale and<br>
sickly youth, who, lounging upon a sofa opposite, is carelessly
turning<br>
over the leaves of a new journal, or gazing steadfastly on the
fretted<br>
gothic of the ceiling, while his thoughts are travelling many a
mile away.<br>
The lady being the Senhora Inez; the nonchalant invalid, your
unworthy<br>
acquaintance, Charles O'Malley.</p>

<p>What a very strange position to be sure.</p>

<p>"Then you are not equal to this ball to-night?" said she,
after a pause of<br>
some minutes.</p>

<p>I turned as she spoke; her words had struck audibly upon my
ear, but, lost<br>
in my revery, I could but repeat my own fixed thought,&mdash;how
strange to be<br>
so situated!</p>

<p>"You are really very tiresome, Signor; I assure you, you are.
I have<br>
been giving you a most elegant description of the Casino
<i>f&ecirc;te</i>, and the<br>
beautiful costume of our Lisbon belles, but I can get nothing
from you but<br>
this muttered something, which may be very shocking for aught I
know. I'm<br>
sure your friend, Major Power, would be much more attentive to
me; that<br>
is," added she, archly, "if Miss Dashwood were not present."</p>

<p>"What! why! You don't mean that there is anything there&mdash;that
Tower is<br>
paying attention to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"<i>Madre divina</i>, how that seems to interest you, and how red
you are! If it<br>
were not that you never met her before, and that your
acquaintance did not<br>
seem to make rapid progress, then I should say you are in love
with her<br>
yourself."</p>

<p>I had to laugh at this, but felt my face flushing more. "And
so," said I,<br>
affecting a careless and indifferent tone, "the gay Fred Power is
smitten<br>
at last!"</p>

<p>"Was it so very difficult a thing to accomplish?" said she,
slyly.</p>

<p>"He seems to say so, at least. And the lady, how does she
appear to receive<br>
his attentions?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I should say with evident pleasure and satisfaction, as
all girls do<br>
the advances of men they don't care for, nor intend to care
for."</p>

<p>"Indeed," said I, slowly, "indeed, Senhora?" looking into her
eyes as I<br>
spoke, as if to read if the lesson were destined for my
benefit.</p>

<p>"There, don't stare so!&mdash;every one knows that."</p>

<p>"So you don't think, then, that Lucy,&mdash;I mean Miss
Dashwood&mdash;Why are you<br>
laughing so?"</p>

<p>"How can I help it; your calling her Lucy is so good, I wish
she heard it;<br>
she's the very proudest girl I ever knew."</p>

<p>"But to come back; you really think she does not care for
him?"</p>

<p>"Not more than for you; and I may be pardoned for the simile,
having seen<br>
your meeting. But let me give you the news of our own
<i>f&ecirc;te</i>. Saturday is<br>
the day fixed; and you must be quite well,&mdash;I insist upon it.
Miss Dashwood<br>
has promised to come,&mdash;no small concession; for after all she has
never<br>
once been here since the day you frightened her. I can't help
laughing at<br>
my blunder,&mdash;the two people I had promised myself should fall
desperately<br>
in love with each other, and who will scarcely meet."</p>

<p>"But I trusted," said I, pettishly, "that you were not
disposed to resign<br>
your own interest in me?"</p>

<p>"Neither was I," said she, with an easy smile, "except that I
have so many<br>
admirers. I might even spare to my friends; though after all I
should be<br>
sorry to lose you, I like you."</p>

<p>"Yes," said I half bitterly, "as girls do those they never
intend to care<br>
for; is it not so?"</p>

<p>"Perhaps, yes, and perhaps&mdash;But is it going to rain? How
provoking! and I<br>
have ordered my horse. Well, Signor Carlos, I leave you to your
delightful<br>
newspaper, and all the magnificent descriptions of battles and
sieges and<br>
skirmishes of which you seem doomed to pine without ceasing.
There, don't<br>
kiss my hand twice; that's not right."</p>

<p>"Well, let me begin again&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I shall not breakfast with you any more. But tell me, am I to
order a<br>
costume for you in Lisbon; or will you arrange all that yourself?
You must<br>
come to the <i>f&ecirc;te</i>, you know."</p>

<p>"If you would be so very kind."</p>

<p>"I will, then, be so very kind; and once more, <i>adios</i>." So
saying, and<br>
with a slight motion of her hand, she smiled a good-by, and left
me.</p>

<p>"What a lovely girl!" thought I, as I rose and walked to the
window,<br>
muttering to myself Othello's line, and&mdash;</p>

<p>    "When I love thee not, chaos is come again."</p>

<p>In fact, it was the perfect expression of my feeling; the only
solution<br>
to all the difficulties surrounding me, being to fall
desperately,<br>
irretrievably in love with the fair senhora, which, all things
considered,<br>
was not a very desperate resource for a gentleman in trouble. As
I thought<br>
over the hopelessness of one attachment, I turned calmly to
consider all<br>
the favorable points of the other. She was truly beautiful,
attractive in<br>
every sense; her manner most fascinating, and her disposition, so
far as<br>
I could pronounce, perfectly amiable. I felt already something
more than<br>
interest about her; how very easy would be the transition to a
stronger<br>
feeling! There was an <i>&eacute;clat</i>, too, about being her
accepted lover that had<br>
its charm. She was the belle <i>par excellence</i> of Lisbon; and then
a sense<br>
of pique crossed my mind as I reflected what would Lucy say of
him whom<br>
she had slighted and insulted, when he became the husband of the
beautiful<br>
millionnaire Senhora Inez?</p>

<p>As my meditations had reached thus far, the door opened
stealthily, and<br>
Catherine appeared, her finger upon her lips, and her gesture
indicating<br>
caution. She carried on her arm a mass of drapery covered by a
large<br>
mantle, which throwing off as she entered, she displayed before
me a rich<br>
blue domino with silver embroidery. It was large and loose in its
folds, so<br>
as thoroughly to conceal the figure of any wearer. This she held
up before<br>
me for an instant without speaking; when at length, seeing my
curiosity<br>
fully excited, she said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"This is the senhora's domino. I should be ruined if she knew
I showed it;<br>
but I promised&mdash;that is, I told&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, I understand," relieving her embarrassment about
the source of<br>
her civilities; "go on."</p>

<p>"Well, there are several others like it, but with this small
difference,<br>
instead of a carnation, which all the others have embroidered
upon the<br>
cuff, I have made it a rose,&mdash;you perceive? La Senhora knows
nothing of<br>
this,&mdash;none save yourself knows it. I'm sure I may trust you with
the<br>
secret."</p>

<p>"Fear not in the least, Catherine; you have rendered me a
great service.<br>
Let me look at it once more; ah, there's no difficulty in
detecting it. And<br>
you are certain she is unaware of it?"</p>

<p>"Perfectly so; she has several other costumes, but in this one
I know she<br>
intends some surprise, so be upon your guard."</p>

<p>With these words, carefully once more concealing the rich
dress beneath the<br>
mantle, she withdrew; while I strolled forth to wonder what
mystery might<br>
lie beneath this scheme, and speculate how far I myself was
included in the<br>
plot she spoke of.</p>

<p>For the few days which succeeded, I passed my time much alone.
The senhora<br>
was but seldom at home; and I remarked that Power rarely came to
see me. A<br>
strange feeling of half-coolness had latterly grown between us,
and instead<br>
of the open confidence we formerly indulged in when together, we
appeared<br>
now rather to chat over things of mere every-day interest than of
our own<br>
immediate plans and prospects. There was a kind of
pre-occupation, too, in<br>
his manner that struck me; his mind seemed ever straying from the
topics he<br>
talked of to something remote, and altogether, he was no longer
the frank<br>
and reckless dragoon I had ever known him. What could be the
meaning of<br>
this change? Had he found out by any accident that I was to blame
in my<br>
conduct towards Lucy; had any erroneous impression of my
interview with her<br>
reached his ears? This was most improbable; besides, there was
nothing in<br>
that to draw down his censure or condemnation, however
represented; and was<br>
it that he was himself in love with her, that, devoted heart and
soul to<br>
Lucy, he regarded me as a successful rival, preferred before him!
Oh, how<br>
could I have so long blinded myself to the fact! This was the
true solution<br>
of the whole difficulty. I had more than once suspected this to
be so; now<br>
all the circumstances of proof poured in upon me. I called to
mind his<br>
agitated manner the night of my arrival in Lisbon, his thousand
questions<br>
concerning the reasons of my furlough; and then, lately, the look
of<br>
unfeigned pleasure with which he heard me resolve to join my
regiment the<br>
moment I was sufficiently recovered. I remembered also how
assiduously he<br>
pressed his intimacy with the senhora, Lucy's dearest friend
here; his<br>
continual visits at the villa; those long walks in the garden,
where his<br>
very look betokened some confidential mission of the heart. Yes,
there was<br>
no doubt of it, he loved Lucy Dashwood! Alas, there seemed to be
no end to<br>
the complication of my misfortunes; one by one I appeared fated
to lose<br>
whatever had a hold upon my affections, and to stand alone,
unloved and<br>
uncared for in the world. My thoughts turned towards the senhora,
but<br>
I could not deceive myself into any hope there. My own feelings
were<br>
untouched, and hers I felt to be equally so. Young as I was,
there was no<br>
mistaking the easy smile of coquetry, the merry laugh of
flattered vanity,<br>
for a deeper and holier feeling. And then I did not wish it
otherwise. One<br>
only had taught me to feel how ennobling, how elevating in all
its impulses<br>
can be a deep-rooted passion for a young and beautiful girl! From
her<br>
eyes alone had I caught the inspiration that made me pant for
glory and<br>
distinction. I could not transfer the allegiance of my heart,
since it had<br>
taught that very heart to beat high and proudly. Lucy, lost to me
forever<br>
as she must be, was still more than any other woman ever could
be; all the<br>
past clung to her memory, all the prestige of the future must
point to it<br>
also.</p>

<p>And Power, why had he not trusted, why had he not confided in
me? Was this<br>
like my old and tried friend? Alas! I was forgetting that in his
eye I was<br>
the favored rival, and not the despised, rejected suitor.</p>

<p>"It is past now," thought I, as I rose and walked into the
garden; "the<br>
dream that made life a fairy tale is dispelled; the cold reality
of the<br>
world is before me, and my path lies a lonely and solitary one."
My first<br>
resolution was to see Power, and relieve his mind of any
uneasiness as<br>
regarded my pretentions; they existed no longer. As for me, I was
no<br>
obstacle to his happiness; it was, then, but fair and honorable
that I<br>
should tell him so; this done, I should leave Lisbon at once. The
cavalry<br>
had for the most part been ordered to the rear; still there was
always<br>
something going forward at the outposts.</p>

<p>The idea of active service, the excitement of a campaigning
life, cheered<br>
me, and I advanced along the dark alley of the garden with a
lighter and a<br>
freer heart. My resolves were not destined to meet delay; as I
turned the<br>
angle of a walk, Power was before me. He was leaning against a
tree, his<br>
hands crossed upon his bosom, his head bowed forward, and his
whole air and<br>
attitude betokening deep reflection.</p>

<p>He started as I came up, and seemed almost to change
color.</p>

<p>"Well, Charley," said he, after a moment's pause, "you look
better this<br>
morning. How goes the arm?"</p>

<p>"The arm is ready for service again, and its owner most
anxious for it. Do<br>
you know, Fred, I'm thoroughly weary of this life."</p>

<p>"They're little better, however, at the lines. The French are
in position,<br>
but never adventure a movement; and except some few affairs at
the pickets,<br>
there is really nothing to do."</p>

<p>"No matter, remaining here can never serve one's interests,
and besides, I<br>
have accomplished what I came for&mdash;"</p>

<p>I was about to add, "the restoration of my health," when he
suddenly<br>
interrupted me, eying me fixedly as he spoke.</p>

<p>"Indeed! indeed! Is that so?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said I, half puzzled at the tone and manner of the
speech; "I can<br>
join now when I please; meanwhile, Fred, I have been thinking of
you. Yes,<br>
don't be surprised, at the very moment we met you were in my
thoughts."</p>

<p>I took his arm as I said this, and led him down the alley.</p>

<p>"We are too old and, I trust, too true friends, Fred, to have
secrets from<br>
each other, and yet we have been playing this silly game for some
weeks<br>
past. Now, my dear fellow, I have yours, and it is only fair
justice you<br>
should have mine, and, faith, I feel you'd have discovered it
long since,<br>
had your thoughts been as free as I have known them to be. Fred,
you are in<br>
love; there, don't wince, man, I know it; but hear me out. You
believe me<br>
to be so also; nay, more, you think that my chances of success
are better,<br>
stronger than your own; learn, then, that I have
none,&mdash;absolutely none.<br>
Don't interrupt me now, for this avowal cuts me deeply; my own
heart alone<br>
knows what I suffer as I record my wrecked fortunes; but I repeat
it, my<br>
hopes are at end forever; but, Fred, my boy, I cannot lose my
friend too.<br>
If I have been the obstacle to your path, I am so no more. Ask me
not why;<br>
it is enough that I speak in all truth and sincerity. Ere three
days I<br>
shall leave this, and with it all the hopes that once beamed upon
my<br>
fortunes, and all the happiness,&mdash;nay, not all, my boy, for I
feel some<br>
thrill at my heart yet, as I think that I have been true to
you."</p>

<p>I know not what more I spoke nor how he replied to me. I felt
the warm<br>
grasp of his hand, I saw his delighted smile; the words of
grateful<br>
acknowledgment his lips uttered conveyed but an imperfect meaning
to my<br>
ear, and I remembered no more.</p>

<p>The courage which sustained me for the moment sank gradually
as I meditated<br>
over my avowal, and I could scarce help accusing Power of a
breach of<br>
friendship for exacting a confession which, in reality, I had
volunteered<br>
to give him. How Lucy herself would think of my conduct was ever
occurring<br>
to my thoughts, and I felt, as I ruminated upon the conjectures
it might<br>
give rise to, how much more likely a favorable opinion might now
be formed<br>
of me, than when such an estimation could have crowned me with
delight.</p>

<p>"Yes," thought I, "she will at last learn to know him who
loved her with<br>
truth and with devoted affection; and when the blight of all his
hopes is<br>
accomplished, the fair fame of his fidelity will be proved. The
march,<br>
the bivouac, the battle-field, are now all to me; and the
campaign alone<br>
presents a prospect which may fill up the aching void that
disappointed and<br>
ruined hopes have left behind them."</p>

<p>How I longed for the loud call of the trumpet, the clash of
the steel, the<br>
tramp of the war-horse; though the proud distinction of a
soldier's life<br>
were less to me in the distance than the mad and whirlwind
passion of a<br>
charge, and the loud din of the rolling artillery.</p>

<p>It was only some hours after, as I sat alone in my chamber,
that all the<br>
circumstances of our meeting came back clearly to my memory, and
I could<br>
not help muttering to myself,&mdash;</p>

<p>"It is indeed a hard lot, that to cheer the heart of my
friend, I must bear<br>
witness to the despair that shed darkness on my own."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XVI.</p>

<p>MY CHARGER.</p>

<p>Although I felt my heart relieved of a heavy load by the
confession I had<br>
made to Power, yet still I shrank from meeting him for some days
after;<br>
a kind of fear lest he should in any way recur to our
conversation<br>
continually beset me, and I felt that the courage which bore me
up for my<br>
first effort would desert me on the next occasion.</p>

<p>My determination to join my regiment was now made up, and I
sent forward a<br>
resignation of my appointment to Sir George Dashwood's staff,
which I<br>
had never been in health to fulfil, and commenced with energy all
my<br>
preparations for a speedy departure.</p>

<p>The reply to my rather formal letter was a most kind note
written by<br>
himself. He regretted the unhappy cause which had so long
separated us, and<br>
though wishing, as he expressed it, to have me near him,
perfectly approved<br>
of my resolution.</p>

<p>    "Active service alone, my dear boy, can ever place you in
the<br>
    position you ought to occupy; and I rejoice the more at your
decision<br>
    in this matter, as I feared the truth of certain reports
here,<br>
    which attributed to you other plans than those which a
campaign<br>
    suggests. My mind is now easy on this score, and I pray you
forgive<br>
    me if my congratulations are <i>mal &agrave; propos</i>."</p>

<p>After some hints for my future management, and a promise of
some letters to<br>
his friends at headquarters, he concluded:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "As this climate does not seem to suit my daughter, I
have<br>
    applied for a change, and am in daily hope of obtaining it.
Before<br>
    going, however, I must beg your acceptance of the charger
which my<br>
    groom will deliver to your servant with this. I was so struck
with<br>
    his figure and action that I purchased him before leaving
England<br>
    without well knowing why or wherefore. Pray let him see
some<br>
    service under your auspices, which he is most unlikely to do
under<br>
    mine. He has plenty of bone to be a weight carrier, and they
tell<br>
    me also that he has speed enough for anything."</p>

<p>Mike's voice in the lawn beneath interrupted my reading
farther, and on<br>
looking out, I perceived him and Sir George Dashwood's servant
standing<br>
beside a large and striking-looking horse, which they were both
examining<br>
with all the critical accuracy of adepts.</p>

<p>"Arrah, isn't he a darling, a real beauty, every inch of
him?"</p>

<p>"That 'ere splint don't signify nothing; he aren't the worse
of it," said<br>
the English groom.</p>

<p>"Of coorse it doesn't," replied Mike. "What a fore-hand, and
the legs,<br>
clean as a whip!"</p>

<p>"There's the best of him, though," interrupted the other,
patting the<br>
strong hind-quarters with his hand. "There's the stuff to push
him along<br>
through heavy ground and carry him over timber."</p>

<p>"Or a stone wall," said Mike, thinking of Galway.</p>

<p>My own impatience to survey my present had now brought me into
the<br>
conclave, and before many minutes were over I had him saddled,
and was<br>
cantering around the lawn with a spirit and energy I had not felt
for<br>
months long. Some small fences lay before me, and over these he
carried me<br>
with all the ease and freedom of a trained hunter. My courage
mounted with<br>
the excitement, and I looked eagerly around for some more bold
and dashing<br>
leap.</p>

<p>"You may take him over the avenue gate," said the English
groom, divining<br>
with a jockey's readiness what I looked for; "he'll do it, never
fear him."</p>

<p>Strange as my equipment was, with an undress jacket flying
loosely open,<br>
and a bare head, away I went. The gate which the groom spoke of
was a<br>
strongly-barred one of oak timber, nearly five feet high,&mdash;its
difficulty<br>
as a leap only consisted in the winding approach, and the fact
that it<br>
opened upon a hard road beyond it.</p>

<p>In a second or two a kind of half fear came across me. My long
illness had<br>
unnerved me, and my limbs felt weak and yielding; but as I
pressed into the<br>
canter, that secret sympathy between the horse and his rider shot
suddenly<br>
through me, I pressed my spurs to his flanks, and dashed him at
it.</p>

<p>Unaccustomed to such treatment, the noble animal bounded madly
forward.<br>
With two tremendous plunges he sprang wildly in the air, and
shaking his<br>
long mane with passion, stretched out at the gallop.</p>

<a name="0124"></a>
<img alt="0124.jpg (204K)" src="0124.jpg" height="719" width="805">

<p>[CHARLEY TRYING A CHARGER.]</p>
<br><br>


<p>My own blood boiled now as tempestuously as his; and with a
shout of<br>
reckless triumph, I rose him at the gate. Just at the instant two
figures<br>
appeared before it,&mdash;the copse had concealed their approach
hitherto,&mdash;but<br>
they stood now as if transfixed. The wild attitude of the horse,
the not<br>
less wild cry of his rider, had deprived them for a time of all
energy; and<br>
overcome by the sudden danger, they seemed rooted to the ground.
What I<br>
said, spoke, begged, or imprecated, Heaven knows&mdash;not I. But they
stirred<br>
not! One moment more and they must lie trampled beneath my
horse's<br>
hoofs,&mdash;he was already on his haunches for the bound,&mdash;when,
wheeling half<br>
aside, I faced him at the wall. It was at least a foot higher and
of solid<br>
stone masonry, and as I did so I felt that I was perilling my
life to save<br>
theirs. One vigorous dash of the spur I gave him, as I lifted him
to the<br>
leap. He bounded beneath it quick as lightning; still, with a
spring like<br>
a rocket, he rose into the air, cleared the wall, and stood
trembling and<br>
frightened on the road outside.</p>

<p>"Safe, by Jupiter! and splendidly done, too," cried a voice
near me, that I<br>
immediately recognized as Sir George Dashwood's.</p>

<p>"Lucy, my love, look up,&mdash;Lucy, my dear, there's no danger
now. She has<br>
fainted! O'Malley, fetch some water,&mdash;fast. Poor fellow, your own
nerves<br>
seem shaken. Why, you've let your horse go! Come here, for
Heaven's sake!<br>
Support her for an instant. I'll fetch some water."</p>

<p>It appeared to me like a dream; I leaned against the pillar of
the gate;<br>
the cold and death-like features of Lucy Dashwood lay motionless
upon my<br>
arm; her hand, falling heavily upon my shoulder, touched my
cheek. The<br>
tramp of my horse, as he galloped onward, was the only sound that
broke the<br>
silence, as I stood there, gazing steadfastly upon the pale brow
and paler<br>
cheek, down which a solitary tear was slowly stealing. I knew not
how the<br>
minutes passed; my memory took no note of time, but at length a
gentle<br>
tremor thrilled her frame, a slight, scarce-perceptible blush
colored her<br>
fair face, her lips slightly parted, and heaving a deep sigh, she
looked<br>
around her. Gradually her eyes turned and met mine. Oh, the
bliss<br>
unutterable of that moment! It was no longer the look of cold
scorn she had<br>
given me last; the expression was one of soft and speaking
gratitude. She<br>
seemed to read my very heart, and know its truth; there was a
tone of deep<br>
and compassionate interest in the glance; and forgetting
all,&mdash;everything<br>
that had passed,&mdash;all save my unaltered, unalterable love, I
kneeled beside<br>
her, and in words burning as my own heart burned, poured out my
tale<br>
of mingled sorrow and affection with all the eloquence of
passion. I<br>
vindicated my unshaken faith,&mdash;reconciling the conflicting
evidences with<br>
the proofs I proffered of my attachment. If my moments were
measured, I<br>
spent them not idly. I called to witness how every action of my
soldier's<br>
life emanated from her; how her few and chance words had decided
the<br>
character of my fate; if aught of fame or honor were my portion,
to her I<br>
owed it. As, hurried onwards by my ardent hopes, I forgot Power
and all<br>
about him, a step up the gravel walk came rapidly nearer, and I
had but<br>
time to assume my former attitude beside Lucy as her father came
up.</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, is she better? Oh, I see she is. Here, we have
the whole<br>
household at our heels." So saying, he pointed to a string of
servants<br>
pressing eagerly forward with every species of restorative that
Portuguese<br>
ingenuity has invented.</p>

<p>The next moment we were joined by the senhora, who, pale with
fear, seemed<br>
scarcely less in need of assistance than her friend.</p>

<p>Amidst questions innumerable; explanations sought for on all
sides;<br>
mistakes and misconceptions as to the whole occurrence,&mdash;we took
our way<br>
towards the villa, Lucy walking between Sir George and Donna
Inez, while I<br>
followed, leaning upon Power's arm.</p>

<p>"They've caught him again, O'Malley," said the general,
turning half round<br>
to me; "he, too, seemed as much frightened as any of us."</p>

<p>"It is time, Sir George, I should think of thanking you. I
never was so<br>
mounted in my life&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A splendid charger, by Jove!" said Power; "but, Charley, my
lad, no more<br>
feats of this nature, if you love me. No girl's heart will stand
such<br>
continual assaults as your winning horsemanship submits it
to."</p>

<p>I was about making some half-angry reply, when he continued:
"There, don't<br>
look sulky; I have news for you. Quill has just arrived. I met
him at<br>
Lisbon; he has got leave of absence for a few days, and is coming
to our<br>
masquerade here this evening."</p>

<p>"This evening!" said I, in amazement; "why, is it so
soon?"</p>

<p>"Of course it is. Have you not got all your trappings ready?
The Dashwoods<br>
came out here on purpose to spend the day; but come, I'll drive
you into<br>
town. My tilbury is ready, and we'll both look out for our
costumes." So<br>
saying, he led me along towards the house, when, after a rapid
change of my<br>
toilet, we set out for Lisbon.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XVII.</p>

<p>MAURICE.</p>

<p>It seemed a conceded matter between Power and myself that we
should never<br>
recur to the conversation we held in the garden; and so, although
we dined<br>
<i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i> that day, neither of us
ventured, by any allusion the most<br>
distant, to advert to what it was equally evident was uppermost
in the<br>
minds of both.</p>

<p>All our endeavors, therefore, to seem easy and unconcerned
were in vain;<br>
a restless anxiety to seem interested about things and persons we
were<br>
totally indifferent to, pervaded all our essays at conversation.
By<br>
degrees, we grew weary of the parts we were acting, and each
relapsed<br>
into a moody silence, thinking over his plans and projects, and
totally<br>
forgetting the existence of the other.</p>

<p>The decanter was passed across the table without speaking, a
half nod<br>
intimated the bottle was standing; and except an occasional
malediction<br>
upon an intractable cigar, nothing was heard.</p>

<p>Such was the agreeable occupation we were engaged in, when,
towards nine<br>
o'clock, the door opened, and the great Maurice himself stood
before us.</p>

<p>"Pleasant fellows, upon my conscience, and jovial over their
liquor!<br>
Confound your smoking! That may do very well in a bivouac. Let us
have<br>
something warm!"</p>

<p>Quill's interruption was a most welcome one to both parties,
and we<br>
rejoiced with a sincere pleasure at his coming.</p>

<p>"What shall it be, Maurice? Port or sherry mulled, and an
anchovy?"</p>

<p>"Or what say you to a bowl of bishop?" said I.</p>

<p>"Hurrah for the Church, Charley! Let us have the bishop; and
not to<br>
disparage Fred's taste, we'll be eating the anchovy while the
liquor's<br>
concocting."</p>

<p>"Well, Maurice, and now for the news. How are matters at
Torres Vedras?<br>
Anything like movement in that quarter?"</p>

<p>"Nothing very remarkable. Massena made a reconnoissance some
days since,<br>
and one of our batteries threw a shower of grape among the staff,
which<br>
spoiled the procession, and sent them back in very disorderly
time. Then<br>
we've had a few skirmishes to the front with no great results,&mdash;a
few<br>
courts-martial, bad grub, and plenty of grumbling."</p>

<p>"Why, what would they have? It's a great thing to hold the
French army in<br>
check within a few marches of Lisbon."</p>

<p>"Charley, my man, who cares twopence for the French army or
Lisbon or the<br>
Portuguese or the Junta or anything about it?&mdash;every man is
pondering over<br>
his own affairs. One fellow wants to get home again, and be sent
upon some<br>
recruiting station. Another wishes to get a step or two in
promotion, to<br>
come to Torres Vedras, where even the <i>grande arm&eacute;e</i>
can't. Then some of us<br>
are in love, and some of us are in debt. Their is neither glory
nor profit<br>
to be had. But here's the bishop, smoking and steaming with an
odor of<br>
nectar!"</p>

<p>"And our fellows, have you seen them lately?"</p>

<p>"I dined with yours on Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Yes. I dined
with them.<br>
By-the-bye, Sparks was taken prisoner that morning."</p>

<p>"Sparks taken prisoner! Poor fellow. I am sincerely sorry. How
did it<br>
happen, Maurice?"</p>

<p>"Very simply. Sparks had a forage patrol towards Vieda, and
set out early<br>
in the morning with his party. It seemed that they succeeded
perfectly, and<br>
were returning to the lines, when poor Sparks, always susceptible
where the<br>
sex are concerned, saw, or thought he saw, a lattice gently open
as he rode<br>
from the village, and a very taper finger make a signal to him.
Dropping a<br>
little behind the rest, he waited till his men had debouched upon
the road,<br>
when riding quietly up, he coughed a couple of times to attract
the fair<br>
unknown; a handkerchief waved from the lattice in reply, which
was speedily<br>
closed, and our valiant cornet accordingly dismounted and entered
the<br>
house.</p>

<p>"The remainder of the adventure is soon told; for in a few
seconds after,<br>
two men mounted on one horse were seen galloping at top speed
towards the<br>
French lines,&mdash;the foremost being a French officer of the 4th
Cuirassiers,<br>
the gentleman with his face to the tail, our friend Sparks; the
lovely<br>
unknown being a, <i>vieille moustache</i> of Loison's corps, who had
been<br>
wounded in a skirmish some days before, and lay waiting an
opportunity of<br>
rejoining his party. One of our prisoners knew this fellow well;
he had<br>
been promoted from the ranks, and was a Hercules for feats of
strength; so<br>
that, after all, Sparks could not help himself."</p>

<p>"Well, I'm really sorry; but as you say, Sparks's tender
nature is always<br>
the ruin of him."</p>

<p>"Of him! ay, and of you; and of Power; and of myself; of all
of us. Isn't<br>
it the sweet creatures that make fools of us from Father Adam
down to<br>
Maurice Quill, neither sparing age nor rank in the service,
half-pay nor<br>
the veteran battalion&mdash;it's all one? Pass the jug, there.
O'Shaughnessy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ah, by-the-bye, how's the major?"</p>

<p>"Charmingly; only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir
Arthur&mdash;Lord<br>
Wellington, I mean&mdash;had him up for his fellows being caught
pillaging, and<br>
gave him a devil of a rowing a few days ago.</p>

<p>"'Very disorderly corps yours, Major O'Shaughnessy,' said the
general;<br>
'more men up for punishment than any regiment in the
service.'</p>

<p>"Shaugh muttered something; but his voice was lost in a
loud<br>
cock-a-doo-do-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the
moment.</p>

<p>"'If the officers do their duty, Major O'Shaughnessy, these
acts of<br>
insubordination do not occur.'</p>

<p>"'Cock-a-doo-do-doo,' was the reply. Some of the staff found
it hard not to<br>
laugh; but the general went on,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I'll draft the
men into West<br>
India regiments.'</p>

<p>"'Cock-a-doo-do-doo.'</p>

<p>"'And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are
detected in the<br>
quarters, or about the person of the troops&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Cock-a-doo-do-<i>doo</i>,' screamed louder here than ever.</p>

<p>"'Damn that cock! Where is it?'</p>

<p>"There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in
vain; when<br>
a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from O'Shaughnessy's
coat<br>
pocket,&mdash;thus detecting the valiant major himself in the very
practice of<br>
his corps. There was no standing this: every one burst out into a
peal of<br>
laughing; and Lord Wellington himself could not resist, but
turned away,<br>
muttering to himself as he went, 'Damned robbers&mdash;every man of
them!' while<br>
a final war-note from the major's pocket closed the
interview."</p>

<p>"Confound you, Maurice, you've always some villanous narrative
or other.<br>
You never crossed a street for shelter without making something
out of it."</p>

<p>"True this time, as sure as my name's Maurice; but the bowl is
empty."</p>

<p>"Never mind, here comes its successor. How long can you stay
among us?"</p>

<p>"A few days at most. Just took a run off to see the sights. I
was all over<br>
Lisbon this morning; saw the Inquisition and the cells and the
place where<br>
they tried the fellows,&mdash;the kind of grand jury room with the
great picture<br>
of Adam and Eve at the end of it. What a beautiful creature she
is; hair<br>
down to her waist, and such eyes! 'Ah, ye darling!' said I to
myself,<br>
'small blame to him for what he did. Wouldn't I ate every crab in
the<br>
garden, if ye asked me!'"</p>

<p>"I must certainly go to see her, Maurice. Is she very
Portuguese in her<br>
style?"</p>

<p>"Devil a bit of it! She might be a Limerick-woman with elegant
brown hair<br>
and blue eyes and a skin like snow."</p>

<p>"Come, come, they've pretty girls in Lisbon too, Doctor."</p>

<p>"Yes, faith," said Power, "that they have."</p>

<p>"Nothing like Ireland, boys; not a bit of it; they're the
girls for my<br>
money; and where's the man can resist them? From Saint Patrick,
that had to<br>
go and live in the Wicklow mountains&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Saint Kevin, you mean, Doctor."</p>

<p>"Sure it's all the same, they were twins. I made a little song
about them<br>
one evening last week,&mdash;the women I mean."</p>

<p>"Let us have it, Maurice; let us have it, old fellow. What's
the measure?"</p>

<p>"Short measure; four little verses, devil a more!"</p>

<p>"But the time, I mean?"</p>

<p>"Whenever you like to sing it; here it is,"&mdash;</p>

<p>    THE GIRLS OF THE WEST.</p>

<p>    Air,&mdash;"<i>Teddy, ye Gander</i>."</p>

<p>    (<i>With feeling: but not too slow</i>.)</p>

<p>    You may talk, if you please,<br>
    Of the brown Portuguese,<br>
    But wherever you roam, wherever you roam,<br>
    You nothing will meet,<br>
    Half so lovely or sweet,<br>
    As the girls at home, the girls at home.</p>

<p>    Their eyes are not sloes,<br>
    Nor so long is their nose,<br>
    But between me and you, between me and you,<br>
    They are just as alarming,<br>
    And ten times more charming,<br>
    With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.</p>

<p>    They don't ogle a man,<br>
    O'er the top of their fan<br>
    Till his heart's in a flame, till his heart's in a flame<br>
    But though bashful and shy,<br>
    They've a look in their eye<br>
    That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.</p>

<p>    No mantillas they sport,<br>
    But a petticoat short<br>
    Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,<br>
    And a leg&mdash;but, O murther!<br>
    I dare not go further;<br>
    So here's to the west, so here's to the west.</p>

<p>"Now that really is a sweet little thing. Moore's isn't
it?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it; my own muse, every word of it."</p>

<p>"And the music?" said I.</p>

<p>"My own, too. Too much spice in that bowl; that's an
invariable error in<br>
your devisers of drink, to suppose that the tipple you start with
can<br>
please your palate to the last; they forget that as we advance,
either in<br>
years or lush, our tastes simplify."</p>

<p>"<i>Nous revenons &agrave; nos premi&egrave;res amours</i>. Isn't
that it?"</p>

<p>"No, not exactly, for we go even further; for if you mark the
progression<br>
of a sensible man's fluids, you'll find what an emblem of life it
presents<br>
to you. What is his initiatory glass of 'Chablis' that he throws
down with<br>
his oysters but the budding expectancy of boyhood,&mdash;the
appetizing sense of<br>
pleasure to come; then follows the sherry with his soup, that
warming glow<br>
which strength and vigor in all their consciousness impart, as a
glimpse of<br>
life is opening before him. Then youth succeeds&mdash;buoyant, wild,
tempestuous<br>
youth&mdash;foaming and sparkling like the bright champagne whose
stormy surface<br>
subsides into a myriad of bright stars."</p>

<p>"<i>Oeil de perdrix</i>."</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it; woman's own eye, brilliant, sparkling,
life-giving&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Devil take the fellow, he's getting poetical!"</p>

<p>"Ah, Fred! if that could only last; but one must come to the
burgundies<br>
with his maturer years. Your first glass of hermitage is the
algebraic sign<br>
for five-and-thirty,&mdash;the glorious burst is over; the pace is
still good,<br>
to be sure, but the great enthusiasm is past. You can afford to
look<br>
forward, but confound it, you've along way to look back
also."</p>

<p>"I say, Charley, our friend has contrived to finish the bishop
during his<br>
disquisition; the bowl's quite empty."</p>

<p>"You don't say so, Fred. To be sure, how a man does forget
himself in<br>
abstract speculations; but let us have a little more, I've not
concluded my<br>
homily."</p>

<p>"Not a glass, Maurice; it's already past nine. We are all
pledged to<br>
the masquerade, and before we've dressed and got there, 't will
be late<br>
enough."</p>

<p>"But I'm not disguised yet, my boy, nor half."</p>

<p>"Well, they must take you <i>au naturel</i>, as our countrymen do
their<br>
potatoes."</p>

<p>"Yes, Doctor, Fred's right; we had better start."</p>

<p>"Well, I can't help it; I've recorded my opposition to the
motion, but I<br>
must submit; and now that I'm on my legs, explain to me what's
that very<br>
dull-looking old lamp up there?"</p>

<p>"That's the moon, man; the full moon."</p>

<p>"Well, I've no objection; I'm full too: so come along,
lads."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XVIII.</p>

<p>THE MASQUERADE.</p>

<p>To form one's impression of a masked ball from the attempts at
this mode<br>
of entertainment in our country, is but to conceive a most
imperfect and<br>
erroneous notion. With us, the first <i>coup d'oeil</i> is everything;
the<br>
nuns, the shepherdesses, the Turks, sailors, eastern princes,
watchmen,<br>
moonshees, milestones, devils, and Quakers are all very well in
their way<br>
as they pass in the review before us, but when we come to mix in
the<br>
crowd, we discover that, except the turban and the cowl, the
crook and<br>
the broad-brim, no further disguise is attempted or thought of.
The nun,<br>
forgetting her vow and her vestments, is flirting with the devil;
the<br>
watchman, a very fastidious elegant, is ogling the fishwomen
through his<br>
glass; while the Quaker is performing a <i>pas seul</i> Alberti might
be proud<br>
of, in a quadrille of riotous Turks and half-tipsy Hindoos; in
fact, the<br>
whole wit of the scene consists in absurd associations. Apart
from this,<br>
the actors have rarely any claims upon your attention; for even
supposing<br>
a person clever enough to sustain his character, whatever it be,
you must<br>
also supply the other personages of the drama, or, in stage
phrase, he'll<br>
have nothing to "play up to." What would be Bardolph without
Pistol; what<br>
Sir Lucius O'Triuger without Acres? It is the relief which throws
out the<br>
disparities and contradictions of life that afford us most
amusement; hence<br>
it is that one swallow can no more make a summer, than one
well-sustained<br>
character can give life to a masquerade. Without such sympathies,
such<br>
points of contact, all the leading features of the individual,
making him<br>
act and be acted upon, are lost; the characters being mere
parallel lines,<br>
which, however near they approach, never bisect or cross each
other.</p>

<p>This is not the case abroad: the domino, which serves for mere
concealment,<br>
is almost the only dress assumed, and the real disguise is
therefore thrown<br>
from necessity upon the talents, whatever they be, of the wearer.
It is<br>
no longer a question of a beard or a spangled mantle, a Polish
dress or<br>
a pasteboard nose; the mutation of voice, the assumption of a
different<br>
manner, walk, gesture, and mode of expression, are all necessary,
and no<br>
small tact is required to effect this successfully.</p>

<p>I may be pardoned this little digression, as it serves to
explain in some<br>
measure how I felt on entering the splendidly lit up <i>salons</i> of
the<br>
villa, crowded with hundreds of figures in all the varied
costumes of a<br>
carnival,&mdash;the sounds of laughter mingled with the crash of the
music;<br>
the hurrying hither and thither of servants with refreshments;
the crowds<br>
gathered around fortune-tellers, whose predictions threw the
parties<br>
at each moment into shouts of merriment; the eager following of
some<br>
disappointed domino, interrogating every one to find out a lost
mask.<br>
For some time I stood an astonished spectator at the kind of
secret<br>
intelligence which seemed to pervade the whole assemblage, when
suddenly a<br>
mask, who for some time had been standing beside me, whispered in
French,&mdash;</p>

<p>"If you pass your time in this manner, you must not feel
surprised if your<br>
place be occupied."</p>

<p>I turned hastily round, but she was gone. She, I say, for the
voice was<br>
clearly a woman's; her pink domino could be no guide, for
hundreds of the<br>
same color passed me every instant. The meaning of the allusion I
had<br>
little doubt of. I turned to speak to Power, but he was gone; and
for the<br>
first moment of my life, the bitterness of rivalry crossed my
mind. It was<br>
true I had resigned all pretensions in his favor. My last meeting
with Lucy<br>
had been merely to justify my own character against an impression
that<br>
weighed heavily on me; still, I thought he might have
waited,&mdash;another day<br>
and I should be far away, neither to witness nor grieve over his
successes.</p>

<p>"You still hesitate," whispered some one near me.</p>

<p>I wheeled round suddenly, but could not detect the speaker,
and was again<br>
relapsing into my own musings, when the same voice
repeated,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The white domino with the blue cape. Adieu."</p>

<p>Without waiting to reflect upon the singularity of the
occurrence, I now<br>
hurried along through the dense crowd, searching on every side
for the<br>
domino.</p>

<p>"Isn't that O'Malley?" said an Englishman to his friend.</p>

<p>"Yes," replied the other; "the very man we want. O'Malley,
find a partner;<br>
we have been searching a <i>vis-&agrave;-vis</i> this ten
minutes."</p>

<p>The speaker was an officer I had met at Sir George Dashwood's.
"How did you<br>
discover me?" said I, suddenly.</p>

<p>"Not a very difficult thing if you carry your mask in your
hand that way,"<br>
was the answer.</p>

<p>And I now perceived that in the distraction of my thoughts I
had been<br>
carrying my mask in this manner since my coming into the
room.</p>

<p>"There now, what say you to the blue domino? I saw her foot,
and a girl<br>
with such an instep must be a waltzer."</p>

<p>I looked round, a confused effort at memory passing across my
mind; my eyes<br>
fell at the instant upon the embroidered sleeve of the domino,
where a<br>
rosebud worked in silver at once reminded me of Catrina's secret.
"Ah,"<br>
thought I, "La Senhora herself!" She was leaning upon the arm of
a tall and<br>
portly figure in black; who this was I knew not, nor sought to
discover,<br>
but at once advancing towards Donna Inez asked her to waltz.</p>

<p>Without replying to me she turned towards her companion, who
seemed as it<br>
were to press her acceptance of my offer; she hesitated, however,
for an<br>
instant, and curtsying deeply, declined it. "Well," thought I,
"she at<br>
least has not recognized me."</p>

<p>"And yet, Senhora," said I, half jestingly, "I <i>have</i> seen you
join a<br>
bolero before now."</p>

<p>"You evidently mistake me," was the reply, but in a voice so
well feigned<br>
as almost to convince me she was right.</p>

<p>"Nay, more," said I, "under your own fair auspices did I
myself first<br>
adventure one."</p>

<p>"Still in error, believe me; I am not known to you."</p>

<p>"And yet I have a talisman to refresh your memory, should you
dare me<br>
further."</p>

<p>At this instant my hand was grasped warmly by a passing mask.
I turned<br>
round rapidly, and Power whispered in my ear,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yours forever, Charley; you've made my fortune."</p>

<p>As he hurried on I could perceive that he supported a lady on
his arm, and<br>
that she wore a loose white domino with a deep blue cape. In a
second all<br>
thought of Inez was forgotten, and anxious only to conceal my
emotion, I<br>
turned away and mingled in the crowd. Lost to all around me, I
wandered<br>
carelessly, heedlessly on, neither noticing the glittering throng
around,<br>
nor feeling a thought in common with the gay and joyous spirits
that<br>
flitted by. The night wore on, my melancholy and depression
growing ever<br>
deeper, yet so spell-bound was I that I could not leave the
place. A<br>
secret sense that it was the last time we were to meet had gained
entire<br>
possession of me, and I longed to speak a few words ere we parted
forever.</p>

<p>I was leaning on a window which looked out upon the courtyard,
when<br>
suddenly the tramp of horses attracted my attention, and I saw by
the<br>
clear moonlight a group of mounted men, whose long cloaks and
tall helmets<br>
announced dragoons, standing around the porch. At the same moment
the<br>
door of the <i>salon</i> opened, and an officer in undress, splashed
and<br>
travel-stained, entered. Making his way rapidly through the
crowd, he<br>
followed the servant, who introduced him towards the supper-room.
Thither<br>
the dense mass now pressed to learn the meaning of the singular
apparition;<br>
while my own curiosity, not less excited, led me towards the
door. As<br>
I crossed the hall, however, my progress was interrupted by a
group of<br>
persons, among whom I saw an aide-de-camp of Lord Wellington's
staff,<br>
narrating, as it were, some piece of newly-arrived intelligence.
I had<br>
no time for further inquiry, when a door opened near me, and Sir
George<br>
Dashwood, accompanied by several general officers, came forth,
the officer<br>
I had first seen enter the ball-room along with them. Every one
was by this<br>
unmasked, and eagerly looking to hear what had occurred.</p>

<p>"Then, Dashwood, you'll send off an orderly at once?" said an
old general<br>
officer beside me.</p>

<p>"This instant, my Lord. I'll despatch an aide-de-camp. The
troops shall be<br>
in marching order before noon. Oh, here's the man I want!
O'Malley, come<br>
here. Mount your horse and dash into town. Send for Brotherton
and M'Gregor<br>
to quarters, and announce the news as quickly as possible."</p>

<p>"But what am I to announce, Sir George?"</p>

<p>"That the French are in retreat,&mdash;Massena in retreat, my
lad."</p>

<p>A tremendous cheer at this instant burst from the hundreds in
the<br>
<i>salon</i>, who now heard the glorious tidings. Another cheer and
another<br>
followed,&mdash;ten thousand <i>vivas</i> rose amidst the crash of the
band, as it<br>
broke into a patriotic war chant. Such a scene of enthusiasm and
excitement<br>
I never witnessed. Some wept with joy. Others threw themselves
into their<br>
friends' arms.</p>

<p>"They're all mad, every mother's son of them!" said Maurice
Quill, as he<br>
elbowed his way through the mass; "and here's an old vestal won't
leave my<br>
arm. She has already embraced me three times, and we've finished
a flask of<br>
Malaga between us."</p>

<p>"Come, O'Malley, are you ready for the road?"</p>

<p>My horse was by this time standing saddled at the front. I
sprang at once<br>
to the saddle, and without waiting for a second order, set out
for Lisbon.<br>
Ten minutes had scarce elapsed,&mdash;the very shouts of joy of the
delighted<br>
city were still ringing in my ears,&mdash;when I was once again back
at the<br>
villa. As I mounted the steps into the hall, a carriage drew
up,&mdash;it was<br>
Sir George Dashwood's. He came forward, his daughter leaning upon
his arm.</p>

<p>"Why, O'Malley, I thought you had gone."</p>

<p>"I have returned, Sir George. Colonel Brotherton is in
waiting, and the<br>
staff also. I have received orders to set out for Benejos, where
the 14th<br>
are stationed, and have merely delayed to say adieu."</p>

<p>"Adieu, my dear boy, and God bless you!" said the warm-hearted
old man, as<br>
he pressed my hand between both his. "Lucy, here's your old
friend about to<br>
leave; come and say good-by."</p>

<p>Miss Dashwood had stopped behind to adjust her shawl. I flew
to her<br>
assistance. "Adieu, Miss Dashwood, and forever!" said I, in a
broken voice,<br>
as I took her hand in mine. "This is not your domino," said I,
eagerly, as<br>
a blue silk one peeped from beneath her mantle; "and the sleeve,
too,&mdash;did<br>
you wear this?" She blushed slightly, and assented.</p>

<p>"I changed with the senhora, who wore mine all the
evening."</p>

<p>"And Power, then, was not your partner?"</p>

<p>"I should think not,&mdash;for I never danced."</p>

<p>"Lucy, my love, are you ready? Come, be quick."</p>

<p>"Good-by, Mr. O'Malley, and <i>au revoir, n'est-ce pas?</i>"</p>

<p>I drew her glove from her hand as she spoke, and pressing my
lips upon her<br>
fingers, placed her within the carriage. "Adieu, and <i>au
revoir!</i>" said I.<br>
The carriage turned away, and a white glove was all that remained
to me of<br>
Lucy Dashwood!</p>

<p>The carriage had turned the angle of the road, and its
retiring sounds were<br>
growing gradually fainter, ere I recovered myself sufficiently to
know<br>
where I stood. One absorbing thought alone possessed me. Lucy was
not lost<br>
to me forever; Power was not my rival in that quarter,&mdash;that was
enough for<br>
me. I needed no more to nerve my arm and steel my heart. As I
reflected<br>
thus, the long loud blast of a trumpet broke upon the silence of
the<br>
night, and admonished me to depart. I hurried to my room to make
my few<br>
preparations for the road; but Mike had already anticipated
everything<br>
here, and all was in readiness.</p>

<p>But one thing now remained,&mdash;to make my adieu to the senhora.
With this<br>
intent, I descended a narrow winding stair which led from my
dressing-room,<br>
and opened by a little terrace upon the flower-garden beside
her<br>
apartments.</p>

<p>As I crossed the gravelled alley, I could not but think of the
last time I<br>
had been there. It was on the eve of departure for the Douro. I
recalled<br>
the few and fleeting moments of our leave-taking, and a thought
flashed<br>
upon me,&mdash;what if she cared for me! What if, half in coquetry,
half in<br>
reality, her heart was mixed up in those passages which daily
association<br>
gives rise to?</p>

<p>I could not altogether acquit myself of all desire to make her
believe me<br>
her admirer; nay, more, with the indolent <i>abandon</i> of my
country, I had<br>
fallen into a thousand little schemes to cheat the long hours
away, which,<br>
having no other object than the happiness of the moment, might
yet color<br>
all her after-life with sorrow.</p>

<p>Let no one rashly pronounce me a coxcomb, vain and
pretentious, for all<br>
this. In my inmost heart I had no feeling of selfishness mingled
with the<br>
consideration. It was from no sense of my own merits, no
calculation of my<br>
own chances of success, that I thought thus. Fortunately, at
eighteen one's<br>
heart is uncontaminated with such an alloy of vanity. The first
emotions of<br>
youth are pure and holy things, tempering our fiercer passions,
and calming<br>
the rude effervescence of our boyish spirit; and when we strive
to please,<br>
and hope to win affection, we insensibly fashion ourselves to
nobler and<br>
higher thoughts, catching from the source of our devotion a
portion of that<br>
charm that idealizes daily life, and makes our path in it a
glorious and a<br>
bright one.</p>

<p>Who would not exchange all the triumph of his later days, the
proudest<br>
moments of successful ambition, the richest trophies of
hard-won<br>
daring,&mdash;for the short and vivid flash that first shot through
his heart<br>
and told him he was loved. It is the opening consciousness of
life, the<br>
first sense of power that makes of the mere boy a man,&mdash;a man in
all his<br>
daring and his pride; and hence it is that in early life we feel
ever prone<br>
to indulge those fancied attachments which elevate and raise us
in our own<br>
esteem. Such was the frame of my mind when I entered the little
boudoir<br>
where once before I had ventured on a similar errand.</p>

<p>As I closed the sash-door behind me, the gray dawn of breaking
day scarcely<br>
permitted my seeing anything around me, and I felt my way towards
the door<br>
of an adjoining room, where I supposed it was likely I should
find the<br>
senhora. As I proceeded thus, with cautious step and beating
heart, I<br>
thought I heard a sound near me. I stopped and listened, and was
about<br>
again to move on, when a half-stifled sob fell upon my ear.
Slowly and<br>
silently guiding my steps towards the sounds, I reached a sofa,
when, my<br>
eyes growing by degrees more accustomed to the faint light, I
could detect<br>
a figure which, at a glance, I recognized as Donna Inez. A
cashmere shawl<br>
was loosely thrown around her, and her face was buried in her
hands. As she<br>
lay, to all seeming, still and insensible before me, her
beautiful hair<br>
fell heavily upon her back and across her arm, and her whole
attitude<br>
denoted the very abandonment of grief. A short convulsive shudder
which<br>
slightly shook her frame alone gave evidence of life, except when
a sob,<br>
barely audible in the death-like silence, escaped her.</p>

<p>I knelt silently down beside her, and gently withdrawing her
hand, placed<br>
it within mine. A dreadful feeling of self-condemnation shot
through me as<br>
I felt the gentle pressure of her taper fingers, which rested
without a<br>
struggle in my grasp. My tears fell hot and fast upon that pale
hand, as<br>
I bent in sadness over it, unable to utter a word. A rush of
conflicting<br>
thoughts passed through my brain, and I knew not what to do. I
now had no<br>
doubt upon my mind that she loved me, and that her present
affliction was<br>
caused by my approaching departure.</p>

<p>"Dearest Inez!" I stammered out at length, as I pressed her
hands to my<br>
lips,&mdash;"dearest Inez!"&mdash;a faint sob, and a slight pressure of her
hand, was<br>
the only reply. "I have come to say good-by," continued I,
gaining a little<br>
courage as I spoke; "a long good-by, too, in all likelihood. You
have heard<br>
that we are ordered away,&mdash;there, don't sob, dearest, and,
believe me, I<br>
had wished ere we parted to have spoken to you calmly and openly;
but,<br>
alas, I cannot,&mdash;I scarcely know what I say."</p>

<p>"You will not forget me?" said she, in a low voice, that sank
into my very<br>
heart. "You will not forget me?" As she spoke, her hand dropped
heavily<br>
upon my shoulder, and her rich luxuriant hair fell upon my cheek.
What a<br>
devil of a thing is proximity to a downy cheek and a black
eyelash, more<br>
especially when they belong to one whom you are disposed to
believe not<br>
indifferent to you! What I did at this precise moment there is no
necessity<br>
for recording, even had not an adage interdicted such
confessions, nor can<br>
I now remember what I said; but I can well recollect how,
gradually warming<br>
with my subject, I entered into a kind of half-declaration of
attachment,<br>
intended most honestly to be a mere <i>expos&eacute;</i> of my own
unworthiness to win<br>
her favor, and my resolution to leave Lisbon and its neighborhood
forever.</p>

<p>Let not any one blame me rashly if he has not experienced the
difficulty of<br>
my position. The impetus of love-making is like the ardor of a
fox-hunt.<br>
You care little that the six-bar gate before you is the boundary
of another<br>
gentleman's preserves or the fence of his pleasure-ground. You go
slap<br>
along at a smashing-pace, with your head up, and your hand low,
clearing<br>
all before you, the opposing difficulties to your progress giving
half<br>
the zest, because all the danger to your career. So it is with
love; the<br>
gambling spirit urges one ever onward, and the chance of failure
is a<br>
reason for pursuit, where no other argument exists.</p>

<p>"And you do love me?" said the senhora, with a soft, low
whisper that most<br>
unaccountably suggested anything but comfort to me.</p>

<p>"Love you, Inez? By this kiss&mdash;I'm in an infernal scrape!"
said I,<br>
muttering this last half of my sentence to myself.</p>

<p>"And you'll never be jealous again?"</p>

<p>"Never, by all that's lovely!&mdash;your own sweet lips. That's the
very last<br>
thing to reproach me with."</p>

<p>"And you promise me not to mind that foolish boy? For, after
all, you know,<br>
it was mere flirtation,&mdash;if even that."</p>

<p>"I'll never think of him again," said I, while my brain was
burning to make<br>
out her meaning. "But, dearest, there goes the
trumpet-call&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And, as for Pedro Mascarenhas, I never liked him."</p>

<p>"Are you quite sure, Inez?"</p>

<p>"I swear it!&mdash;so no more of him. Gonzales Cordenza&mdash;I've broke
with him<br>
long since. So that you see, dearest Frederic&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Frederic!" said I, starting almost to my feet with,
amazement, while she<br>
continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm your own,&mdash;all your own!"</p>

<p>"Oh, the coquette, the heartless jilt!" groaned I,
half-aloud.</p>

<p>"And O'Malley, Inez, poor Charley!&mdash;what of him?"</p>

<p>"Poor thing! I can't help him. But he's such a puppy, the
lesson may do him<br>
good."</p>

<p>"But perhaps he loved you, Inez?"</p>

<p>"To be sure he did; I wished him to do so,&mdash;I can't bear not
to be loved.<br>
But, Frederic, tell me, may I trust you,&mdash;will you keep faithful
to me?"</p>

<p>"Sweetest Inez! by this last kiss I swear that such as I kneel
before you<br>
now, you'll ever find me."</p>

<p>A foot upon the gravel-walk without now called me to my feet;
I sprang<br>
towards the door, and before Inez had lifted her head from the
sofa, I had<br>
reached the garden. A figure muffled in a cavalry cloak passed
near me, but<br>
without noticing me, and the next moment I had cleared the
paling, and was<br>
hurrying towards the stable, where I had ordered Mike to be in
waiting.</p>

<p>The faint streak of dull pink which announces the coming day
stretched<br>
beneath the dark clouds of the night, and the chill air of the
morning was<br>
already stirring in the leaves.</p>

<p>As I passed along by a low beech hedge which skirted the
avenue, I was<br>
struck by the sound of voices near me. I stopped to listen, and
soon<br>
detected in one of the speakers my friend Mickey Free; of the
other I was<br>
not long in ignorance.</p>

<p>"Love you, is it, bathershin? It's worship you, adore you,
my<br>
darling,&mdash;that's the word! There, acushla, don't cry; dry your
eyes&mdash;Oh,<br>
murther, it's a cruel thing to tear one's self away from the best
of<br>
living, with the run of the house in drink and kissing! Bad luck
to it for<br>
campaigning, any way, I never liked it!"</p>

<p>Catrina's reply,&mdash;for it was she,&mdash;I could not gather; but
Mike resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ay, just so, sore bones and wet grass, <i>accadent&eacute;</i>,
and half-rations. Oh,<br>
that I ever saw the day when I took to it! Listen to me now,
honey; here it<br>
is, on my knees I am before you, and throth it's not more nor
three, may be<br>
four, young women I'd say the like to; bad scran to me if I
wouldn't marry<br>
you out of a face this blessed morning just as soon as I'd look
at ye.<br>
Arrah, there now, don't be screeching and bawling; what'll the
neighbors<br>
think of us, and my own heart's destroyed with grief
entirely."</p>

<p>Poor Catrina's voice returned an inaudible answer, and not
wishing any<br>
longer to play the eavesdropper, I continued my path towards the
stable.<br>
The distant noises from the city announced a state of movement
and<br>
preparation, and more than one orderly passed the road near me at
a gallop.<br>
As I turned into the wide courtyard, Mike, breathless and
flurried with<br>
running, overtook me.</p>

<p>"Are the horses ready, Mike?" said I; "we must start this
instant?"</p>

<p>"They've just finished a peck of oats apiece, and faix, that
same may be a<br>
stranger to them this day six months."</p>

<p>"And the baggage, too?"</p>

<p>"On the cars, with the staff and the light brigade. It was
down there I was<br>
now, to see all was right."</p>

<p>"Oh, I'm quite aware; and now bring out the cattle. I hope
Catrina received<br>
your little consolations well. That seems a very sad affair."</p>

<p>"Murder, real murder, devil a less! It's no matter where you
go, from<br>
Clonmel to Chayney, it's all one; they've a way of getting round
you. Upon<br>
my soul, it's like the pigs they are."</p>

<p>"Like pigs, Mike? That appears a strange compliment you've
selected to pay<br>
them."</p>

<p>"Ay, just like the pigs, no less. May be you've heard what
happened to<br>
myself up at Moronha?"</p>

<p>"Look to that girth there. Well, go on."</p>

<p>"I was coming along one morning, just as day was beginning to
break, when I<br>
sees a slip of a pig trotting before me, with nobody near him;
but as the<br>
road was lonely, and myself rather down in heart, I thought,
Musha! but yer<br>
fine company, anyhow, av a body could only keep you with him.
But, ye see,<br>
a pig&mdash;saving your presence&mdash;is a baste not easily flattered, so
I didn't<br>
waste time and blarney upon him, but I took off my belt, and put
it round<br>
its neck as neat as need be; but, as the devil's luck would have
it, I<br>
didn't go half an hour when a horse came galloping up behind me.
I turned<br>
round, and, by the blessed light, it was Sir Dinny himself was on
it!"</p>

<p>"Sir Dennis Pack?"</p>

<p>"Yes, bad luck to his hook nose. 'What are you doing there, my
fine<br>
fellow?' says he. 'What's that you have dragging there behind
you?'</p>

<p>"'A boneen, sir,' says I. 'Isn't he a fine crayture?&mdash;av he
wasn't so<br>
troublesome.'</p>

<p>"'Troublesome, troublesome&mdash;what do you mean?'</p>

<p>"'Just so,' says I. 'Isn't he parsecutiug the life out of me
the whole<br>
morning, following me about everywhere I go? Contrary bastes they
always<br>
was.'</p>

<p>"'I advise you to try and part company, my friend,
notwithstanding,' says<br>
he; 'or may be it's the same end you'll be coming to, and not
long either.'<br>
And faix, I took his advice; and ye see, Mister Charles, it's
just as I was<br>
saying, they're like the women, the least thing in life is enough
to bring<br>
them after us, <i>av ye only put the 'comether'</i> upon them."</p>

<p>"And now adieu to the Villa Nuova," said I, as I rode slowly
down the<br>
avenue, turning ever and anon in my saddle to look back on each
well-known<br>
spot.</p>

<p>A heavy sigh from Mike responded to my words.</p>

<p>"A long, a last farewell!" said I, waving my hand towards the
trellised<br>
walls, now half-hidden by the trees; and, as I spoke, that
heaviness of the<br>
heart came over me that seems inseparable from leave-taking. The
hour of<br>
parting seems like a warning to us that all our enjoyments and
pleasures<br>
here are destined to a short and merely fleeting existence; and
as each<br>
scene of life passes away never to return, we are made to feel
that youth<br>
and hope are passing with them; and that, although the fair world
be as<br>
bright, and its pleasures as rich in abundance, our capacity of
enjoyment<br>
is daily, hourly diminishing; and while all around us smiles in
beauty and<br>
happiness, that we, alas! are not what we were.</p>

<p>Such was the tenor of my thoughts as I reached the road, when
they were<br>
suddenly interrupted by my man Mike, whose meditations were
following<br>
a somewhat similar channel, though at last inclining to
different<br>
conclusions. He coughed a couple of times as if to attract my
attention,<br>
and then, as it were half thinking aloud, he muttered,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I wonder if we treated the young ladies well, anyhow, Mister
Charles, for,<br>
faix, I've my doubts on it."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XIX.</p>

<p>THE LINES.</p>

<p>When we reached Lescas, we found that an officer of Lord
Wellington's staff<br>
had just arrived from the lines, and was occupied in making known
the<br>
general order from headquarters; which set forth, with customary
brevity,<br>
that the French armies, under the command of Massena, had retired
from<br>
their position, and were in full retreat,&mdash;the second and third
corps,<br>
which had been stationed at Villa Franca, having marched, during
the<br>
night of the 15th, in the direction of Manal. The officers in
command of<br>
divisions were ordered to repair instantly to Pero Negro, to
consult upon a<br>
forward movement, Admiral Berkeley being written to to provide
launches to<br>
pass over General Hill's, or any other corps which might be
selected, to<br>
the left bank of the Tagus. All now was excitement, heightened by
the<br>
unexpected nature of an occurrence which not even speculation
had<br>
calculated upon. It was but a few days before, and the news had
reached<br>
Torres Vedras that a powerful reinforcement was in march to join
Massena's<br>
army, and their advanced guard had actually reached Santarem. The
confident<br>
expectation was, therefore, that an attack upon the lines was
meditated.<br>
Now, however, this prospect existed no longer; for scarcely had
the heavy<br>
mists of the lowering day disappeared, when the vast plain, so
lately<br>
peopled by the thickened ranks and dark masses of a great army,
was seen in<br>
its whole extent deserted and untenanted.</p>

<p>The smouldering fires of the pickets alone marked where the
troops had been<br>
posted, but not a man of that immense force was to be seen.
General Fane,<br>
who had been despatched with a brigade of Portuguese cavalry and
some<br>
artillery, hung upon the rear of the retiring army, and from him
we learned<br>
that the enemy were continuing their retreat northward, having
occupied<br>
Santarem with a strong force to cover the movement. Crawfurd was
ordered<br>
to the front with the light division, the whole army following in
the same<br>
direction, except Hill's corps, which, crossing the river at
Velada, was<br>
intended to harass the enemy's flank, and assist our future
operations.</p>

<p>Such, in brief, was the state of affairs when I reached Villa
Franca<br>
towards noon, and received orders to join my regiment, then
forming part of<br>
Sir Stapleton Cotton's brigade.</p>

<p>It must be felt to be thoroughly appreciated, the enthusiastic
pleasure<br>
with which one greets his old corps after some months of
separation: the<br>
bounding ecstasy with which the weary eye rests on the old
familiar faces,<br>
dear by every association of affection and brotherhood; the
anxious look<br>
for this one and for that; the thrill of delight sent through the
heart as<br>
the well-remembered march swells upon the ear; the very notes of
that rough<br>
voice which we have heard amidst the crash of battle and the
rolling of<br>
artillery, speak softly to our senses like a father's welcome;
from the<br>
well-tattered flag that waves above us to the proud steed of the
war-worn<br>
trumpeter, each has a niche in our affection.</p>

<p>If ever there was a corps calculated to increase and foster
these<br>
sentiments, the 14th Light Dragoons was such. The warm affection,
the truly<br>
heart-felt regard, which existed among my brother officers, made
of our<br>
mess a happy home. Our veteran colonel, grown gray in
campaigning, was like<br>
a father to us; while the senior officers, tempering the warm
blood of<br>
impetuous youth with their hard-won experience, threw a charm of
peace and<br>
tranquillity over all our intercourse that made us happy when
together, and<br>
taught us to feel that, whether seated around the watch-fire or
charging<br>
amidst the squadrons of the enemy, we were surrounded by those
devoted<br>
heart and soul to aid us.</p>

<p>Gallant Fourteenth!&mdash;ever first in every gay scheme of
youthful jollity, as<br>
foremost in the van to meet the foe&mdash;how happy am I to recall the
memory<br>
of your bright looks and bold hearts; of your manly daring and
your bold<br>
frankness; of your merry voices, as I have heard them in the
battle or in<br>
the bivouac! Alas and alas, that I should indulge such
recollections alone!<br>
How few&mdash;how very few&mdash;are left of those with whom I trod the
early steps<br>
of life, whose bold cheer I have heard above the clashing sabres
of the<br>
enemy, whose broken voice I have listened to above the grave of a
comrade!<br>
The dark pines of the Pyrenees wave above some, the burning sands
of India<br>
cover others, and the wide plains of Salamanca are the
abiding-place of<br>
still more.</p>

<p>"Here comes O'Malley!" shouted a well-known voice, as I rode
down the<br>
little slope at the foot of which a group of officers were
standing beside<br>
their horses.</p>

<p>"Welcome, thou man of Galway!" cried Hampden; "delighted to
have you once<br>
more among us. How confoundedly well the fellow is looking!"</p>

<p>"Lisbon beef seems better prog than commissariat biscuit!"
said another.</p>

<p>"A'weel, Charley?" said my friend the Scotch doctor; "how's a'
wi' ye man?<br>
Ye seem to thrive on your mishaps! How cam' ye by that braw
beastie ye're<br>
mounted on?"</p>

<p>"A present, Doctor; the gift of a very warm friend."</p>

<p>"I hope you invited him to the mess, O'Malley! For, by Jove,
our stables<br>
stand in need of his kind offices! There he goes! Look at him!
What a<br>
slashing pace for a heavy fellow!" This observation was made
with<br>
reference to a well-known officer on the commander-in-chief's
staff, whose<br>
weight&mdash;some two and twenty stone&mdash;never was any impediment to
his bold<br>
riding.</p>

<p>"Egad, O'Malley, you'll soon be as pretty a light-weight as
our friend<br>
yonder. Ah, there's a storm going on there! Here comes the
colonel!"</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley, are you come back to us? Happy to see you,
boy! Hope<br>
we shall not lose you again in a hurry! We can't spare the
scapegraces!<br>
There's plenty of skirmishing going on! Crawfurd always asks for
the<br>
scapegraces for the pickets!"</p>

<p>I shook my gallant colonel's hand, while I acknowledged, as
best I might,<br>
his ambiguous compliment.</p>

<p>"I say, lads," resumed the colonel, "squad your men and form
on the road!<br>
Lord Wellington's coming down this way to have a look at you!
O'Malley, I<br>
have General Crawfurd's orders to offer you your old appointment
on his<br>
staff; without you prefer to remaining with the regiment!"</p>

<p>"I can never be sufficiently grateful, sir, to the general:
but, in fact&mdash;I<br>
think&mdash;that is, I believe&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You'd rather be among your own fellows. Out with it boy! I
like you all<br>
the better! But come, we mustn't let the general know that; so
that I shall<br>
forget to tell you all about it. Eh, isn't that best? But join
your troop<br>
now; I hear the staff coming this way."</p>

<p>As he spoke, a crowd of horseman were seen advancing towards
us at a sharp<br>
trot, their waving plumes and gorgeous aiguillettes denoting
their rank<br>
as generals of division. In the midst, as they came nearer, I
could<br>
distinguish one whom once seen there was no forgetting; his plain
blue<br>
frock and gray trousers, unstrapped beneath his boots, not a
little unlike<br>
the trim accuracy of costume around him. As he rode to the head
of the<br>
leading squadron, the staff fell back and he stood alone before
us; for a<br>
second there was a dead silence, but the next instant&mdash;by what
impulse tell<br>
who can&mdash;one tremendous cheer burst from the entire regiment. It
was like<br>
the act of one man; so sudden, so spontaneous. While every cheek
glowed,<br>
and every eye sparkled with enthusiasm, he alone seemed cool and
unexcited,<br>
as, gently raising his hand, he motioned them to silence.</p>

<p>"Fourteenth, you are to be where you always desire to be,&mdash;in
the advanced<br>
guard of the army. I have nothing to say on the subject of your
conduct<br>
in the field. I know <i>you</i>; but if in pursuit of the enemy, I
hear of any<br>
misconduct towards the people of the country, or any
transgression of the<br>
general orders regarding pillage, by G&mdash;&mdash;, I'll punish you as
severely as<br>
the worst corps in the service, and you know <i>me!</i>"</p>

<p>"Oh, tear an ages, listen to that; and there's to be no
plunder after all!"<br>
said Mickey Free; and for an instant the most I could do was not
to burst<br>
into a fit of laughter. The word, "Forward!" was given at the
moment, and<br>
we moved past in close column, while that penetrating eye, which
seemed to<br>
read our very thoughts, scanned us from one end of the line to
the other.</p>

<p>"I say, Charley," said the captain of my troop, in a
whisper,&mdash;"I say, that<br>
confounded cheer we gave got us that lesson; he can't stand that
kind of<br>
thing."</p>

<p>"By Jove! I never felt more disposed than to repeat it," said
I.</p>

<p>"No, no, my boy, we'll give him the honors, nine times nine;
but wait till<br>
evening. Look at old Merivale there. I'll swear he's saying
something<br>
devilish civil to him. Do you see the old fellow's happy
look?"</p>

<p>And so it was; the bronzed, hard-cast features of the veteran
soldier<br>
were softened into an expression of almost boyish delight, as he
sat,<br>
bare-headed, bowing to his very saddle, while Lord Wellington was
speaking.</p>

<p>As I looked, my heart throbbed painfully against my side, my
breath came<br>
quick, and I muttered to myself, "What would I not give to be in
his place<br>
now!"</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XX.</p>

<p>THE RETREAT OF THE FRENCH.</p>

<p>It is not my intention, were I even adequate to the task, to
trace with<br>
anything like accuracy the events of the war at this period. In
fact, to<br>
those who, like myself, were performing a mere subaltern
character, the<br>
daily movements of our own troops, not to speak of the continual
changes<br>
of the enemy, were perfectly unknown, and an English newspaper
was more<br>
ardently longed for in the Peninsula than by the most eager crowd
of a<br>
London coffee-room; nay, the results of the very engagements we
were<br>
ourselves concerned in, more than once, first reached us through
the press<br>
of our own country. It is easy enough to understand this. The
officer in<br>
command of the regiment, and how much more, the captain of a
troop, or the<br>
subaltern under him, knows nothing beyond the sphere of his own
immediate<br>
duty; by the success or failure of his own party his knowledge is
bounded,<br>
but how far he or his may influence the fortune, of the day, or
of what is<br>
taking place elsewhere, he is totally ignorant; and an old
Fourteenth man<br>
did not badly explain, his ideas on the matter, who described
Busaco as "a<br>
great noise and a great smoke, booming artillery and rattling
small-arms,<br>
infernal confusion, and to all seeming, incessant blundering,
orders<br>
and counter-orders, ending with a crushing charge; when, not
being hurt<br>
himself, nor having hurt anybody, he felt much pleased to learn
that they<br>
had gained a victory." It is then sufficient for all the purposes
of my<br>
narrative, when I mention that Massena continued his retreat by
Santarem<br>
and Thomar, followed by the allied army, who, however desirous of
pressing<br>
upon the rear of their enemy, were still obliged to maintain
their<br>
communication with the lines, and also to watch the movement of
the large<br>
armies which, under Ney and Soult, threatened at any unguarded
moment to<br>
attack them in flank.</p>

<p>The position which Massena occupied at Santarem, naturally one
of great<br>
strength, and further improved by intrenchments, defied any
attack on<br>
the part of Lord Wellington, until the arrival of the
long-expected<br>
reinforcements from England. These had sailed in the early part
of January,<br>
but delayed by adverse winds, only reached Lisbon on the 2d of
March; and<br>
so correctly was the French marshal apprised of the circumstance,
and so<br>
accurately did he anticipate the probable result, that on the
fourth he<br>
broke up his encampment, and recommenced his retrograde movement,
with an<br>
army now reduced to forty thousand fighting men, and with two
thousand<br>
sick, destroying all his baggage and guns that could not be
horsed. By a<br>
demonstration of advancing upon the Zezere, by which he held the
allies<br>
in check, he succeeded in passing his wounded to the rear, while
Ney,<br>
appearing with a large force suddenly at Leiria, seemed bent upon
attacking<br>
the lines. By these stratagems two days' march were gained, and
the French<br>
retreated upon Torres Novas and Thomar, destroying the bridges
behind them<br>
as they passed.</p>

<p>The day was breaking on the 12th of March, when the British
first came in<br>
sight of the retiring enemy. We were then ordered to the front,
and broken<br>
up into small parties, threw out our skirmishers. The French
chasseurs,<br>
usually not indisposed to accept this species of encounter,
showed now less<br>
of inclination than usual, and either retreated before us, or
hovered in<br>
masses to check our advance; in this way the morning was passed,
when<br>
towards noon we perceived that the enemy was drawn up in battle
array,<br>
occupying the height above the village of Redinha. This little
straggling<br>
village is situated in a hollow traversed by a narrow causeway
which opens<br>
by a long and dangerous defile upon a bridge, on either side of
which a<br>
dense wood afforded a shelter for light troops, while upon the
commanding<br>
eminence above a battery of heavy guns was seen in position.</p>

<p>In front of the village a brigade of artillery and a division
of infantry<br>
were drawn up so skilfully as to give the appearance of a
considerable<br>
force, so that when Lord Wellington came up he spent some time in
examining<br>
the enemy's position. Erskine's brigade was immediately ordered
up, and the<br>
Fifty-second and Ninety-fourth, and a company of the Forty-third
were led<br>
against the wooded slopes upon the French right. Picton
simultaneously<br>
attacked the left, and in less than an hour, both were
successful, and<br>
Ney's position was laid bare; his skirmishers, however, continued
to hold<br>
their ground in front, and La Ferri&egrave;re, a colonel of
hussars, dashing<br>
boldly forward at this very moment, carried off fourteen
prisoners from<br>
the very front of our line. Deceived by the confidence of the
enemy, Lord<br>
Wellington now prepared for an attack in force. The infantry were
therefore<br>
formed into line, and, at the signal of three shots fired from
the centre,<br>
began their foremost movement.</p>

<p>Bending up a gentle curve, the whole plain glistened with the
glancing<br>
bayonets, and the troops marched majestically onward; while the
light<br>
artillery and the cavalry, bounding forward from the left and
centre,<br>
rushed eagerly towards the foe. One deafening discharge from the
French<br>
guns opened at the moment, with a general volley of small-arms.
The smoke<br>
for an instant obscured everything, and when that cleared away,
no enemy<br>
was to be seen.</p>

<p>The British pressed madly on, like heated blood-hounds; but
when they<br>
descended the slope, the village of Redinha was in flames, and
the French<br>
in full retreat beyond it. A single howitzer seemed our only
trophy, and<br>
even this we were not destined to boast of, for from the midst of
the<br>
crashing flame and dense smoke of the burning village, a troop of
dragoons<br>
rushed forward, and charging our infantry, carried it off. The
struggle,<br>
though but for a moment, cost them dear: twenty of their comrades
lay dead<br>
upon the spot; but they were resolute and determined, and the
officer who<br>
led them on, fighting hand to hand with a soldier of the
Forty-second,<br>
cheered them as they retired. His gallant bearing, and his coat
covered<br>
with decorations, bespoke him one of note, and well it might; he
who<br>
thus perilled his life to maintain the courage of his soldiers at
the<br>
commencement of a retreat, was none other than Ney himself, <i>le
plus brave<br>
des braves</i>. The British pressed hotly on, and the light troops
crossed the<br>
river almost at the same time with the French. Ney, however, fell
back upon<br>
Condeixa, where his main body was posted, and all farther pursuit
was for<br>
the present abandoned.</p>

<p>At Casa Noval and at Foz d'Aronce, the allies were successful;
but the<br>
French still continued to retire, burning the towns and villages
in their<br>
rear, and devastating the country along the whole line of march
by every<br>
expedient of cruelty the heart of man has ever conceived. In the
words of<br>
one whose descriptions, however fraught with the most wonderful
power of<br>
painting, are equally marked by truth, "Every horror that could
make war<br>
hideous attended this dreadful march. Distress, conflagration,
death in<br>
all modes,&mdash;from wounds, from fatigue, from water, from the
flames, from<br>
starvation,&mdash;vengeance, unlimited vengeance, was on every side."
The<br>
country was a desert!</p>

<p>Such was the exhaustion of the allies, who suffered even
greater privations<br>
than the enemy, that they halted upon the 16th, unable to proceed
farther;<br>
and the river Ceira, swollen and unfordable, flowed between the
rival<br>
armies.</p>

<p>The repose of even one day was a most grateful interruption to
the<br>
harassing career we had pursued for some time past; and it seemed
that my<br>
comrades felt, like myself, that such an opportunity was by no
means to<br>
be neglected; but while I am devoting so much space and
trespassing on my<br>
reader's patience thus far with narrative of flood and field, let
me steal<br>
a chapter for what will sometimes seem a scarcely less congenial
topic, and<br>
bring back the recollection of a glorious night in the
Peninsula.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXI.</p>

<p>PATRICK'S DAY IN THE PENINSULA.</p>

<p>The <i>r&eacute;veil</i> had not yet sounded, when I felt my
shoulder shaken gently as<br>
I lay wrapped up in my cloak beneath a prickly pear-tree.</p>

<p>"Lieutenant O'Malley, sir; a letter, sir; a bit of a note,
your honor,"<br>
said a voice that bespoke the bearer and myself were countrymen.
I opened<br>
it, and with difficulty, by the uncertain light, read as
follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Dear Charley,&mdash;As Lord Wellington, like a good Irishman
as<br>
    he is, wouldn't spoil Patrick's Day by marching, we've got a
little<br>
    dinner at our quarters to celebrate the holy times, as my
uncle would<br>
    call it. Maurice, Phil Grady, and some regular trumps will
all come,<br>
    so don't disappoint us. I've been making punch all night,
and<br>
    Casey, who has a knack at pastry, has made a goose-pie as big
as a<br>
    portmanteau. Sharp seven, after parade. The second battalion
of<br>
    the Fusiliers are quartered at Melant&eacute;, and we are
next them. Bring<br>
    any of yours worth their liquor. Power is, I know, absent
with the<br>
    staff; perhaps the Scotch doctor would come; try him. Carry
over<br>
    a little mustard with you, if there be such in your
parts.</p>

<p>    Yours,</p>

<p>    D. O'SHAUGHNESSY.</p>

<p>    Patrick's day, and raining like blazes.</p>

<p>Seeing that the bearer expected an answer, I scrawled the
words, "I'm<br>
there," with my pencil on the back of the note, and again turned
myself<br>
round to sleep. My slumbers were, however, soon interrupted once
more; for<br>
the bugles of the light infantry and the hoarse trumpet of the
cavalry<br>
sounded the call, and I found to my surprise that, though halted,
we were<br>
by no means destined to a day of idleness. Dragoons were already
mounted,<br>
carrying orders hither and thither, and staff-officers were
galloping right<br>
and left. A general order commanded an inspection of the troops,
and within<br>
less than an hour from daybreak the whole army was drawn up under
arms. A<br>
thin, drizzling rain continued to fall during the early part of
the day,<br>
but the sun gradually dispelled the heavy vapor; and as the
bright verdure<br>
glittered in its beams, sending up all the perfumes of a southern
clime, I<br>
thought I had never seen a more lovely morning. The staff were
stationed<br>
upon a little knoll beside the river, round the base of which the
troops<br>
defiled, at first in orderly, then in quick time, the bands
playing and the<br>
colors flying. In the same brigade with us the Eighty-eighth
came, and as<br>
they neared the commander-in-chief, their quick-step was suddenly
stopped,<br>
and after a pause of a few seconds, the band struck up "St.
Patrick's Day;"<br>
the notes were caught up by the other Irish regiments, and amidst
one<br>
prolonged cheer from the whole line, the gallant fellows moved
past.</p>

<p>The grenadier company were drawn up beside the road, and I was
not long in<br>
detecting my friend O'Shaughnessy, who wore a tremendous shamrock
in his<br>
shako.</p>

<p>"Left face, wheel! Quick march! Don't forget the mustard!"
said the bold<br>
major; and a loud roar of laughing from my brother officers
followed him<br>
off the ground. I soon explained the injunction, and having
invited some<br>
three or four to accompany me to the dinner, waited with all
patience for<br>
the conclusion of the parade.</p>

<p>The sun was setting as I mounted, and joined by Hampden,
Baker, the doctor,<br>
and another, set out for O'Shaughnessy's quarters. As we rode
along, we<br>
were continually falling in with others bent upon the same errand
as<br>
ourselves, and ere we arrived at Melant&eacute; our party was
some thirty strong;<br>
and truly a most extraordinary procession did we form. Few of
the<br>
invited came without some contribution to the general stock; and
while a<br>
staff-officer flourished a ham, a smart hussar might be seen with
a plucked<br>
turkey, trussed for roasting; most carried bottles, as the
consumption of<br>
fluid was likely to be considerable; and one fat old major jogged
along on<br>
a broken-winded pony, with a basket of potatoes on his arm. Good
fellowship<br>
was the order of the day, and certainly a more jovial squadron
seldom was<br>
met together than ours. As we turned the angle of a rising
ground, a hearty<br>
cheer greeted us, and we beheld in front of an old ordnance
marquee a party<br>
of some fifty fellows engaged in all the pleasing duties of the
<i>cuisine</i>.<br>
Maurice, conspicuous above all, with a white apron and a ladle in
his hand,<br>
was running hither and thither, advising, admonishing,
instructing, and<br>
occasionally imprecating. Ceasing for a second his functions, he
gave us a<br>
cheer and a yell like that of an Indian savage, and then resumed
his duties<br>
beside a huge boiler, which, from the frequency of his
explorations into<br>
its contents, we judged to be punch.</p>

<p>"Charley, my son, I've a place for you; don't forget. Where's
my learned<br>
brother?&mdash;haven't you brought him with you? Ah, Doctor, how goes
it?"</p>

<a name="0158"></a>
<img alt="0158.jpg (139K)" src="0158.jpg" height="505" width="811">

<p>[GOING OUT TO DINNER.]</p>
<br><br>
<p>"Nae that bad, Master Quell: a' things considered, we've had
an awfu' time<br>
of it lately."</p>

<p>"You know my friend Hampden, Maurice. Let me introduce Mr.
Baker, Mr.<br>
Maurice Quill. Where's the major?"</p>

<p>"Here I am, my darling, and delighted to see you. Some of
yours, O'Malley,<br>
ain't they? Proud to have you, gentlemen. Charley, we are obliged
to have<br>
several tables; but you are to be beside Maurice, so take your
friends with<br>
you. There goes the 'Roast Beef;' my heart warms to that old
tune."</p>

<p>Amidst a hurried recognition, and shaking of hands on every
side, I elbowed<br>
my way into the tent, and soon reached a corner, where, at a
table for<br>
eight, I found Maurice seated at one end; a huge, purple-faced
old major,<br>
whom he presented to us as Bob Mahon, occupied the other.
O'Shaughnessy<br>
presided at the table next to us, but near enough to join in all
the<br>
conviviality of ours.</p>

<p>One must have lived for some months upon hard biscuit and
harder beef<br>
to relish as we did the fare before us, and to form an estimate
of our<br>
satisfaction. If the reader cannot fancy Van Amburgh's lions in
red coats<br>
and epaulettes, he must be content to lose the effect of the
picture. A<br>
turkey rarely fed more than two people, and few were abstemious
enough to<br>
be satisfied with one chicken. The order of the viands, too,
observed no<br>
common routine, each party being happy to get what he could, and
satisfied<br>
to follow up his pudding with fish, or his tart with a sausage.
Sherry,<br>
champagne, London porter, Malaga, and even, I believe, Harvey's
sauce were<br>
hobnobbed in; while hot punch, in teacups or tin vessels, was
unsparingly<br>
distributed on all sides. Achilles himself, they say, got tired
of eating,<br>
and though he consumed something like a prize ox to his own
cheek, he at<br>
length had to call for cheese, so that we at last gave in, and
having<br>
cleared away the broken tumbrels and baggage-carts of our army,
cleared for<br>
a general action.</p>

<p>"Now, lads!" cried the major, "I'm not going to lose your time
and mine by<br>
speaking; but there are a couple of toasts I must insist upon
your drinking<br>
with all the honors; and as I like despatch, we'll couple them.
It so<br>
happens that our old island boasts of two of the finest fellows
that<br>
ever wore Russia ducks. None of your nonsensical geniuses, like
poets or<br>
painters or anything like that; but downright, straightforward,
no-humbug<br>
sort of devil-may-care and bad-luck-to-you kind of chaps,&mdash;real
Irishmen!<br>
Now, it's a strange thing that they both had such an antipathy to
vermin,<br>
they spent their life in hunting them down and destroying them;
and whether<br>
they met toads at home or Johnny Crapaud abroad, it was all one.
[Cheers.]<br>
Just so, boys; they made them leave that; but I see you are
impatient, so<br>
I'll not delay you, but fill to the brim, and with the best cheer
in your<br>
body, drink with me the two greatest Irishmen that ever lived,
'Saint<br>
Patrick and Lord Wellington.'"</p>

<p>The Englishmen laughed long and loud, while we cheered with an
energy that<br>
satisfied even the major.</p>

<p>"Who is to give us the chant? Who is to sing Saint Patrick?"
cried Maurice.<br>
"Come, Bob, out with it."</p>

<p>"I'm four tumblers too low for that yet," growled out the
major.</p>

<p>"Well, then, Charley, be you the man; or why not Dennis
himself? Come,<br>
Dennis, we cannot better begin our evening than with a song; let
us have<br>
our old friend 'Larry M'Hale.'"</p>

<p>"Larry M'Hale!" resounded from all parts of the room, while
O'Shaughnessy<br>
rose once more to his legs.</p>

<p>"Faith, boys, I'm always ready to follow your lead; but what
analogy can<br>
exist between 'Larry M'Hale' and the toast we have just drank I
can't see<br>
for the life of me; not but Larry would have made a strapping
light company<br>
man had he joined the army."</p>

<p>"The song, the song!" cried several voices.</p>

<p>"Well, if you will have it, here goes:"&mdash;</p>

<p>    LARRY M'HALE.</p>

<p>    AIR,&mdash;<i>"It's a bit of a thing</i>," <i>etc</i>.</p>

<p>    Oh, Larry M'Hale he had little to fear,<br>
    And never could want when the crops didn't fail;<br>
    He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred a year,<br>
    And the heart for to spend it, had Larry M'Hale!<br>
    The soul of a party, the life of a feast,<br>
    And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail;<br>
    He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest,<br>
    Oh, the broth of a boy was old Larry M'Hale!</p>

<p>    It's little he cared for the judge or recorder,<br>
    His house was as big and as strong as a jail;<br>
    With a cruel four-pounder, he kept in great order,<br>
    He'd murder the country, would Larry M'Hale.<br>
    He'd a blunderbuss too, of horse-pistols a pair;<br>
    But his favorite weapon was always a flail.<br>
    I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,<br>
    For he handled it neatly, did Larry M'Hale.</p>

<p>    His ancestors were kings before Moses was born,<br>
    His mother descended from great Grana Uaile;<br>
    He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn;<br>
    They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M'Hale.<br>
    He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner,<br>
    With cousins and uncles enough for a tail;<br>
    And, though loaded with debt, oh, the devil a thinner,<br>
    Could law or the sheriff make Larry M'Hale!</p>

<p>    With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored,<br>
    None lived half so well, from Fair-Head to Kinsale,<br>
    As he piously said, "I've a plentiful board,<br>
    And the Lord he is good to old Larry M'Hale."<br>
    So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him,<br>
    It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale;<br>
    For ould Erin would be a fine country to live in,<br>
    If we only had plenty like LARRY M'HALE.</p>

<p>"Very singular style of person your friend Mr. M'Hale," lisped
a<br>
spooney-looking cornet at the end of the table.</p>

<p>"Not in the country he belongs to, I assure you," said
Maurice; "but I<br>
presume you were never in Ireland."</p>

<p>"You are mistaken there," resumed the other; "I was in
Ireland, though I<br>
confess not for a long time."</p>

<p>"If I might be so bold," cried Maurice, "how long?"</p>

<p>"Half an hour, by a stop-watch," said the other, pulling up
his stock; "and<br>
I had quite enough of it in that time."</p>

<p>"Pray give us your experiences," cried out Bob Mahon; "they
should be<br>
interesting, considering your opportunities."</p>

<p>"You are right," said the cornet; "they were so; and as they
illustrate a<br>
feature in your amiable country, you shall have them."</p>

<p>A general knocking upon the table announced the impatience of
the company,<br>
and when silence was restored the cornet began:&mdash;</p>

<p>When the 'Bermuda' transport sailed from Portsmouth for
Lisbon, I happened<br>
to make one of some four hundred interesting individuals who,
before they<br>
became food for powder, were destined to try their constitutions
on pickled<br>
pork. The second day after our sailing, the winds became adverse;
it blew<br>
a hurricane from every corner of the compass but the one it
ought, and the<br>
good ship, that should have been standing straight for the Bay of
Biscay,<br>
was scudding away under a double-reefed topsail towards the coast
of<br>
Labrador. For six days we experienced every sea-manoeuvre that
usually<br>
preludes a shipwreck, and at length, when, what from sea-sickness
and fear,<br>
we had become utterly indifferent to the result, the storm
abated, the sea<br>
went down, and we found ourselves lying comfortably in the harbor
of Cork,<br>
with a strange suspicion on our minds that the frightful scenes
of the past<br>
week had been nothing but a dream.</p>

<p>"'Come, Mr. Medlicot,' said the skipper to me, 'we shall be
here for a<br>
couple of days to refit; had you not better go ashore and see the
country?'</p>

<p>"I sprang to my legs with delight; visions of cowslips, larks,
daisies, and<br>
mutton-chops floated before my excited imagination, and in ten
minutes I<br>
found myself standing at that pleasant little inn at Cove which,
opposite<br>
Spike Island, rejoices in the name of the 'Goat and Garters.'</p>

<p>"'Breakfast, waiter,' said I; 'a beefsteak,&mdash;fresh beef, mark
ye,&mdash;fresh<br>
eggs, bread, milk, and butter, all fresh. No more hard tack,'
thought I;<br>
'no salt butter, but a genuine land breakfast.'</p>

<p>"Up-stairs, No. 4, sir,' said the waiter, as he flourished a
dirty napkin,<br>
indicating the way.</p>

<p>"Up-stairs I went, and in due time the appetizing little meal
made its<br>
appearance. Never did a minor's eye revel over his broad acres
with more<br>
complacent enjoyment than did mine skim over the mutton and the
muffin,<br>
the tea-pot, the trout, and the devilled kidney, so invitingly
spread out<br>
before me. 'Yes,' thought I, as I smacked my lips, 'this is the
reward of<br>
virtue; pickled pork is a probationary state that admirably fits
us for<br>
future enjoyments.' I arranged my napkin upon my knee, seized my
knife<br>
and fork, and proceeded with most critical acumen to bisect a
beefsteak.<br>
Scarcely, however, had I touched it, when, with a loud crash, the
plate<br>
smashed beneath it, and the gravy ran piteously across the cloth.
Before I<br>
had time to account for the phenomenon, the door opened hastily,
and the<br>
waiter rushed into the room, his face beaming with smiles, while
he rubbed<br>
his hands in an ecstasy of delight.</p>

<p>"'It's all over, sir,' said he; 'glory be to God! it's all
done.'</p>

<p>"'What's over? What's done?' inquired I, with impatience.</p>

<p>"'Mr. M'Mahon is satisfied,' replied he, 'and so is the other
gentleman.'</p>

<p>"'Who and what the devil do you mean?'</p>


<a name="0163"></a>
<img alt="0163.jpg (181K)" src="0163.jpg" height="660" width="810">

<p>

[DISADVANTAGE OF BREAKFASTING OVER A
DUELLING-PARTY.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"'It's over, sir, I say,' replied the waiter again; 'he fired
in the air.'</p>

<p>"'Fired in the air! Was there a duel in the room below
stairs?'</p>

<p>"'Yes, sir,' said the waiter, with a benign smile.</p>

<p>"'That will do,' said I, as seizing my hat, I rushed out of
the house, and<br>
hurrying to the beach, took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an
hour had<br>
elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had
fully as<br>
many reasons that although there may be few more amusing, there
are some<br>
safer places to live in than the Green Isle."</p>

<p>A general burst of laughter followed the cornet's story, which
was<br>
heightened in its effect by the gravity with which he told
it.</p>

<p>"And after all," said Maurice Quill, "now that people have
given up making<br>
fortunes for the insurance companies by living to the age of
Methuselah,<br>
there's nothing like being an Irishman. In what other part of the
habitable<br>
globe can you cram so much adventure into one year? Where can you
be so<br>
often in love, in liquor, or in debt; and where can you get so
merrily out<br>
of the three? Where are promises to marry and promises to pay
treated with<br>
the same gentleman-like forbearance; and where, when you have
lost your<br>
heart and your fortune, are people found so ready to comfort you
in your<br>
reverses? Yes," said Maurice, as he filled his glass up to the
brim, and<br>
eyed it lusciously for a moment,&mdash;"yes, darling, here's your
health; the<br>
only girl I ever loved&mdash;in that part of the country, I mean. Give
her a<br>
bumper, lads, and I'll give you a chant."</p>

<p>"Name! name! name!" shouted several voices from different
parts of the<br>
table.</p>

<p>"Mary Draper!" said Maurice, filling his glass once more,
while the name<br>
was re-echoed by every lip at table.</p>

<p>"The song! the song!"</p>

<p>"Faith, I hope I haven't forgotten it," quoth Maurice. "No;
here it is."</p>

<p>So saying, after a couple of efforts to assure the pitch of
his voice, the<br>
worthy doctor began the following words to that very popular
melody, "Nancy<br>
Dawson:"&mdash;</p>

<p>    MARY DRAPER.</p>

<p>    AIR,&mdash;<i>Nancy Dawson</i>.</p>

<p>    Don't talk to me of London dames,<br>
    Nor rave about your foreign flames,<br>
    That never lived, except in drames,<br>
    Nor shone, except on paper;<br>
    I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,<br>
    Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew,<br>
    And let me tell you, mighty few<br>
    Could equal Mary Draper.</p>

<p>    Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,<br>
    Her hair was brown of deepest hue,<br>
    Her foot was small, and neat to view,<br>
    Her waist was slight and taper;<br>
    Her voice was music to your ear,<br>
    A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,<br>
    Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear,<br>
    As from sweet Mary Draper.</p>

<p>    She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team,<br>
    Or with a fly she'd whip a stream,<br>
    Or may be sing you "Rousseau's Dream,"<br>
    For nothing could escape her;<br>
    I've seen her, too,&mdash;upon my word,&mdash;<br>
    At sixty yards bring down her bird,<br>
    Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third,<br>
    Did lovely Mary Draper.</p>

<p>    And at the spring assizes' ball,<br>
    The junior bar would one and all<br>
    For all her fav'rite dances call,<br>
    And Harry Dean would caper;<br>
    Lord Clare would then forget his lore;<br>
    King's Counsel, voting law a bore,<br>
    Were proud to figure on the floor,<br>
    For love of Mary Draper.</p>

<p>    The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,<br>
    Were all her slaves, and so would you,<br>
    If you had only but one view,<br>
    Of such a face and shape, or<br>
    Her pretty ankles&mdash;But, ohone,<br>
    It's only west of old Athlone<br>
    Such girls were found&mdash;and now they're gone&mdash;<br>
    So here's to Mary Draper!</p>

<p>"So here's to Mary Draper!" sang out every voice, in such
efforts to catch<br>
the tune as pleased the taste of the motley assembly.</p>

<p>"For Mary Draper and Co., I thank you," said Maurice. "Quill
drinks to<br>
Dennis," added he, in a grave tone, as he nodded to
O'Shaughnessy. "Yes,<br>
Shaugh, few men better than ourselves know these matters; and few
have had<br>
more experience of the three perils of Irishmen,&mdash;love, liquor,
and the law<br>
of arrest."</p>

<p>"It's little the latter has ever troubled my father's son,"
replied<br>
O'Shaughnessy. "Our family have been writ proof for centuries,
and he'd<br>
have been a bold man who would have ventured with an original or
a true<br>
copy within the precincts of Killinahoula."</p>

<p>"Your father had a touch of Larry M'Hale in him," said I,
"apparently."</p>

<p>"Exactly so," replied Dennis; "not but they caught him at
last, and a<br>
scurvy trick it was and well worthy of him who did it! Yes," said
he, with<br>
a sigh, "it is only another among the many instances where the
better<br>
features of our nationality have been used by our enemies as
instruments<br>
for our destruction; and should we seek for the causes of
unhappiness in<br>
our wretched country, we should find them rather in our virtues
than in<br>
our vices, and in the bright rather than in the darker phases of
our<br>
character."</p>

<p>"Metaphysics, by Jove!" cried Quill; "but all true at the same
time. There<br>
was a mess-mate of mine in the 'Roscommon' who never paid
car-hire in his<br>
life. 'Head or harp, Paddy!' he would cry. 'Two tenpennies or
nothing.'<br>
'Harp, for the honor of ould Ireland!' was the invariable
response, and my<br>
friend was equally sure to make head come uppermost; and, upon my
soul,<br>
they seem to know the trick at the Home Office."</p>

<p>"That must have been the same fellow that took my father,"
cried<br>
O'Shaughnessy, with energy.</p>

<p>"Let us hear the story, Dennis," said I.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Maurice, "for the benefit of self and fellows, let
us hear the<br>
stratagem!"</p>

<p>"The way of it was this," resumed O'Shaughnessy. "My father,
who for<br>
reasons registered in the King's Bench spent a great many years
of his life<br>
in that part of Ireland geographically known as lying west of the
law,<br>
was obliged, for certain reasons of family, to come up to Dublin.
This he<br>
proceeded to do with due caution. Two trusty servants formed an
advance<br>
guard, and patrolled the country for at least five miles in
advance; after<br>
them came a skirmishing body of a few tenants, who, for the
consideration<br>
of never paying rent, would have charged the whole Court of
Chancery, if<br>
needful. My father himself, in an old chaise victualled like a
fortress,<br>
brought up the rear; and as I said before, he were a bold man who
would<br>
have attempted to have laid siege to him. As the column advanced
into the<br>
enemy's country, they assumed a closer order, the patrol and the
picket<br>
falling back upon the main body; and in this way they reached
that most<br>
interesting city called Kilbeggan. What a fortunate thing it is
for us in<br>
Ireland that we can see so much of the world without foreign
travel, and<br>
that any gentleman for six-and-eightpence can leave Dublin in the
morning,<br>
and visit Timbuctoo against dinner-time. Don't stare! it's truth
I'm<br>
telling; for dirt, misery, smoke, unaffected behavior, and black
faces,<br>
I'll back Kilbeggan against all Africa. Free-and-easy, pleasant
people ye<br>
are, with a skin, as begrimed and as rugged as your own potatoes!
But, to<br>
resume. The sun was just rising in a delicious morning of June,
when my<br>
father,&mdash;whose loyal antipathies I have mentioned made him also
an early<br>
riser,&mdash;was preparing for the road. A stout escort of his
followers were<br>
as usual under arms to see him safe in the chaise, the passage to
and from<br>
which every day being the critical moment of my father's
life.</p>

<p>"'It's all right, your honor,' said his own man, as, armed
with a<br>
blunderbuss, he opened the bed-room door.</p>

<p>"'Time enough, Tim,' said my father; 'close the door, for I
haven't<br>
finished my breakfast.'</p>

<p>"Now, the real truth was, that my father's attention was at
that moment<br>
withdrawn from his own concerns by a scene which was taking place
in a<br>
field beneath his window.</p>

<p>"But a few minutes before, a hack-chaise had stopped upon the
roadside, out<br>
of which sprang three gentlemen, who, proceeding into the field,
seemed<br>
bent upon something, which, whether a survey or a duel, my father
could not<br>
make out. He was not long, however, to remain in ignorance. One,
with an<br>
easy, lounging gait, strode towards a distant corner; another
took an<br>
opposite direction; while a third, a short, pursy gentleman, in a
red<br>
handkerchief and rabbit-skin waistcoat, proceeded to open a
mahogany<br>
box, which, to the critical eyes of my respected father, was
agreeably<br>
suggestive of bloodshed and murder.</p>

<p>"'A duel, by Jupiter!' said my father, rubbing his hands.
'What a heavenly<br>
morning the scoundrels have,&mdash;not a leaf stirring, and a sod like
a<br>
billiard-table!'</p>

<p>"Meanwhile the little man who officiated as second, it would
appear to<br>
<i>both</i> parties, bustled about with an activity little congenial
to his<br>
shape; and what between snapping the pistols, examining the
flints, and<br>
ramming down the charges, had got himself into a sufficient
perspiration<br>
before he commenced to measure the ground.</p>

<p>"'Short distance and no quarter!' shouted one of the
combatants, from the<br>
corner of the field.</p>

<p>"'Across a handkerchief, if you like!' roared the other.</p>

<p>"'Gentlemen, every inch of them!' responded my father.</p>

<p>"'Twelve paces!' cried the little man. 'No more and no less.
Don't forget<br>
that I am alone in this business!'</p>

<p>"'A very true remark!' observed my father; 'and an awkward
predicament<br>
yours will be if they are not both shot!'</p>

<p>"By this time the combatants had taken their places, and the
little man,<br>
having delivered the pistols, was leisurely retiring to give the
word.<br>
My father, however, whose critical eye was never at fault,
detected a<br>
circumstance which promised an immense advantage to one at the
expense of<br>
the other; in fact, one of the parties was so placed with his
back to the<br>
sun, that his shadow extended in a straight line to the very foot
of his<br>
antagonist.</p>

<p>"'Unfair, unfair!' cried my father, opening the window as he
spoke, and<br>
addressing himself to him of the rabbit-skin. 'I crave your
pardon for the<br>
interruption,' said he; 'but I feel bound to observe that that
gentleman's<br>
shadow is likely to make a shade of him.'</p>

<p>"'And so it is,' observed the short man; 'a thousand thanks
for your<br>
kindness, but the truth is, I am totally unaccustomed to this
kind of<br>
thing, and the affair will not admit of delay.'</p>

<p>"'Not an hour!' said one.</p>

<p>"'No, not five minutes!' growled the other of the
combatants.</p>

<p>"'Put them up north and south,' said my father.</p>

<p>"'Is it thus?'</p>

<p>"'Exactly so. But now, again, the gentleman in the brown coat
is covered<br>
with the ash-tree.'</p>

<p>"'And so he is!' said rabbit-skin, wiping his forehead with
agitation.</p>

<p>"'Move them a little to the left,' said he.</p>

<p>"'That brings me upon an eminence,' said the gentleman in
blue. 'I'll be<br>
d&mdash;d if I be made a cock shot of!'</p>

<p>"'What an awkward little thief it is in the hairy waistcoat!'
said my<br>
father; 'he's lucky if he don't get shot himself!'</p>

<p>"'May I never, if I'm not sick of you both!' ejaculated
rabbit-skin, in a<br>
passion. 'I've moved you round every point of the compass, and
the devil a<br>
nearer we are than ever!'</p>

<p>"'Give us the word,' said one.</p>

<p>"'The word!'</p>

<p>"'Downright murder,' said my father.</p>

<p>"'I don't care,' said the little man; 'we shall be here till
doomsday.'</p>

<p>"'I can't permit this,' said my father; 'allow me.' So saying,
he stepped<br>
upon the window-sill, and leaped down into the field.</p>

<p>"'Before I can accept of your politeness,' said he of the
rabbit-skin, 'may<br>
I beg to know your name and position in society?'</p>

<p>"'Nothing more reasonable,' said my father. 'I'm Miles
O'Shaughnessy,<br>
Colonel of the Royal Raspers,&mdash;here is my card.'</p>

<p>"The piece of pasteboard was complacently handed from one to
the other of<br>
the party, who saluted my father with a smile of most courteous
benignity.</p>

<p>"'Colonel O'Shaughnessy,' said one.</p>

<p>"'Miles O'Shaughnessy,' said the other.</p>

<p>"'Of Killinahoula Castle,' said the third.</p>

<p>"'At your service,' said my father, bowing, as he presented
his snuff-box;<br>
'and now to business, if you please, for my time also is
limited.'</p>

<p>"'Very true,' observed he of the rabbit-skin; 'and, as you
observe, now to<br>
business; in virtue of which, Colonel Miles O'Shaughnessy, I
hereby arrest<br>
you in the King's name. Here is the writ; it's at the suit of
Barnaby<br>
Kelly, of Loughrea, for the sum of &pound;1,482 19s. 7-1/2d.,
which&mdash;'</p>

<p>"Before he could conclude the sentence, my father discharged
one obligation<br>
by implanting his closed knuckles in his face. The blow, well
aimed and<br>
well intentioned, sent the little fellow summersetting like a
sugar<br>
hogshead. But, alas! it was of no use; the others, strong and
able-bodied,<br>
fell both upon him, and after a desperate struggle succeeded in
getting him<br>
down. To tie his hands, and convey him to the chaise, was the
work of a few<br>
moments; and as my father drove by the inn, the last object which
caught<br>
his view was a bloody encounter between his own people and the
myrmidons<br>
of the law, who, in great numbers, had laid siege to the house
during his<br>
capture. Thus was my father taken; and thus, in reward for
yielding to a<br>
virtuous weakness in his character, was he consigned to the
ignominious<br>
durance of a prison. Was I not right, then, in saying that such
is the<br>
melancholy position of our country, the most beautiful traits in
our<br>
character are converted into the elements of our ruin?"</p>

<p>"I dinna think ye ha'e made out your case, Major?" said the
Scotch doctor,<br>
who felt sorely puzzled at my friend's logic. "If your faether
had na gi'en<br>
the bond&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There is no saying what he wouldn't have done to the
bailiffs,"<br>
interrupted Dennis, who was following up a very different train
of<br>
reasoning.</p>

<p>"I fear me, Doctor," observed Quill, "you are much behind us
in Scotland.<br>
Not but that some of your chieftains are respectable men, and
wouldn't get<br>
on badly even in Galway."</p>

<p>"I thank ye muckle for the compliment," said the doctor,
dryly; "but I ha'e<br>
my doubts they'd think it ane, and they're crusty carls that's
no' ower<br>
safe to meddle wi'."</p>

<p>"I'd as soon propose a hand of 'spoiled five' to the Pope of
Rome, as a<br>
joke to one of them," returned Maurice.</p>

<p>"May be ye are na wrang there, Maister Quell."</p>

<p>"Well," cried Hampden, "if I may be allowed an opinion, I can
safely aver I<br>
know no quarters like Scotland. Edinburgh beyond anything or
anywhere I was<br>
ever placed in."</p>

<p>"Always after Dublin," interposed Maurice; while a general
chorus of voices<br>
re-echoed the sentiment.</p>

<p>"You are certainly a strong majority," said my friend,
"against me; but<br>
still I recant not my original opinion. Edinburgh before the
world. For a<br>
hospitality that never tires; for pleasant fellows that improve
every day<br>
of your acquaintance; for pretty girls that make you long for a
repeal of<br>
the canon about being only singly blessed, and lead you to long
for a score<br>
of them, Edinburgh,&mdash;I say again, before the world."</p>

<p>"Their ankles are devilish thick," whispered Maurice.</p>

<p>"A calumny, a base calumny!"</p>

<p>"And then they drink&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes; they drink very strong tea."</p>

<p>"Shall we ha'e a glass o' sherry together, Hampden?" said the
Scotch<br>
doctor, willing to acknowledge his defence of auld Reekie.</p>

<p>"And we'll take O'Malley in," said Hampden; "he looks
imploringly."</p>

<p>"And now to return to the charge," quoth Maurice. "In what
particular dare<br>
ye contend the palm with Dublin? We'll not speak of beauty. I
can't suffer<br>
any such profane turn in the conversation as to dispute the
superiority of<br>
Irishwomen's lips, eyes, noses, and eyebrows, to anything under
heaven.<br>
We'll not talk of gay fellows; egad, we needn't. I'll give you
the<br>
garrison,&mdash;a decent present,&mdash;and I'll back the Irish bar for
more genuine<br>
drollery, more wit, more epigram, more ready sparkling fun, than
the whole<br>
rest of the empire&mdash;ay, and all her colonies&mdash;can boast of."</p>

<p>"They are nae remarkable for passing the bottle, if they
resemble their<br>
very gifted advocate," observed the Scotchman.</p>

<p>"But they are for filling and emptying both, making its
current, as it<br>
glides by, like a rich stream glittering in the sunbeams with the
sparkling<br>
lustre of their wit. Lord, how I'm blown! Fill my pannikin,
Charley.<br>
There's no subduing a Scot. Talk with him, drink with him, fight
with him,<br>
and he'll always have the last of it; there's only one way of
concluding<br>
the treaty&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And that is&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Blarney him. Lord bless you, he can't stand it! Tell him
Holyrood's like<br>
Versailles, and the Trossach's finer than Mont Blanc; that
Geordie Buchanan<br>
was Homer, and the Canongate, Herculaneum,&mdash;then ye have him on
the hip.<br>
Now, ye never can humbug an Irishman that way; he'll know you're
quizzing<br>
him when you praise his country."</p>

<p>"Ye are right, Hampden," said the Scotch doctor, in reply to
some<br>
observation. "We are vara primitive in the Hielands, and we keep
to our ain<br>
national customs in dress and everything; and we are vara slow to
learn,<br>
and even when we try we are nae ower successfu' in our
imitations, which<br>
sometimes cost us dearly enough. Ye may have heard, may be, of
the M'Nab o'<br>
that ilk, and what happened him with the king's equerry?"</p>

<p>"I'm not quite certain," said Hampden, "if I ever heard the
story."</p>

<p>"It's nae muckle of a story; but the way of it was this. When
Montrose came<br>
back from London, he brought with him a few Englishers to show
them the<br>
Highlands, and let them see something of deer-stalking,&mdash;among
the rest, a<br>
certain Sir George Sowerby, an aide-de-camp or an equerry of the
prince.<br>
He was a vara fine gentleman, that never loaded his ain gun, and
a'most<br>
thought it too much trouble to pull the trigger. He went out
every<br>
morning to shoot with his hair curled like a woman, and dressed
like a<br>
dancing-master. Now, there happened to be at the same time at the
castle<br>
the Laird o' M'Nab; he was a kind of cousin of the Montrose, and
a rough<br>
old tyke of the true Hieland breed, wha' thought that the head of
a clan<br>
was fully equal to any king or prince. He sat opposite to Sir
George at<br>
dinner the day of his arrival, and could not conceal his surprise
at the<br>
many new-fangled ways of feeding himself the Englisher adopted.
He ate his<br>
saumon wi' his fork in ae hand, and a bittock of bread in the
other. He<br>
would na touch the whiskey; helped himself to a cutlet wi' his
fingers. But<br>
what was maist extraordinary of all, he wore a pair o' braw white
gloves<br>
during the whole time o' dinner and when they came to tak' away
the cloth,<br>
he drew them off with a great air, and threw them into the middle
of it,<br>
and then, leisurely taking anither pair off a silver salver which
his ain<br>
man presented, he pat them on for dessert. The M'Nab, who,
although an<br>
auld-fashioned carl, was aye fond of bringing something new hame
to his<br>
friends, remarked the Englisher's proceeding with great care, and
the next<br>
day he appeared at dinner wi' a huge pair of Hieland mittens,
which he<br>
wore, to the astonishment of all and the amusement of most,
through the<br>
whole three courses; and exactly as the Englishman changed his
gloves, the<br>
M'Nab produced a fresh pair of goats' wool, four times as large
as the<br>
first, which, drawing on with prodigious gravity, he threw the
others into<br>
the middle of the cloth, remarking, as he did so,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Ye see, Captain, we are never ower auld to learn.'</p>

<p>"All propriety was now at an end, and a hearty burst of
laughter from one<br>
end of the table to the other convulsed the whole company,&mdash;the
M'Nab and<br>
the Englishman being the only persons who did not join in it, but
sat<br>
glowering at each other like twa tigers; and, indeed, it needed,
a'<br>
the Montrose's interference that they had na quarrelled upon it
in the<br>
morning."</p>

<p>"The M'Nab was a man after my own heart," said Maurice; "there
was<br>
something very Irish in the lesson he gave the Englishman."</p>

<p>"I'd rather ye'd told him that than me," said the doctor,
dryly; "he would<br>
na hae thanked ye for mistaking him for ane of your
countrymen."</p>

<p>"Come, Doctor," said Dennis, "could not ye give us a stave?
Have ye nothing<br>
that smacks of the brown fern and the blue lakes in your
memory?"</p>

<p>"I have na a sang in my mind just noo except 'Johnny Cope,'
which may be<br>
might na be ower pleasant for the Englishers to listen to."</p>

<p>"I never heard a Scotch song worth sixpence," quoth Maurice,
who seemed<br>
bent on provoking the doctor's ire. "They contain nothing save
some<br>
puling sentimentality about lasses with lint-white locks, or some
absurd<br>
laudations of the Barley Bree."</p>

<p>"Hear till him, hear till him!" said the doctor, reddening
with impatience.</p>

<p>"Show me anything," said Maurice, "like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn'
or the 'Jug<br>
of Punch;' but who can blame them, after all? You can't expect
much from a<br>
people with an imagination as naked as their own knees."</p>

<p>"Maurice! Maurice!" cried O'Shaughnessy, reprovingly, who saw
that he was<br>
pushing the other's endurance beyond all bounds.</p>

<p>"I mind weel," said the Scotchman, "what happened to ane o'
your countrymen<br>
wha took upon him to jest as you are doing now. It was to Laurie
Cameron he<br>
did it."</p>

<p>"And what said the redoubted Laurie in reply?"</p>

<p>"He did na say muckle, but he did something."</p>

<p>"And what might it be?" inquired Maurice.</p>

<p>"He threw him ower the brig of Ayr into the water, and he was
drowned."</p>

<p>"And did Laurie come to no harm about the matter?"</p>

<p>"Ay, they tried him for it, and found him guilty; but when
they asked<br>
him what he had to say in his defence, he merely replied, 'When
the carl<br>
sneered about Scotland, I did na suspect that he did na ken how
to swim;'<br>
and so the end of it was, they did naething to Laurie."</p>

<p>"Cool that, certainly," said I.</p>

<p>"I prefer your friend with the mittens, I confess," said
Maurice, "though<br>
I'm sure both were most agreeable companion. But come, Doctor,
couldn't you<br>
give us,&mdash;</p>

<p>    Sit ye down, my heartie, and gie us a crack,<br>
    Let the wind tak' the care o' the world on his back.'"</p>

<p>"You maunna attempt English poethry, my freend Quell; for it
must be<br>
confessed ye'e a damnable accent of your ain."</p>

<p>"Milesian-Phoenician-Corkacian; nothing more, my boy, and a
coaxing kind<br>
of recitative it is, after all. Don't tell me of your soft
Etruscan, your<br>
plethoric. <i>Hoch</i>-Deutsch, your flattering French. To woo and win
the<br>
girl of your heart, give me a rich brogue and the least taste in
life of<br>
blarney! There's nothing like it, believe me,&mdash;every inflection
of your<br>
voice suggesting some tender pressure of her soft hand or taper
waist,<br>
every cadence falling on her gentle heart like a sea-breeze on a
burning<br>
coast, or a soft sirocco over a rose-tree. And then, think, my
boys,&mdash;and<br>
it is a fine thought after all,&mdash;what a glorious gift that is,
out of the<br>
reach of kings to give or to take, what neither depends upon the
act of<br>
Union nor the <i>Habeas Corpus</i>. No! they may starve us, laugh at
us, tax us,<br>
transport us. They may take our mountains, our valleys, and our
bogs; but,<br>
bad luck to them, they can't steal our 'blarney;' that's the
privilege one<br>
and indivisible with our identity. And while an Englishman raves
of his<br>
liberty, a Scotchman of his oaten meal, blarney's <i>our</i>
birthright, and a<br>
prettier portion I'd never ask to leave behind me to my sons. If
I'd as<br>
large a family as the ould gentleman called Priam we used to hear
of at<br>
school, it's the only inheritance I'd give them, and one comfort
there<br>
would be besides, the legacy duty would be only a trifle.
Charley, my<br>
son, I see you're listening to me, and nothing satisfies me more
than to<br>
instruct inspiring youth; so never forget the old song,&mdash;</p>

<p>    'If at your ease, the girls you'd please,<br>
    And win them, like Kate Kearney,<br>
    There's but one way, I've heard them say,<br>
    Go kiss the Stone of Blarney.'"</p>

<p>"What do you say, Shaugh, if we drink it with all the
honors?"</p>

<p>"But gently: do I hear a trumpet there?"</p>

<p>"Ah, there go the bugles. Can it be daybreak already?"</p>

<p>"How short the nights are at this season!" said Quill.</p>

<p>"What an infernal rumpus they're making! It's not possible the
troops are<br>
to march so early."</p>

<p>"It wouldn't surprise me in the least," quoth Maurice; "there
is no knowing<br>
what the commander-in-chief's not capable of,&mdash;the reason's clear
enough."</p>

<p>"And why, Maurice?"</p>

<p>"There's not a bit of blarney about him."</p>

<p>The <i>r&eacute;veil</i> sang out from every brigade, and the drums
beat to fall in,<br>
while Mike came galloping up at full speed to say that the bridge
of boats<br>
was completed, and that the Twelfth were already ordered to
cross. Not a<br>
moment was therefore to be lost; one parting cup we drained to
our next<br>
meeting, and amidst a hundred "good-bys" we mounted our horses.
Poor<br>
Hampden's brains, sadly confused by the wine and the laughing, he
knew<br>
little of what was going on around him, and passed the entire
time of our<br>
homeward ride in a vain endeavor to adapt "Mary Draper" to the
air of "Rule<br>
Britannia."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXII.</p>

<p>FUENTES D'ONORO.</p>

<p>From this period the French continued their retreat, closely
followed by<br>
the allied armies, and on the 5th of April, Massena once more
crossed the<br>
frontier into Spain, leaving thirty thousand of his bravest
troops behind<br>
him, fourteen thousand of whom had fallen or been taken
prisoners.<br>
Reinforcements, however, came rapidly pouring in. Two divisions
of the<br>
Ninth corps had already arrived, and Drouet, with eleven thousand
infantry<br>
and cavalry, was preparing to march to his assistance. Thus
strengthened,<br>
the French army marched towards the Portuguese frontier, and
Lord<br>
Wellington, who had determined not to hazard much by his blockade
of Ciudad<br>
Rodrigo, fell back upon the large table-land beyond the Turones
and the Dos<br>
Casas, with his left at Fort Conception, and his right resting
upon Fuentes<br>
d'Onoro. His position extended to about five miles; and here,
although<br>
vastly inferior in numbers, yet relying upon the bravery of the
troops, and<br>
the moral ascendency acquired by their pursuit of the enemy, he
finally<br>
resolved upon giving them battle.</p>

<p>Being sent with despatches to Pack's brigade, which formed the
blockading<br>
force at Almeida, I did not reach Fuentes d'Onoro until the
evening of the<br>
3d. The thundering of the guns, which, even at the distance I was
at, was<br>
plainly heard, announced that an attack had taken place, but it
by no means<br>
prepared me for the scene which presented itself on my
return.</p>

<p>The village of Fuentes d'Onoro, one of the most beautiful in
Spain, is<br>
situated in a lovely valley, where all the charms of verdure so
peculiar to<br>
the Peninsula seemed to have been scattered with a lavish hand.
The citron<br>
and the arbutus, growing wild, sheltered every cottage door, and
the<br>
olive and the laurel threw their shadows across the little
rivulet which<br>
traversed the village. The houses, observing no uniform
arrangement,<br>
stood wherever the caprice or the inclination of the builder
suggested,<br>
surrounded with little gardens, the inequality of the ground
imparting a<br>
picturesque feature to even the lowliest hut, while upon a craggy
eminence<br>
above the rest, an ancient convent and a ruined chapel looked
down upon the<br>
little peaceful hamlet with an air of tender protection.</p>

<p>Hitherto this lovely spot had escaped all the ravages of war.
The light<br>
division of our army had occupied it for months long; and every
family was<br>
gratefully remembered by some one or other of our officers, and
more than<br>
one of our wounded found in the kind and affectionate watching of
these<br>
poor peasants the solace which sickness rarely meets with when
far from<br>
home and country.</p>

<p>It was, then, with an anxious heart I pressed my horse forward
into a<br>
gallop as the night drew near. The artillery had been distinctly
heard<br>
during the day, and while I burned with eagerness to know the
result, I<br>
felt scarcely less anxious for the fate of that little hamlet
whose name<br>
many a kind story had implanted in my memory. The moon was
shining brightly<br>
as I passed the outpost, and leading my horse by the bridle,
descended the<br>
steep and rugged causeway to the village beneath me. The lanterns
were<br>
moving rapidly to and fro; the measured tread of infantry at
night&mdash;that<br>
ominous sound, which falls upon the heart so sadly&mdash;told me that
they<br>
were burying the dead. The air was still and breathless; not a
sound was<br>
stirring save the step of the soldiery, and the harsh clash of
the shovel<br>
as it struck the earth. I felt sad and sick at heart, and leaned
against a<br>
tree; a nightingale concealed in the leaves was pouring forth its
plaintive<br>
notes to the night air, and its low warble sounded like the dirge
of the<br>
departed. Far beyond, in the plain, the French watch-fires were
burning,<br>
and I could see from time to time the fatigue-parties moving in
search of<br>
their wounded. At this moment the clock of the convent struck
eleven, and a<br>
merry chime rang out, and was taken up by the echoes till it
melted away in<br>
the distance. Alas, where were those whose hearts were wont to
feel cheered<br>
at that happy peal; whose infancy it had gladdened; whose old age
it has<br>
hallowed? The fallen walls, the broken roof-trees, the ruin and
desolation<br>
on every side, told too plainly that they had passed away
forever! The<br>
smoking embers, the torn-up pathway, denoted the hard-fought
struggle; and<br>
as I passed along, I could see that every garden, where the
cherry and the<br>
apple-blossom were even still perfuming the air, had now its
sepulchre.</p>

<p>"Halt, there!" cried a hoarse voice in front. "You cannot pass
this<br>
way,&mdash;the commander-in-chief's quarters."</p>

<p>I looked up and beheld a small but neat-looking cottage, which
seemed to<br>
have suffered less than the others around. Lights were shining
brightly<br>
from the windows, and I could even detect from time to time a
figure<br>
muffled up in a cloak passing to and fro across the window; while
another,<br>
seated at a table, was occupied in writing. I turned into a
narrow path<br>
which led into the little square of the village, and here, as I
approached,<br>
the hum and murmur of voices announced a bivouac party. Stopping
to ask<br>
what had been the result of the day, I learned that a tremendous
attack<br>
had been made by the French in column upon the village, which was
at first<br>
successful; but that afterwards the Seventy-first and
Seventy-ninth,<br>
marching down from the heights, had repulsed the enemy, and
driven them<br>
beyond the Dos Casas. Five hundred had fallen in that fierce
encounter,<br>
which was continued through every street and alley of the little
hamlet.<br>
The gallant Highlanders now occupied the battle-field; and
hearing that the<br>
cavalry brigade was some miles distant, I willingly accepted
their offer to<br>
share their bivouac, and passed the remainder of the night among
them.</p>

<p>When day broke, our troops were under arms, but the enemy
showed no<br>
disposition to renew the attack. We could perceive, however, from
the road<br>
to the southward, by the long columns of dust, that
reinforcements were<br>
still arriving; and learned during the morning, from a deserter,
that<br>
Massena himself had come up, and Bessi&eacute;res also, with
twelve hundred<br>
cavalry, and a battery of the Imperial Guard.</p>

<p>From the movements observable in the enemy, it was soon
evident that the<br>
battle, though deferred, was not abandoned; and the march of a
strong<br>
force towards the left of their position induced our
commander-in-chief to<br>
despatch the Seventh Division, under Houston, to occupy the
height of Naval<br>
d'Aver&mdash;our extreme right&mdash;in support of which our brigade of
cavalry<br>
marched as a covering force. The British position was thus
unavoidably<br>
extended to the enormous length of seven miles, occupying a
succession of<br>
small eminences, from the division at Fort Conception to the
height of<br>
Naval d'Aver,&mdash;Fuentes d'Onoro forming nearly the centre of the
line.</p>

<p>It was evident, from the thickening combinations of the
French, that a more<br>
dreadful battle was still in reserve for us; and yet never did
men look<br>
more anxiously for the morrow.</p>

<p>As for myself, I felt a species of exhilaration I had never
before<br>
experienced; the events of the preceding day came dropping in
upon me from<br>
every side, and at every new tale of gallantry or daring I felt
my heart<br>
bounding with excited eagerness to win also my need of honorable
praise.</p>

<p>Crawfurd, too, had recognized me in the kindest manner; and
while saying<br>
that he did not wish to withdraw me from my regiment on a day of
battle,<br>
added that he would make use of me for the present on his staff.
Thus was<br>
I engaged, from early in the morning till late in the evening,
bringing<br>
orders and despatches along the line. The troop-horse I rode&mdash;for
I<br>
reserved my gray for the following day&mdash;was scarcely able to
carry me<br>
along, as towards dusk I jogged along in the direction of Naval
d'Aver.<br>
When I did reach our quarters, the fires were lighted, and around
one of<br>
them I had the good fortune to find a party of the Fourteenth
occupied in<br>
discussing a very appetizing little supper. The clatter of
plates, and the<br>
popping of champagne corks were most agreeable sounds. Indeed,
the latter<br>
appeared to me so much too flattering an illusion, that I
hesitated giving<br>
credit to my senses in the matter, when Baker called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Come, Charley, sit down; you're just in the nick. Tom Marsden
is giving us<br>
a benefit. You know Tom?"</p>

<p>And here he presented me in due form to that best of
commissaries and most<br>
hospitable of horse-dealers.</p>

<p>"I can't introduce you to my friend on my right," continued
Baker, "for my<br>
Spanish is only a skeleton battalion; but he's a trump,&mdash;that
I'll vouch<br>
for; never flinches his glass, and looks as though he enjoyed all
our<br>
nonsense."</p>

<p>The Spaniard, who appeared to comprehend that he was alluded
to, gravely<br>
saluted me with a low bow, and offered his glass to hobnob with
me. I<br>
returned the curtesy with becoming ceremony, while Hampden
whispered in my<br>
ear,&mdash;</p>

<p>"A fine-looking fellow. You know who he is? Julian, the
Guerilla chief."</p>

<p>I had heard much of both the strangers. Tom Marsden was a
household word<br>
in every cavalry brigade; equally celebrated were his contracts
and his<br>
claret. He knew every one, from Lord Wellington to the
last-joined cornet;<br>
and while upon a march, there was no piece of better fortune than
to be<br>
asked to dine with him. So in the very thick of battle, Tom's
critical eye<br>
was scanning the squadrons engaged, with an accuracy as to the
number of<br>
fresh horses that would be required upon the morrow that nothing
but long<br>
practice and infinite coolness could have conferred.</p>

<p>Of the Guerilla I need not speak. The bold feats he
accomplished, the aid<br>
he rendered to the cause of his country, have made his name
historical. Yet<br>
still with all this, fatigue, more powerful than my curiosity,
prevailed,<br>
and I sank into a heavy sleep upon the grass, while my merry
companions<br>
kept up their revels till near morning. The last piece of
consciousness I<br>
am sensible of was seeing Julian spreading his wide mantle over
me as I<br>
lay, while I heard his deep voice whisper a kind wish for my
repose.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIII.</p>

<p>THE BATTLE OF FUENTES D'ONORO.</p>

<p>So soundly did I sleep that the tumult and confusion of the
morning never<br>
awoke me; and the Guerilla, whose cavalry were stationed along
the edge of<br>
the ravine near the heights of Echora, would not permit of my
being roused<br>
before the last moment. Mike stood near me with my horses, and it
was only<br>
when the squadrons were actually forming that I sprang to my feet
and<br>
looked around me.</p>

<p>The day was just breaking; a thick mist lay upon the parched
earth, and<br>
concealed everything a hundred yards from where we stood. From
this dense<br>
vapor the cavalry defiled along the base of the hill, followed by
the<br>
horse artillery and the Guards, disappearing again as they passed
us,<br>
but proving, by the mass of troops now assembled, that our
position was<br>
regarded as the probable point of attack.</p>

<p>While the troops continued to take up their position, the sun
shone out,<br>
and a slight breeze blowing at the same, moment, the heavy clouds
moved<br>
past, and we beheld the magnificent panorama of the battle-field.
Before<br>
us, at the distance of less than half a league, the French
cavalry were<br>
drawn up in three strong columns; the Cuirassiers of the Guard,
plainly<br>
distinguished by their steel cuirasses, flanked by the Polish
Lancers and a<br>
strong huzzar brigade; a powerful artillery train supported the
left, and<br>
an infantry force occupied the entire space between the right and
the<br>
rising ground opposite Po&ccedil;o Velho. Farther to the right
again, the column<br>
destined for the attack of Fuentes d'Onoro were forming, and we
could see<br>
that, profiting by their past experience, they were bent upon
attacking the<br>
village with an overwhelming force.</p>

<p>For above two hours the French continued to manoeuvre, more
than one<br>
alteration having taken place in their disposition; fresh
battalions were<br>
moved towards the front, and gradually the whole of their cavalry
was<br>
assembled on the extreme left in front of our position. Our
people were<br>
ordered to breakfast where we stood; and a little after seven
o'clock a<br>
staff officer came riding down the line, followed in a few
moments after by<br>
General Crawfurd, when no sooner was his well-known brown cob
recognized by<br>
the troops than a hearty cheer greeted him along the whole
division.</p>

<p>"Thank ye, boys; thank ye, boys, with all my heart. No man
feels more<br>
sensibly what that cheer means than I do. Guards, Lord Wellington
relies<br>
upon your maintaining this position, which is essential to the
safety of<br>
the whole line. You will be supported by the light division. I
need say<br>
no more. If such troops cannot keep their ground, none can.
Fourteenth,<br>
there's your place; the artillery and the Sixteenth are with you.
They've<br>
the odds of us in numbers, lads; but it will tell all the better
in the<br>
'Gazette.' I see they're moving; so fall in now, fall in; and
Merivale,<br>
move to the front. Ramsey, prepare to open your fire on the
attacking<br>
squadrons."</p>

<p>As he spoke, the low murmuring sound of distantly moving
cavalry crept<br>
along the earth, growing louder and louder, till at length we
could detect<br>
the heavy tramp of the squadrons as they came on in a trot, our
pace<br>
being merely a walk. While we thus advanced into the plain, the
artillery<br>
unlimbered behind us, and the Spanish cavalry, breaking into
skirmishers,<br>
dashed boldly to the front.</p>

<p>It was an exciting moment. The ground dipped between the two
armies so<br>
as to conceal the head of the advancing column of the French, and
as the<br>
Spanish skirmishers disappeared down the ridge, our beating
hearts and<br>
straining eyes followed their last horseman.</p>

<p>"Halt! halt!" was passed from squadron to squadron, and the
same instant<br>
the sharp ring of the pistol shots and the clash of steel from
the valley,<br>
told us the battle had begun. We could hear the Guerilla war-cry
mingle<br>
with the French shout, while the thickening crash of fire-arms
implied a<br>
sharper conflict. Our fellows were already manifesting some
impatience<br>
to press on, when a Spanish horseman appeared above the ridge,
another<br>
followed, and another, and then pell-mell, broken and disordered,
they<br>
fell back before the pursuing cavalry in flying masses; while the
French,<br>
charging them hotly home, utterly routed and repulsed them.</p>

<p>The leading squadrons of the French now fell back upon their
support; the<br>
column of attack thickened, and a thundering noise between their
masses<br>
announced their brigade of light guns as they galloped to the
front. It was<br>
then for the first time that I felt dispirited; far as my eye
could stretch<br>
the dense mass of sabres extended, defiling from the distant
hills and<br>
winding its slow length across the plain. I turned to look at our
line,<br>
scarce one thousand strong, and could not help feeling that our
hour was<br>
come: the feeling flashed vividly across my mind, but the next
instant I<br>
felt my cheek redden with shame as I gazed upon the sparkling
eyes and bold<br>
looks around me, the lips compressed, the hands knitted to their
sabres;<br>
all were motionless, but burning to advance.</p>

<p>The French had halted on the brow of the hill to form, when
Merivale came<br>
cantering up to us.</p>

<p>"Fourteenth, are you ready? Are you ready, lads?"</p>

<p>"Ready, sir! ready!" re-echoed along the line.</p>

<p>"Then push them home and charge! Charge!" cried he, raising
his voice to a<br>
shout at the last word.</p>

<p>Heavens, what a crash was there! Our horses, in top condition,
no sooner<br>
felt the spur than they bounded madly onwards. The pace&mdash;for the
distance<br>
did not exceed four hundred yards&mdash;was like racing. To resist the
impetus<br>
of our approach was impossible; and without a shot fired,
scarcely a<br>
sabre-cut exchanged, we actually rode down their advanced
squadrons,<br>
hurling them headlong upon their supporting division, and rolling
men and<br>
horses beneath us on every side. The French fell back upon their
artillery;<br>
but before they could succeed in opening their fire upon us, we
had<br>
wheeled, and carrying off about seventy prisoners, galloped back
to our<br>
position with the loss of but two men in the affair. The whole
thing was so<br>
sudden, so bold, and so successful, that I remember well, as we
rode<br>
back, a hearty burst of laughter was ringing through the squadron
at the<br>
ludicrous display of horsemanship the French presented as they
tumbled<br>
headlong down the hill; and I cannot help treasuring the
recollection,<br>
for from that moment, all thought of anything short of victory
completely<br>
quitted my mind, and many of my brother officers, who had
participated in<br>
my feelings at the commencement of the day, confessed to me
afterwards that<br>
it was then for the first time they felt assured of beating the
enemy.</p>

<p>While we slowly fell back to our position, the French were
seen advancing<br>
in great force from the village of Almeida, to the attack of
Po&ccedil;o Velho;<br>
they came on at a rapid pace, their artillery upon their front
and flank,<br>
large masses of cavalry hovering around them. The attack upon the
village<br>
was now opened by the large guns; and amidst the booming of the
artillery<br>
and the crashing volleys of small fire-arms, rose the shout of
the<br>
assailants, and the wild cry of the Guerilla cavalry, who had
formed in<br>
front of the village. The French advanced firmly, driving back
the pickets,<br>
and actually inundated the devoted village with a shower of
grape; the<br>
blazing fires burst from the ignited roofs; and the black, dense
smoke,<br>
rising on high, seemed to rest like a pall over the little
hamlet.</p>

<p>The conflict was now a tremendous one; our Seventh Division
held the<br>
village with the bayonet; but the French continuing to pour in
mass upon<br>
mass, drove them back with loss, and at the end of an hour's hard
fighting,<br>
took possession of the place.</p>

<p>The wood upon the left flank was now seen to swarm with light
infantry, and<br>
the advancement of their whole left proved that they meditated to
turn our<br>
flank; the space between the village and the hill of Naval d'Aver
became<br>
thus the central position; and here the Guerilla force, led on by
Julian<br>
Sanches, seemed to await the French with confidence. Soon,
however, the<br>
cuirassiers came galloping to the spot, and almost without
exchanging a<br>
sabre-cut, the Guerillas fell back, and retired behind the
Turones. This<br>
movement of Julian was more attributable to anger than to fear;
for his<br>
favorite lieutenant, being mistaken for a French officer, was
shot by a<br>
soldier of the Guards a few minutes before.</p>

<p>Montbrun pursued the Guerillas with some squadrons of horse,
but they<br>
turned resolutely upon the French, and not till overwhelmed by
numbers did<br>
they show any disposition to retreat.</p>

<p>The French, however, now threw forward their whole cavalry,
and driving<br>
back the English horse, succeeded in turning the right of the
Seventh<br>
Division. The battle by this time was general. The staff officers
who came<br>
up from the left informed us that Fuentes d'Onoro was attacked in
force,<br>
Massena himself leading the assault in person; while thus for
seven miles<br>
the fight was maintained hotly at intervals, it was evident that
upon the<br>
maintenance of our position the fortune of the day depended.
Hitherto we<br>
had been repulsed from the village and the wood; and the dark
masses of<br>
infantry which were assembled upon our right, seemed to threaten
the hill<br>
of Naval d'Aver with as sad a catastrophe.</p>

<p>Crawfurd came now galloping up among us, his eye flashing
fire, and his<br>
uniform splashed and covered with foam:</p>

<p>"Steady Sixteenth, steady! Don't blow your horses! Have your
fellows<br>
advanced, Malcolm?" said he, turning to an officer who stood
beside him.<br>
"Ay, there they go!" pointing with his finger to the wood where,
as he<br>
spoke, the short ringing of the British rifle proclaimed the
advance of<br>
that brigade. "Let the cavalry prepare to charge! And now,
Ramsey, let us<br>
give it them home!"</p>

<p>Scarcely were the words spoken, when the squadrons were
formed, and in an<br>
instant after, the French light infantry were seen retreating
from the<br>
wood, and flying in disorderly masses across the plain. Our
squadrons<br>
riding down among them, actually cut them to atoms, while the
light<br>
artillery, unlimbering, threw in a deadly discharge of
grape-shot.</p>

<p>"To the right, Fourteenth, to the right!" cried General
Stewart. "Have at<br>
their hussars!"</p>

<p>Whirling by them, we advanced at a gallop, and dashed towards
the enemy,<br>
who, not less resolutely bent, came boldly forward to meet us.
The shock<br>
was terrific! The leading squadrons on both sides went down
almost to a<br>
man, and all order being lost, the encounter became one of hand
to hand.</p>

<p>The struggle was deadly; neither party would give way; and
while fortune<br>
now inclined hither and thither, Sir Charles Stewart singled out
the French<br>
general, Lamotte, and carried him off his prisoner. Meanwhile
Montbrun's<br>
cavalry and the cuirassiers came riding up, and the retreat now
sounding<br>
through our ranks, we were obliged to fall back upon the
infantry. The<br>
French pursued us hotly; and so rapid was their movement, that
before<br>
Ramsey's brigade could limber up and away, their squadrons had
surrounded<br>
him and captured his guns.</p>

<p>"Where is Ramsey?" cried Crawfurd, as he galloped to the head
of our<br>
division. "Cut off&mdash;cut off! Taken, by G&mdash;&mdash;! There he goes!"
said he,<br>
pointing with his finger, as a dense cloud of mingled smoke and
dust moved<br>
darkly across the plain. "Form into column once more!"</p>

<p>As he spoke, the dense mass before us seemed agitated by some
mighty<br>
commotion; the flashing of blades, and the rattling of
small-arms, mingled<br>
with shouts of triumph or defiance, burst forth, and the ominous
cloud<br>
lowering more darkly, seemed peopled by those in deadly strife.
An English<br>
cheer pealed high above all other sounds; a second followed; the
mass was<br>
rent asunder, and like the forked lightning from a thunder-cloud,
Ramsey<br>
rode forth at the head of his battery, the horses bounding madly,
while the<br>
guns sprang behind them like things of no weight; the gunners
leaped to<br>
their places, and fighting hand to hand with the French cavalry,
they flew<br>
across the plain.</p>

<p>"Nobly done, gallant Ramsey!" said a voice behind me. I turned
at the<br>
sound; it was Lord Wellington who spoke. My eye fixed upon his
stern<br>
features, I forgot all else; when he suddenly recalled me to
my<br>
recollection by saying,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Follow your brigade, sir. Charge!"</p>

<p>In an instant I was with my people, who, intervening betwixt
Ramsey and his<br>
pursuers, repulsed the enemy with loss, and carried off several
prisoners.<br>
The French, however, came up in greater strength; overwhelming
masses of<br>
cavalry came sweeping upon us, and we were obliged to retire
behind the<br>
light division, which rapidly formed into squares to resist the
cavalry.<br>
The Seventh Division, which was more advanced, were, however, too
late for<br>
this movement, and before they could effect their formation, the
French<br>
were upon them. At this moment they owed their safety to the
Chasseurs<br>
Britanniques, who poured in a flanking fire, so close, and with
so deadly<br>
an aim, that their foes recoiled, beaten and bewildered.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the French had become masters of Pogo Velho; the
formidable<br>
masses had nearly outflanked us on the right. The battle was lost
if we<br>
could not fall back upon our original position, and concentrate
our force<br>
upon Fuentes d'Onoro. To effect this was a work of great
difficulty; but<br>
no time was to be lost. The Seventh Division were ordered to
cross the<br>
Turones, while Crawfurd, forming the light division into squares,
covered<br>
their retreat, and supported by the cavalry, sustained the whole
force of<br>
the enemy's attack.</p>

<p>Then was the moment to witness the cool and steady bravery of
British<br>
infantry; the squares dotted across the enormous plain seemed as
nothing<br>
amidst that confused and flying multitude, composed of
commissariat<br>
baggage, camp-followers, peasants, and finally, broken pickets
and videttes<br>
arriving from the wood. A cloud of cavalry hovered and darkened
around<br>
them; the Polish Lancers shook their long spears, impatient of
delay, and<br>
the wild huzzas burst momentarily from their squadrons as they
waited for<br>
the word to attack. But the British stood firm and undaunted; and
although<br>
the enemy rode round their squares, Montbrun himself at their
head, they<br>
never dared to charge them. Meanwhile the Seventh Division fell
back, as<br>
if on a parade, and crossing the river, took up their ground at
Frenada,<br>
pivoting upon the First Division; the remainder of the line also
fell back,<br>
and assumed a position at right angles with their former one, the
cavalry<br>
forming in front, and holding the French in check during the
movement. This<br>
was a splendid manoeuvre, and when made in face of an
overnumbering enemy,<br>
one unmatched during the whole war.</p>

<p>At sight of this new front, the French stopped short, and
opened a fire<br>
from their heavy guns. The British batteries replied with vigor
and<br>
silenced the enemy's cannon. The cavalry drew out of range, and
the<br>
infantry gradually fell back to their former position. While this
was going<br>
on, the attack upon Fuentes d'Onoro was continued with unabated
vigor.<br>
The three British regiments in the lower town were pierced by
the<br>
French tirailleurs, who poured upon them in overwhelming numbers;
the<br>
Seventy-ninth were broken, ten companies taken, and Cameron,
their colonel,<br>
mortally wounded. Thus the lower village was in the hands of the
enemy,<br>
while from the upper town the incessant roll of musketry
proclaimed the<br>
obstinate resistance of the British.</p>

<p>At this period the reserves were called up from the right, in
time to<br>
resist the additional troops which Drouet continued to bring on.
The<br>
French, reinforced by the whole Sixth Corps, now came forward at
a<br>
quick-step. Dashing through the ruined streets of the lower town,
they<br>
crossed the rivulet, fighting bravely, and charged against the
height.<br>
Already their leading files had gained the crag beside the
chapel. A French<br>
colonel holding his cap upon his sword-point waved on his
men.</p>

<p>The grizzly features of the grenadiers soon appeared, and the
dark column,<br>
half-climbing, half-running, were seen scaling the height. A
rifle-bullet<br>
sent the French leader tumbling from the precipice; and a
cheer&mdash;mad and<br>
reckless as the war-cry of an Indian&mdash;rent the sky, as the 71st
and 79th<br>
Highlanders sprang upon the enemy.</p>

<p>Our part was a short one; advancing in half squadrons, we were
concealed<br>
from the observation of the enemy by the thick vineyards which
skirted the<br>
lower town, waiting, with impatience, the moment when our gallant
infantry<br>
should succeed in turning the tide of battle. We were ordered to
dismount,<br>
and stood with our bridles on our arms, anxious and expectant.
The charge<br>
of the French column was made close to where we were
standing,&mdash;the<br>
inspiriting cheers of the officers, the loud <i>vivas</i> of the men,
were<br>
plainly heard by us as they rushed to the assault; but the space
between<br>
us was intersected by walls and brushwood, which totally
prevented the<br>
movements of cavalry.</p>

<p>Fearlessly their dark column moved up the heights, fixing the
bayonets<br>
as they went. No tirailleurs preceded them, but the tall shako of
the<br>
Grenadier of the Guard was seen in the first rank. Long before
the end of<br>
the column had passed us, the leading files were in action. A
deafening<br>
peal of musketry&mdash;so loud, so dense, it seemed like
artillery&mdash;burst forth.<br>
A volume of black smoke rolled heavily down from the heights and
hid all<br>
from our view, except when the vivid lightning of the platoon
firing rent<br>
the veil asunder, and showed us the troops almost in hand to hand
conflict.</p>

<p>"It's Picton's Division, I'm certain," cried Merivale; "I hear
the bagpipes<br>
of the Highlanders."</p>

<p>"You are right, sir," said Hampden, "the Seventy-first are in
the same<br>
brigade, and I know their bugles well. There they go again!"</p>

<p>"Fourteenth! Fourteenth!" cried a voice from behind, and at
the same<br>
moment, a staff officer, without his hat, and his horse bleeding
from a<br>
recent sabre-cut, came up. "You must move to the rear, Colonel
Merivale;<br>
the French have gained the heights! Move round by the causeway;
bring up<br>
your squadrons as quickly as you can, and support the
infantry!"</p>

<p>In a moment we were in our saddles; but scarcely was the word
"to fall in"<br>
given, when a loud cheer rent the very air; the musketry seemed
suddenly<br>
to cease, and the dark mass which continued to struggle up the
heights<br>
wavered, broke, and turned.</p>

<p>"What can that be?" said Merivale. "What can it mean?"</p>

<p>"I can tell you, sir," said I, proudly, while I felt my heart
throb as<br>
though it would bound from my bosom.</p>

<p>"And what is it, boy? Speak!"</p>

<p>"There it goes again! That was an Irish shout! The
Eighty-eighth are at<br>
them!"</p>

<p>"By Jove, here they come!" said Hampden. "God help the
Frenchmen now!"</p>

<p>The words were not well spoken, when the red coats of our
gallant fellows<br>
were seen dashing through the vineyard.</p>

<p>"The steel, boys; nothing but the steel!" shouted a loud voice
from the<br>
crag above our heads.</p>

<p>I looked up. It was the stern Picton himself who spoke. The
Eighty-eighth<br>
now led the pursuit, and sprang from rock to rock in all the
mad<br>
impetuosity of battle; and like some mighty billow rolling before
the gale,<br>
the French went down the heights.</p>

<p>"Gallant Eighty-eighth! Gloriously done!" cried Picton, as he
waved his<br>
hat.</p>

<p>"Aren't we Connaught robbers, now?" shouted a rich brogue, as
its owner,<br>
breathless and bleeding, pressed forward in the charge.</p>

<p>A hearty burst of laughter mingled with the din of the
battle.</p>

<p>"Now for it, boys! Now for <i>our</i> work!" said old Merivale,
drawing his<br>
sabre as he spoke. "Forward! and charge!"</p>

<p>We waited not a second bidding, but bursting from our
concealment,<br>
galloped down into the broken column. It was no regular charge,
but an<br>
indiscriminate rush. Scarcely offering resistance, the enemy fell
beneath<br>
our sabres, or the still more deadly bayonets of the infantry,
who were<br>
inextricably mingled up in the conflict.</p>

<p>The chase was followed up for above half a mile, when we fell
back,<br>
fortunately in good time; for the French had opened a heavy fire
from their<br>
artillery, and regardless of their own retreating column, poured
a shower<br>
of grape among our squadrons. As we retired, the struggling files
of the<br>
Rangers joined us,&mdash;their faces and accoutrements blackened and
begrimed<br>
with powder; many of them, themselves wounded, had captured
prisoners; and<br>
one huge fellow of the grenadier company was seen driving before
him a<br>
no less powerful Frenchman, and to whom, as he turned from time
to time<br>
reluctantly, and scowled upon his jailer, the other vociferated
some Irish<br>
imprecation, whose harsh intentions were made most palpably
evident by a<br>
flourish of a drawn bayonet.</p>

<p>"Who is he?" said Mike; "who is he, ahagur?"</p>

<p>"Sorra one o' me knows," said the other; "but it's the chap
that shot<br>
Lieutenant Mahony, and I never took my eye off him after; and if
the<br>
lieutenant's not dead, sure it'll be a satisfaction to him that I
cotch<br>
him."</p>

<p>The lower town was now evacuated by the French, who retired
beyond the<br>
range of our artillery; the upper continued in the occupation of
our<br>
troops; and worn out and exhausted, surrounded by dead and dying,
both<br>
parties abandoned the contest, and the battle was over.</p>

<p>Both sides laid claim to the victory; the French, because,
having taken the<br>
village of Po&ccedil;o Velho, they had pierced the British line,
and compelled<br>
them to fall back and assume a new position; the British, because
the<br>
attack upon Fuentes d'Onoro has been successfully resisted, and
the<br>
blockade of Almeida&mdash;the real object of the battle&mdash;maintained.
The loss<br>
to each was tremendous; fifteen hundred men and officers, of whom
three<br>
hundred were prisoners, were lost by the allies, and a far
greater number<br>
fell among the forces of the enemy.</p>

<p>After the action, a brigade of the light division released the
troops in<br>
the village, and the armies bivouacked once more in sight of each
other.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIV.</p>

<p>A RENCONTRE.</p>

<p>"LIEUTENANT O'MALLEY, 14th Light Dragoons, to serve as extra
aide-de-camp<br>
to Major-General Crawfurd, until the pleasure of his Royal
Highness the<br>
Prince Regent is known." Such was the first paragraph of a
general order,<br>
dated Fuentes d'Onoro, the day after the battle, which met me as
I woke<br>
from a sound and heavy slumber, the result of thirteen hours on
horseback.</p>

<p>A staff appointment was not exactly what I desired at the
moment; but I<br>
knew that with Crawfurd my duties were more likely to be at the
pickets and<br>
advanced posts of the army, than in the mere details of
note-writing or<br>
despatch-bearing; besides that, I felt, whenever anything of
importance<br>
was to be done, I should always obtain his permission to do duty
with my<br>
regiment.</p>

<p>Taking a hurried breakfast, therefore, I mounted my horse, and
cantered<br>
over to Villa Formosa, where the general's quarters were, to
return my<br>
thanks for the promotion, and take the necessary steps for
assuming my new<br>
functions.</p>

<p>Although the sun had risen about two hours, the fatigue of the
previous day<br>
had impressed itself upon all around. The cavalry, men and
horses, were<br>
still stretched upon the sward, sunk in sleep; the videttes,
weary and<br>
tired, seemed anxiously watching for the relief; and the
disordered and<br>
confused appearance of everything bespoke that discipline had
relaxed its<br>
stern features, in compassion for the bold exertions of the
preceding day.<br>
The only contrast to this general air of exhaustion and weariness
on every<br>
side was a corps of sappers, who were busily employed upon the
high grounds<br>
above the village. Early as it was, they seemed to have been at
work<br>
some hours,&mdash;at least so their labors bespoke; for already a
rampart<br>
of considerable extent had been thrown up, stockades implanted,
and a<br>
breastwork was in a state of active preparation. The officer of
the party,<br>
wrapped up in a loose cloak, and mounted upon a sharp-looking
hackney, rode<br>
hither and thither as the occasion warranted, and seemed, as well
as from<br>
the distance I could guess, something of a tartar. At least I
could not<br>
help remarking how, at his approach, the several inferior
officers seemed<br>
suddenly so much more on the alert, and the men worked with an
additional<br>
vigor and activity. I stopped for some minutes to watch him, and
seeing<br>
an engineer captain of my acquaintance among the party, couldn't
resist<br>
calling out:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I say, Hatchard, your friend on the chestnut mare must have
had an easier<br>
day yesterday than some of us, or I'll be hanged if he'd be so
active this<br>
morning." Hatchard hung his head in some confusion, and did not
reply;<br>
and on my looking round, whom should I see before me but the
identical<br>
individual I had so coolly been criticising, and who, to my utter
horror<br>
and dismay, was no other than Lord Wellington himself. I did not
wait for a<br>
second peep. Helter-skelter, through water, thickets, and
brambles, away I<br>
went, clattering down the causeway like a madman. If a French
squadron had<br>
been behind me, I should have had a stouter heart, although I did
not fear<br>
pursuit. I felt his eye was upon me,&mdash;his sharp and piercing
glance, that<br>
shot like an arrow into me; and his firm look stared at me in
every object<br>
around.</p>

<p>Onward I pressed, feeling in the very recklessness of my
course some relief<br>
to my sense of shame, and ardently hoping that some
accident&mdash;some smashed<br>
arm or broken collar-bone&mdash;might befall me and rescue me from any
notice<br>
my conduct might otherwise call for. I never drew rein till I
reached the<br>
Villa Formosa, and pulled up short at a small cottage where a
double sentry<br>
apprised me of the general's quarters. As I came up, the low
lattice sprang<br>
quickly open, and a figure, half dressed, and more than half
asleep,<br>
protruded his head.</p>

<p>"Well, what has happened? Anything wrong?" said he, whom I now
recognized<br>
to be General Crawfurd.</p>

<p>"No, nothing wrong, sir," stammered I, with evident confusion.
"I'm merely<br>
come to thank you for your kindness in my behalf."</p>

<p>"You seemed in a devil of a hurry to do it, if I'm to judge by
the pace<br>
you came at. Come in and take your breakfast with us; I shall be
dressed<br>
presently, and you'll meet some of your brother
aides-de-camp."</p>

<p>Having given my horse to an orderly, I walked into a little
room, whose<br>
humble accommodations and unpretending appearance seemed in
perfect<br>
keeping with the simple and unostentatious character of the
general. The<br>
preparations for a good and substantial breakfast were, however,
before<br>
me, and an English newspaper of a late date spread its most ample
pages<br>
to welcome me. I had not been long absorbed in my reading, when
the door<br>
opened, and the general, whose toilet was not yet completed, made
his<br>
appearance.</p>

<p>"Egad, O'Malley, you startled me this morning. I thought we
were in for it<br>
again."</p>

<p>I took this as the most seasonable opportunity to recount my
mishap of the<br>
morning, and accordingly, without more ado, detailed the unlucky
meeting<br>
with the commander-in-chief. When I came to the end, Crawfurd
threw himself<br>
into a chair and laughed till the very tears coursed down his
bronzed<br>
features.</p>

<p>"You don't say so, boy? You don't really tell me you said
that? By Jove! I<br>
had rather have faced a platoon of musketry than have stood in
your shoes!<br>
You did not wait for a reply, I think?"</p>

<p>"No, faith, sir, that I did not!"</p>

<p>"Do you suspect he knows you?"</p>

<p>"I trust not, sir; the whole thing passed so rapidly!"</p>

<p>"Well, it's most unlucky in more ways than one!" He paused for
a few<br>
moments as he said this, and then added, "Have you seen the
general order?"<br>
pushing towards me a written paper as he spoke. It ran
thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    G.O.      ADJUTANT-GENERAL'S OFFICE, VILLA FORMOSA,</p>

<p>    May 6, 1811.</p>

<p>    <i>Memorandum</i>.&mdash;Commanding officers are requested to send
in to<br>
    the military secretary, as soon as possible, the names of
officers they<br>
    may wish to have promoted in succession to those who have
fallen<br>
    in action."</p>

<p>"Now look at this list. The Honorable Harvey Howard, Grenadier
Guards,<br>
to be first lieutenant, <i>vice</i>&mdash;No, not that. Henry
Beauchamp&mdash;George<br>
Villiers&mdash;ay, here it is! Captain Lyttleton, Fourteenth Light
Dragoons,<br>
to be major in the Third Dragoon Guards, <i>vice</i> Godwin, killed in
action;<br>
Lieutenant O'Malley to be captain, <i>vice</i> Lyttleton, promoted.
You see,<br>
boy, I did not forget you; you were to have had the vacant troop
in your<br>
own regiment. Now I almost doubt the prudence of bringing your
name under<br>
Lord Wellington's notice. He may have recognized you; and if he
did so,<br>
why, I rather think&mdash;that is, I suspect&mdash;I mean, the quieter you
keep the<br>
better."</p>

<p>While I poured forth my gratitude as warmly as I was able for
the general's<br>
great kindness to me, I expressed my perfect concurrence in his
views.</p>

<p>"Believe me, sir," said I, "I should much rather wait any
number of years<br>
for my promotion, than incur the risk of a reprimand; the more
so, as it is<br>
not the first time I have blundered with his lordship." I here
narrated<br>
my former meeting with Sir Arthur, at which Crawfurd's mirth
again burst<br>
forth, and he paced the room, holding his sides in an ecstasy of
merriment.</p>

<p>"Come, come, lad, we'll hope for the best; we'll give you the
chance that<br>
he has not seen your face, and send the list forward as it is.
But here<br>
come our fellows."</p>

<p>As he spoke, the door opened, and three officers of his staff
entered, to<br>
whom, being severally introduced, we chatted away about the news
of the<br>
morning until breakfast.</p>

<p>"I've frequently heard of you from my friend Hammersley," said
Captain<br>
Fitzroy, addressing me. "You were intimately acquainted, I
believe?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes! Pray, where is he now? We have not met for a long
time."</p>

<p>"The poor fellow's invalided; that sabre-cut upon his head has
turned out<br>
a sad affair, and he's gone back to England on a sick leave. Old
Dashwood<br>
took him back with him as private secretary, or something of that
sort."</p>

<p>"Ah!" said another, "Dashwood has daughters, hasn't he? No bad
notion of<br>
his; for Hammersley will be a baronet some of these days, with a
rent-roll<br>
of eight or nine thousand per annum."</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood," said I, "has but one daughter, and I am
quite sure<br>
that in his kindness to Hammersley no intentions of the kind you
mention<br>
were mixed up."</p>

<p>"Well, I don't know," said the third, a pale, sickly youth,
with handsome<br>
but delicate features. "I was on Dashwood's staff until a few
weeks ago,<br>
and certainly I thought there was something going on between
Hammersley<br>
and Miss Lucy, who, be it spoken, is a devilish fine girl, though
rather<br>
disposed to give herself airs."</p>

<p>I felt my cheek and my temples boiling like a furnace; my hand
trembled as<br>
I lifted my coffee to my lips; and I would have given my expected
promotion<br>
twice over to have had any reasonable ground of quarrel with the
speaker.</p>

<p>"Egad, lads," said Crawfurd, "that's the very best thing I
know about a<br>
command. As a bishop is always sure to portion off his daughters
with<br>
deaneries and rectories, so your knowing old general always
marries his<br>
among his staff."</p>

<p>This sally was met with the ready laughter of the
subordinates, in which,<br>
however little disposed. I was obliged to join.</p>

<p>"You are quite right, sir," rejoined the pale youth; "and Sir
George has no<br>
fortune to give his daughter."</p>

<p>"How came it, Horace, that you got off safe?" said Fitzroy,
with a certain<br>
air of affected seriousness in his voice and manner. "I wonder
they let<br>
such a prize escape them."</p>

<p>"Well, it was not exactly their fault, I do confess. Old
Dashwood did the<br>
civil towards me, and <i>la belle Lucie</i> herself was condescending
enough to<br>
be less cruel than to the rest of the staff. Her father threw us
a good<br>
deal together; and in fact, I believe&mdash;I fear&mdash;that is&mdash;that I
didn't<br>
behave quite well."</p>

<p>"You may rest perfectly assured of it, sir," said I; "whatever
your<br>
previous conduct may have been, you have completely relieved your
mind on<br>
this occasion, and behaved most shamefully."</p>

<p>Had a shell fallen in the midst of us, the faces around me
could not have<br>
been more horror-struck than when, in a cool, determined tone, I
spoke<br>
these few words. Fitzroy pushed his chair slightly back from the
table, and<br>
fixed his eyes full upon me. Crawfurd grew dark-purple over his
whole face<br>
and forehead, and looked from one to the other of us without
speaking;<br>
while the Honorable Horace Delawar, the individual addressed,
never changed<br>
a muscle of his wan and sickly features, but lifting his eyes
slowly from<br>
his muffin, lisped softly out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You think so? How very good!"</p>

<p>"General Crawfurd," said I, the moment I could collect myself
sufficiently<br>
to speak, "I am deeply grieved that I should so far have
forgotten myself<br>
as to disturb the harmony of your table; but when I tell you that
Sir<br>
George Dashwood is one of my warmest friends on earth; that from
my<br>
intimate knowledge of him, I am certain that gentleman's
statements are<br>
either the mere outpourings of folly or worse&mdash;"</p>

<p>"By Jove, O'Malley! you have a very singular mode of
explaining away the<br>
matter. Delawar, sit down again. Gentlemen, I have only one word
to say<br>
about this transaction; I'll have no squabbles nor broils here;
from this<br>
room to the guard-house is a five minutes' walk. Promise me, upon
your<br>
honors, this altercation ends here, or as sure as my name's
Crawfurd, you<br>
shall both be placed under arrest, and the man who refuses to
obey me shall<br>
be sent back to England."</p>

<p>Before I well knew in what way to proceed, Mr. Delawar rose
and bowed<br>
formally to the general, while I imitated his example; silently
we resumed<br>
our places, and after a pause of a few moments, the current of
conversation<br>
was renewed, and other topics discussed, but with such evident
awkwardness<br>
and constraint that all parties felt relieved when the general
rose from<br>
table.</p>

<p>"I say, O'Malley, have you forwarded the returns to the
adjutant-general's<br>
office?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; I despatched them this morning before leaving my
quarters."</p>

<p>"I am glad of it; the irregularities on this score have called
forth a<br>
heavy reprimand at headquarters."</p>

<p>I was also glad of it, and it chanced that by mere accident I
remembered to<br>
charge Mike with the papers, which, had they not been lying
unsealed upon<br>
the table before me, would, in all likelihood, have escaped my
attention.<br>
The post started to Lisbon that same morning, to take advantage
of which<br>
I had sat up writing for half the night. Little was I aware at
the<br>
moment what a mass of trouble and annoyance was in store for me
from the<br>
circumstance.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXV.</p>

<p>ALMEIDA.</p>

<p>On the morning of the 7th we perceived, from a movement in the
French camp,<br>
that the wounded were being sent to the rear, and shortly
afterwards the<br>
main body of their army commenced its retreat. They moved with
slow, and as<br>
it were, reluctant steps; and Bessi&eacute;res, who commanded the
Imperial Guard,<br>
turned his eyes more than once to that position which all the
bravery of<br>
his troops was unavailing to capture. Although our cavalry lay in
force to<br>
the front of our line, no attempt was made to molest the
retreating French;<br>
and Massena, having retired beyond the Aguada, left a strong
force to watch<br>
the ford, while the remainder of the army fell back upon Cuidad
Rodrigo.</p>

<p>During this time we had succeeded in fortifying our position
at Fuentes<br>
d'Onoro so strongly as to resist any new attack, and Lord
Wellington now<br>
turned his whole attention to the blockade of Almeida, which, by
Massena's<br>
retreat, was abandoned to its fate.</p>

<p>On the morning of the 10th I accompanied General Crawfurd in
a<br>
reconnoissance of the fortress, which, from the intelligence we
had lately<br>
received, could not much longer hold out against our blockade.
The fire<br>
from the enemy's artillery was, however, hotly maintained; and as
night<br>
fell, some squadrons of the Fourteenth, who were picketed near,
were unable<br>
to light their watch-fires, being within reach of their shot. As
the<br>
darkness increased so did the cannonade, and the bright flashes
from the<br>
walls and the deep booming of the artillery became incessant.</p>

<p>A hundred conjectures were afloat to account for the
circumstance; some<br>
asserting that what we heard were mere signals to Massena's army;
and<br>
others, that Brennier was destroying and mutilating the fortress
before he<br>
evacuated it to the allies.</p>

<p>It was little past midnight when, tired from the fatigues of
the day, I had<br>
fallen asleep beneath a tree, an explosion, louder than any which
preceded<br>
it, burst suddenly forth, and as I awoke and looked about me, I
perceived<br>
the whole heavens illuminated by one bright glare, while the
crashing<br>
noise of falling stones and crumbling masonry told me that a mine
had been<br>
sprung; the moment after, all was calm and still and motionless;
a thick<br>
black smoke increasing the sombre darkness of the night shut out
every star<br>
from view, and some drops of heavy rain began to fall.</p>

<p>The silence, ten times more appalling than the din which
preceded it,<br>
weighed heavily upon my senses, and a dread of some unknown
danger crept<br>
over me; the exhaustion, however, was greater than my fear, and
again I<br>
sank into slumber.</p>

<p>Scarcely had I been half an hour asleep, when the blast of a
trumpet again<br>
awoke me, and I found, amidst the confusion and excitement about,
that<br>
something of importance had occurred. Questions were eagerly
asked on all<br>
sides, but no one could explain what had happened. Towards the
town all was<br>
as still as death, but a dropping, irregular fire of musketry
issued from<br>
the valley beside the Aguada. "What can this mean; what can it
be?" we<br>
asked of each other. "A sortie from the garrison," said one; "A
night<br>
attack by Massena's troops," cried another; and while thus we
disputed and<br>
argued, a horseman was heard advancing along the road at the top
of his<br>
speed.</p>

<p>"Where are the cavalry?" cried a voice I recognized as one of
my brother<br>
aides-de-camp. "Where are the Fourteenth?"</p>

<p>A cheer from our party answered this question, and the next
moment,<br>
breathless and agitated, he rode in among us.</p>

<p>"What is it? Are we attacked?"</p>

<p>"Would to Heaven that were all! But come along, lads, follow
me."</p>

<p>"What can it be, then?" said I again; while my anxiety knew no
bounds.</p>

<p>"Brennier has escaped; burst his way through Pack's Division,
and has<br>
already reached Valde Mula."</p>

<p>"The French have escaped!" was repeated from mouth to mouth;
while,<br>
pressing spurs to our horses, we broke into a gallop, and dashed
forward in<br>
the direction of the musketry. We soon came up with the 36th
Infantry, who,<br>
having thrown away their knapsacks, were rapidly pressing the
pursuit. The<br>
maledictions which burst from every side proved how severely the
misfortune<br>
was felt by all, while the eager advance of the men bespoke how
ardently<br>
they longed to repair the mishap.</p>

<p>Dark as was the night, we passed them in a gallop, when
suddenly the<br>
officer who commanded the leading squadron called out to
halt.</p>

<p>"Take care there, lads!" cried he; "I hear the infantry before
us; we shall<br>
be down upon our own people."</p>

<p>The words were hardly spoken, when a bright flash blazed out
before us, and<br>
a smashing volley was poured into the squadron.</p>

<p>"The French! the French, by Jove!" said Hampden. "Forward,
boys! charge<br>
them!"</p>

<p>Breaking into open order, to avoid our wounded comrades,
several of whom<br>
had fallen by the fire, we rode down among them. In a moment
their order<br>
was broken, their ranks pierced, and fresh squadrons coming up at
the<br>
instant, they were sabred to a man.</p>

<p>After this the French pursued their march in silence, and even
when<br>
assembling in force we rode down upon their squares, they never
halted nor<br>
fired a shot. At Barba del Puerco, the ground being unfit for
cavalry, the<br>
Thirty-sixth took our place, and pressed them hotly home. Several
of<br>
the French were killed, and above three hundred made prisoners,
but our<br>
fellows, following up the pursuit too rashly, came upon an
advanced body of<br>
Massena's force, drawn up to await and cover Brennier's retreat;
the result<br>
was the loss of above thirty men in killed and wounded.</p>

<p>Thus were the great efforts of the three preceding days
rendered fruitless<br>
and nugatory. To maintain this blockade, Lord Wellington, with an
inferior<br>
force, and a position by no means strong, had ventured to give
the enemy<br>
battle; and now by the unskilfulness of some, and the negligence
of others,<br>
were all his combinations thwarted, and the French general
enabled to march<br>
his force through the midst of the blockading columns almost
unmolested and<br>
uninjured.</p>

<p>Lord Wellington's indignation was great, as well it might be;
the prize for<br>
which he had contested was torn from his grasp at the very moment
he had<br>
won it, and although the gallantry of the troops in the pursuit
might,<br>
under other circumstances, have called forth eulogium, his only
observation<br>
on the matter was a half-sarcastic allusion to the inconclusive
effects of<br>
undisciplined bravery. "Notwithstanding," says the general order
of the<br>
day, "what has been printed in gazettes and newspapers, we have
never seen<br>
small bodies, unsupported, successfully opposed to large; nor has
the<br>
experience of any officer realized the stories which all have
read, of<br>
whole armies being driven by a handful of light infantry and
dragoons."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVI.</p>

<p>A NIGHT ON THE AZAVA.</p>

<p>Massena was now recalled, and Marmont, having assumed the
command of<br>
the French, army, retired towards Salamanca, while our troops
went into<br>
cantonments upon the Aguada. A period of inaction succeeded to
our previous<br>
life of bustle and excitement, and the whole interest of the
campaign was<br>
now centred in Beresford's army, exposed to Soult in
Estramadura.</p>

<p>On the 15th Lord Wellington set out for that province, having
already<br>
directed a strong force to march upon Badajos.</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley," said Crawfurd, as he returned from bidding
Lord<br>
Wellington good-by, "your business is all right; the
commander-in-chief has<br>
signed my recommendation, and you will get your troop."</p>

<p>While I continued to express my grateful acknowledgments for
his kindness,<br>
the general, apparently inattentive to all I was saying, paced
the room<br>
with hurried steps, stopping every now and then to glance at a
large map of<br>
Spain which covered one wall of the apartment, while he muttered
to himself<br>
some broken and disjointed sentences.</p>

<p>"Eight leagues&mdash;too weak in cavalry&mdash;with the left upon Fuenta
Grenaldo&mdash;a<br>
strong position. O'Malley, you'll take a troop of dragoons and
patrol the<br>
country towards Castro; you'll reconnoitre the position the Sixth
Corps<br>
occupies, but avoid any collision with the enemy's pickets,
keeping the<br>
Azava between you and them. Take rations for three days."</p>

<p>"When shall I set out, sir?"</p>

<p>"Now!" was the reply.</p>

<p>Knowing with what pleasure the hardy veteran recognized
anything like<br>
alacrity and despatch, I resolved to gratify him; and before half
an hour<br>
had elapsed, was ready with my troop to receive his final
orders.</p>

<p>"Well done, boy!" said he, as he came to the door of the hut,
"you've lost<br>
no time. I don't believe I have any further instructions to give
you; to<br>
ascertain as far as possible the probable movement of the enemy
is my<br>
object, that's all." As he spoke this, he waved his hand, and
wishing me<br>
"Good-by," walked leisurely back into the house. I saw that his
mind was<br>
occupied by other thoughts; and although I desired to obtain some
more<br>
accurate information for my guidance, knowing his dislike to
questions, I<br>
merely returned his salute, and set forth upon my journey.</p>

<p>The morning was beautiful; the sun had risen about an hour,
and the earth,<br>
refreshed by the heavy dew of the night, was breathing forth all
its<br>
luxuriant fragrance. The river which flowed beside us was clear
as crystal,<br>
showing beneath its eddying current the shining, pebbly bed,
while upon<br>
the surface, the water-lilies floated or sank as the motion of
the stream<br>
inclined. The tall cork-trees spread their shadows about us, and
the richly<br>
plumed birds hopped from branch to branch awaking the echoes with
their<br>
notes.</p>

<p>It is but seldom that the heart of man is thoroughly attuned
to the<br>
circumstances of the scenery around him. How often do we need a
struggle<br>
with ourselves to enjoy the rich and beautiful landscape which
lies smiling<br>
in its freshness before us! How frequently do the blue sky and
the calm air<br>
look down upon the heart darkened and shadowed with affliction!
And how<br>
often have we felt the discrepancy between the lowering look of
winter and<br>
the glad sunshine of our hearts! The harmony of the world without
with our<br>
thoughts within is one of the purest, as it is one of the
greatest, sources<br>
of happiness. Our hopes and our ambitions lose their selfish
character when<br>
we feel that fortune smiles upon us from all around, and the
flattery which<br>
speaks to our hearts from the bright stars and the blue sky, the
peaked<br>
mountain or the humble flower, is greater in its mute eloquence
than all<br>
the tongue of man can tell us.</p>

<p>This feeling did I experience in all its fulness as I
ruminated upon my<br>
bettered fortunes, and felt within myself that secret instinct
that tells<br>
of happiness to come. In such moods of mind my thoughts strayed
ever<br>
homewards, and I could not help confessing how little were all my
successes<br>
in my eyes, did I not-hope for the day when I should pour forth
my tale of<br>
war and battle-field to the ears of those who loved me.</p>

<p>I resolved to write home at once to my uncle. I longed to tell
him each<br>
incident of my career, and my heart glowed as I thought over the
broken<br>
and disjointed sentences which every cotter around would whisper
of my<br>
fortunes, far prouder as they would be in the humble deeds of one
they<br>
knew, than in the proudest triumphs of a nation's glory.</p>

<p>Indeed, Mike himself gave the current to my thoughts. After
riding beside<br>
me for some time in silence, he remarked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And isn't it Father Rush will be proud when he sees your
honor's a<br>
captain; to think of the little boy that he used to take before
him on the<br>
ould gray mare for a ride down the avenue,&mdash;to think of him being
a real<br>
captain, six feet two without his boots, and galloping over the
French as<br>
if they were lurchers! Peggy Mahon, that nursed you, will be the
proud<br>
woman the day she hears it; and there won't be a soldier sober in
his<br>
quarters that night in Portumna barracks! 'Pon my soul, there's
not a thing<br>
with a red coat on it, if it was even a scarecrow to frighten the
birds<br>
from the barley, that won't be treated with respect when they
hear of the<br>
news."</p>

<p>The country through which we travelled was marked at every
step by the<br>
traces of a retreating army: the fields of rich corn lay
flattened beneath<br>
the tramp of cavalry, or the wheels of the baggage-wagons; the
roads, cut<br>
up and nearly impassable, were studded here and there with marks
which<br>
indicated a bivouac. At the same time, everything around bore a
very<br>
different aspect from what we had observed in Portugal; there,
the<br>
vindictive cruelty of the French soldiery had been seen in full
sway: the<br>
ruined ch&acirc;teau, the burned villages, the desecrated altars,
the murdered<br>
peasantry,&mdash;all attested the revengeful spirit of a beaten and
baffled<br>
enemy. No sooner, however, had they crossed the frontiers, than,
as if by<br>
magic, their character became totally changed. Discipline and
obedience<br>
succeeded to recklessness and pillage; and instead of treating
the natives<br>
with, inhumanity and cruelty, in all their intercourse with the
Spaniards<br>
the French behaved with moderation and even kindness. Paying
for<br>
everything, obtaining their billets peaceably and quietly,
marching with<br>
order and regularity, they advanced into the heart of the
country, showing,<br>
by the most irrefragable proof, the astonishing evidences of a
discipline<br>
which, by a word, could convert the lawless irregularities of a
ruffian<br>
soldiery into the orderly habits and obedient conduct of a
highly-organized<br>
army.</p>

<p>As we neared the Azava, the tracks of the retiring enemy
became gradually<br>
less perceptible, and the country, uninjured by the march,
extended for<br>
miles around us in all the richness and abundance of a favored
climate. The<br>
tall corn, waving its yellow gold, reflected like a sea the
clouds that<br>
moved slowly above it. The wild gentian and the laurel grew
thickly around,<br>
and the cattle stood basking in the clear streams, while some
listless<br>
peasant lounged upon the bank beside them. Strange as all these
evidences<br>
of peace and tranquillity were, so near to the devastating track
of a<br>
mighty army, yet I have more than once witnessed the fact, and
remarked<br>
how, but a short distance from the line of our hurried march, the
country<br>
lay untouched and uninjured; and though the clank of arms and the
dull roll<br>
of the artillery may have struck upon the ear of the far-off
dweller in his<br>
native valley, he listened as he would have done to the passing
thunder as<br>
it crashed above him; and when the bright sky and pure air
succeeded to<br>
the lowering atmosphere and the darkening storm, he looked forth
upon his<br>
smiling fields and happy home, while he muttered to his heart a
prayer of<br>
thanksgiving that the scourge was passed.</p>

<p>We bivouacked upon the bank of the river, a truly Salvator
Rosa scene;<br>
the rocks, towering high above us, were fissured by the channel
of many a<br>
trickling stream, seeking, in its zigzag current, the bright
river below.<br>
The dark pine-tree and the oak mingled their foliage with the
graceful<br>
cedar, which spread its fan-like branches about us. Through the
thick shade<br>
some occasional glimpses of a starry sky could yet be seen, and a
faint<br>
yellow streak upon the silent river told that the queen of night
was there.</p>

<p>When I had eaten my frugal supper, I wandered forth alone upon
the bank<br>
of the stream, now standing to watch its bold sweeps as it
traversed the<br>
lonely valley before me, now turning to catch a passing glance at
our<br>
red watch-fires and the hardy features which sat around. The
hoarse and<br>
careless laugh, the deep-toned voice of some old campaigner
holding forth<br>
his tale of flood and field, were the only sounds I heard; and
gradually I<br>
strolled beyond the reach of even these. The path beside the
river, which<br>
seemed scarped from the rock, was barely sufficient for the
passage of<br>
one man, a rude balustrade of wood being the only defence against
the<br>
precipice, which, from a height of full thirty feet, looked down
upon the<br>
stream. Here and there some broad gleam of moonlight would fall
upon the<br>
opposite bank, which, unlike the one I occupied, stretched out
into rich<br>
meadow and pasturage, broken by occasional clumps of ilex and
beech. River<br>
scenery has been ever a passion with me. I can glory in the bold
and broken<br>
outline of a mighty mountain; I can gaze with delighted eyes upon
the<br>
boundless seas, and know not whether to like it more in all the
mighty<br>
outpouring of its wrath, when the white waves lift their heads to
heaven<br>
and break themselves in foam upon the rocky beach, or in the calm
beauty of<br>
its broad and mirrored surface, in which the bright world of sun
and sky<br>
are seen full many a fathom deep. But far before these, I love
the happy<br>
and tranquil beauty of some bright river, tracing its winding
current<br>
through valley and through plain, now spreading into some calm
and waveless<br>
lake, now narrowing to an eddying stream with mossy rocks and
waving trees<br>
darkening over it. There's not a hut, however lowly, where the
net of the<br>
fisherman is stretched upon the sward, around whose hearth I do
not picture<br>
before me the faces of happy toil and humble contentment, while,
from the<br>
ruined tower upon the crag, methinks I hear the ancient sounds of
wassail<br>
and of welcome; and though the keep be fissured and the curtain
fallen, and<br>
though for banner there "waves some tall wall-flower," I can
people its<br>
crumbling walls with images of the past; and the merry laugh of
the warder,<br>
and the clanking tread of the mailed warrior, are as palpably
before me as<br>
the tangled lichen that now trails from its battlements.</p>

<p>As I wandered on, I reached the little rustic stair which led
downward from<br>
the path to the river's side; and on examining farther, perceived
that at<br>
this place the stream was fordable; a huge flat rock, filling up
a great<br>
part of the river's bed, occupied the middle, on either side of
which the<br>
current ran with increased force.</p>

<p>Bent upon exploring, I descended the cliff, and was preparing
to cross,<br>
when my attention was attracted by the twinkle of a fire at some
distance<br>
from me, on the opposite side; the flame rose and fell in fitful
flashes,<br>
as though some hand were ministering to it at the moment. As it
was<br>
impossible, from the silence on every side, that it could proceed
from a<br>
bivouac of the enemy, I resolved on approaching it, and examining
it for<br>
myself. I knew that the shepherds in remote districts were
accustomed thus<br>
to pass the summer nights, with no other covering save the blue
vault above<br>
them. It was not impossible, too, that it might prove a Guerilla
party, who<br>
frequently, in small numbers, hang upon the rear of a retreating
army. Thus<br>
conjecturing, I crossed the stream, and quickening my pace,
walked forward<br>
in the direction of the blaze. For a moment a projecting rock
obstructed my<br>
progress; and while I was devising some means of proceeding
farther, the<br>
sound of voices near me arrested my attention. I listened, and
what was my<br>
astonishment to hear that they spoke in French. I now crept
cautiously to<br>
the verge of the rock and looked over; the moon was streaming in
its full<br>
brilliancy upon a little shelving strand beside the stream, and
here I<br>
now beheld the figure of a French officer. He was habited in the
undress<br>
uniform of a <i>chasseur &aacute; cheval</i>, but wore no arms; indeed
his occupation<br>
at the moment was anything but a warlike one, he being leisurely
employed<br>
in collecting some flasks of champagne which apparently had been
left to<br>
cool within the stream.</p>

<p>"<i>Eh bien, Alphonse!</i>" said a voice in the direction of the
fire, "what are<br>
you delaying for?"</p>

<p>"I'm coming, I'm coming," said the other; "but, <i>par Dieu!</i> I
can only find<br>
five of our bottles; one seems to have been carried away by the
stream."</p>

<p>"No matter," replied the other, "we are but three of us, and
one is, or<br>
should be, on the sick list."</p>

<p>The only answer to this was the muttered chorus of a French
drinking-song,<br>
interrupted at intervals by an imprecation upon the missing
flask. It<br>
chanced, at this moment, that a slight clinking noise attracted
me, and on<br>
looking down, I perceived at the foot of the rock the prize he
sought for.<br>
It had been, as he conceived, carried away by an eddy of the
stream and was<br>
borne, as a true prisoner-of-war, within my grasp. I avow that
from this<br>
moment my interest in the scene became considerably heightened;
such a waif<br>
as a bottle of champagne was not to be despised in circumstances
like mine;<br>
and I watched with anxious eyes every gesture of the impatient
Frenchman,<br>
and alternately vibrated between hope and fear, as he neared or
receded<br>
from the missing flask.</p>

<p>"Let it go to the devil," shouted his companion, once more.
"Jacques has<br>
lost all patience with you."</p>

<p>"Be it so, then," said the other, as he prepared to take up
his burden. At<br>
this instant I made a slight effort so to change my position as
to obtain<br>
a view of the rest of the party. The branch by which I supported
myself,<br>
however, gave way beneath my grasp with a loud crash. I lost my
footing,<br>
and slipping downward from the rock, came plump into the stream
below. The<br>
noise, the splash, and more than all, the sudden appearance of a
man beside<br>
him, astounded the Frenchman, who almost let fall his pannier,
and thus we<br>
stood confronting each other for at least a couple of minutes in
silence. A<br>
hearty burst of laughter from both parties terminated this
awkward moment,<br>
while the Frenchman, with the readiness of his country, was the
first to<br>
open the negotiation.</p>

<p>"<i>Sacr&eacute; Dieu!</i>" said he, "what can you be doing here?
You're English,<br>
without doubt."</p>

<p>"Even so," said I; "but that is the very question I was about
to ask you;<br>
what are you doing here?"</p>

<p>"<i>Eh bien</i>," replied the other, gayly, "you shall be answered
in all<br>
frankness. Our captain was wounded in the action of the 8th, and
we heard<br>
had been carried up the country by some peasants. As the army
fell back, we<br>
obtained permission to go in search of him. For two days all was
fruitless;<br>
the peasantry fled at our approach; and although we captured some
of our<br>
stolen property&mdash;among other things, the contents of this
basket&mdash;yet we<br>
never came upon the track of our comrade till this evening. A
good-hearted<br>
shepherd had taken him to his hut, and treated him with every
kindness,<br>
but no sooner did he hear the gallop of our horses and the clank
of our<br>
equipments, than, fearing himself to be made a prisoner, he fled
up the<br>
mountains, leaving our friend behind him; <i>voil&agrave; notre
histoire</i>. Here we<br>
are, three in all, one of us with a deep sabre-cut in his
shoulder. If you<br>
are the stronger party, we are, I suppose, your prisoners; if
not&mdash;"</p>

<p>What was to have followed I know not, for at this moment his
companion, who<br>
had finally lost all patience, came suddenly to the spot.</p>

<p>"A prisoner," cried he, placing a heavy hand upon my shoulder,
while with<br>
the other he held his drawn sword pointed towards my breast.</p>

<p>To draw a pistol from my bosom was the work of a second; and
while gently<br>
turning the point of his weapon away, I coolly said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Not so fast, my friend, not so fast! The game is in my hands,
not yours. I<br>
have only to pull this trigger, and my dragoons are upon you;
whatever fate<br>
befall me, yours is certain."</p>

<p>A half-scornful laugh betrayed the incredulity of him I
addressed, while<br>
the other, apparently anxious to relieve the awkwardness of the
moment,<br>
suddenly broke in with,&mdash;</p>

<p>"He is right, Auguste, and you are wrong; we are in his power;
that is,"<br>
added he, smiling, "if he believes there is any triumph in
capturing such<br>
<i>pauvres diables</i> as ourselves."</p>

<p>The features of him he addressed suddenly lost their scornful
expression,<br>
and sheathing his sword with an air of almost melodramatic
solemnity,<br>
he gravely pulled up his mustaches, and after a pause of a few
seconds,<br>
solemnly ejaculated a malediction upon his fortune.</p>

<p>"<i>C'est toujours ainsi</i>," said he, with a bitterness that only
a Frenchman<br>
can convey when cursing his destiny. "<i>Soyez bon enfant</i>, and see
what will<br>
come of it. Only be good-natured, only be kind, and if you
haven't bad luck<br>
at the end of it, it's only because fortune has a heavier stroke
in reserve<br>
for you hereafter."</p>

<p>I could not help smiling at the Frenchman's philosophy, which,
assuming<br>
as a good augury, he gayly said, "So, then, you'll not make us
prisoners.<br>
Isn't it so?"</p>

<p>"Prisoners," said the other, "nothing of the kind. Come and
sup with us;<br>
I'll venture to say our larder is as well stocked as your own; in
any case<br>
an omelette, a cold chicken, and a glass of champagne are not bad
things in<br>
our circumstances."</p>

<p>I could not help laughing outright at the strangeness of the
proposal.<br>
"I fear I must decline," said I; "you seem to forget I am placed
here to<br>
watch, not to join you."</p>

<p>"<i>A la bonne heure</i>," cried the younger of the two; "do both.
Come along;<br>
<i>soyez bon camarade</i>; you are always near your own people, so
don't refuse<br>
us."</p>

<p>In proportion as I declined, they both became more pressing in
their<br>
entreaties, and at last, I began to dread lest my refusal might
seem to<br>
proceed from some fear as to the good faith of the invitation,
and I never<br>
felt so awkwardly placed as when one plumply pressed me by
saying,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>Mais pourquoi pas, mon cher?</i>"</p>

<p>I stammered out something about duty and discipline, when they
both<br>
interrupted me by a long burst of laughter.</p>

<p>"Come, come!" said they; "in an hour&mdash;in half an hour, if you
will&mdash;you<br>
shall be back with your own people. We've had plenty of fighting
latterly,<br>
and we are likely to have enough in future; we know something of
each other<br>
by this time in the field; let us see how we get on in the
bivouac!"</p>

<p>Resolving not to be outdone in generosity, I replied at once,
"Here goes,<br>
then!"</p>

<p>Five minutes afterwards I found myself seated at their bivouac
fire. The<br>
captain, who was the oldest of the party, was a fine soldier-like
fellow of<br>
some forty years old; he had served in the Imperial Guard through
all the<br>
campaigns of Italy and Austria, and abounded in anecdotes of the
French<br>
army. From him I learned many of those characteristic traits
which so<br>
eminently distinguish the imperial troops, and saw how completely
their<br>
bravest and boldest feats of arms depended upon the personal
valor of him<br>
who led them on. From the daring enterprise of Napoleon at Lodi
to the<br>
conduct of the lowest corporal in the <i>grande arm&eacute;e</i>, the
picture presents<br>
nothing but a series of brilliant and splendid chivalry; while,
at the same<br>
time, the warlike character of the nation is displayed by that
instinctive<br>
appreciation of courage and daring which teaches them to follow
their<br>
officers to the very cannon's mouth.</p>

<p>"It was at Elchingen," said the captain, "you should have seen
them. The<br>
regiment in which I was a lieutenant was ordered to form close
column, and<br>
charge through a narrow ravine to carry a brigade of guns, which,
by a<br>
flanking fire, were devastating our troops. Before we could reach
the<br>
causeway, we were obliged to pass an open plain in which the
ground dipped<br>
for about a hundred yards; the column moved on, and though it
descended one<br>
hill, not a man ever mounted the opposite one. A very avalanche
of balls<br>
swept the entire valley; and yet amidst the thunder and the
smoke, the red<br>
glare of the artillery, and the carnage around them, our
grenadiers marched<br>
firmly up. At last, Marshal Ney sent an aide-de-camp with orders
to the<br>
troops to lie flat down, and in this position the artillery
played over<br>
us for above half an hour. The Austrians gradually slackened, and
finally<br>
discontinued their fire; this was the moment to resume the
attack. I crept<br>
cautiously to my knees and looked about. One word brought my men
around me;<br>
but I found to my horror that of a battalion who came into action
fourteen<br>
hundred strong, not five hundred remained; and that I myself, a
mere<br>
lieutenant, was now the senior officer of the regiment. Our
gallant colonel<br>
lay dead beside my feet. At this instant a thought struck me. I
remembered<br>
a habit he possessed in moments of difficulty and danger, of
placing in his<br>
shako a small red plume which he commonly carried in his belt. I
searched<br>
for it, and found it. As I held it aloft, a maddening cheer burst
around<br>
me, while from out the line each officer sprang madly forward,
and rushed<br>
to the head of the column. It was no longer a march. With a loud
cry of<br>
vengeance, the mass rushed forward, the men trying to outstrip
their<br>
officers, and come first in contact with the foe. Like tigers on
the<br>
spring, they fell upon the enemy, who, crushed, overwhelmed, and
massacred,<br>
lay in slaughtered heaps around the cannon. The cavalry of the
Guard came<br>
thundering on behind us; a whole division followed; and three
thousand five<br>
hundred prisoners, and fourteen pieces of artillery were
captured.</p>

<p>"I sat upon the carriage of a gun, my face begrimed with
powder, and my<br>
uniform blackened and blood-stained. The whole thing appeared
like some<br>
shocking dream. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, while a rough
voice called<br>
in my ear, '<i>Capitaine du soixante-neuvi&egrave;me, tu es mon
fr&egrave;re!</i>'</p>

<p>"It was Ney who spoke. This," added the brave captain, his
eyes filling as<br>
he said the words,&mdash;"this is the sabre he gave me."</p>

<p>I know not why I have narrated this anecdote; it has little in
itself, but<br>
somehow, to me it brings back in all its fulness the recollection
of that<br>
night.</p>

<p>There was something so strongly characteristic of the old
Napoleonist<br>
in the tone of his narrative that I listened throughout with
breathless<br>
attention. I began to feel too, for the first time, what a
powerful arm<br>
in war the Emperor had created by fostering the spirit of
individual<br>
enterprise. The field thus opened to fame and distinction left no
bounds<br>
to the ambition of any. The humble conscript, as he tore himself
from the<br>
embraces of his mother, wiped his tearful eyes to see before him
in the<br>
distance the b&acirc;ton of a marshal. The bold soldier who
stormed a battery<br>
felt his heart beat more proudly and more securely beneath the
cordon of<br>
the Legion than behind a cuirass of steel; and to a people in
whom the<br>
sense of duty alone would seem cold, barren, and inglorious, he
had<br>
substituted a highly-wrought chivalrous enthusiasm; and by the
<i>prestige</i><br>
of his own name, the proud memory of his battles, and the glory
of those<br>
mighty tournaments at which all Europe were the spectators, he
had<br>
converted a nation into an army.</p>

<p>By a silent and instinctive compact we appeared to avoid those
topics of<br>
the campaign in which the honor of our respective arms was
interested; and<br>
once, when, by mere accident, the youngest of the party adverted
to Fuentes<br>
d'Onoro, the old captain adroitly turned the current of the
conversation by<br>
saying, "Come, Alphonse, let's have a song."</p>

<p>"Yes," said the other. "<i>Les Pas de Charge</i>."</p>

<p>"No, no," said the captain; "if I am to have a choice, let it
be that<br>
little Breton song you gave us on the Danube."</p>

<p>"So be it then," said Alphonse. "Here goes!"</p>

<p>I have endeavored to convey, by a translation, the words he
sang; but I<br>
feel conscious how totally their feeling and simplicity are lost
when<br>
deprived of their own <i>patois</i>, and the wild but touching melody
that<br>
accompanied them.</p>

<p>    THE BRETON HOME.</p>

<p>    When the battle is o'er, and the sounds of fight<br>
    Have closed with the closing day,<br>
    How happy around the watch-fire's light<br>
    To chat the long hours away;<br>
    To chat the long hours away, my boy,<br>
    And talk of the days to come,<br>
    Or a better still and a purer joy,<br>
    To think of our far-off home.</p>

<p>    How many a cheek will then grow pale,<br>
    That never felt a tear!<br>
    And many a stalwart heart will quail,<br>
    That never quailed in fear!<br>
    And the breast that like some mighty rock<br>
    Amidst the foaming sea<br>
    Bore high against the battle's shock<br>
    Now heaves like infancy.</p>

<p>    And those who knew each other not<br>
    Their hands together steal,<br>
    Each thinks of some long hallowed spot,<br>
    And all like brothers feel:<br>
    Such holy thoughts to all are given;<br>
    The lowliest has his part;<br>
    The love of home, like love of heaven,<br>
    Is woven in our heart.</p>

<p>There was a pause as he concluded, each sank in his own
reflections. How<br>
long we should have thus remained, I know not; but we were
speedily aroused<br>
from our reveries by the tramp of horses near us. We listened,
and could<br>
plainly detect in their rude voices and coarse laughter the
approach of a<br>
body of Guerillas. We looked from one to the other in silence and
in fear.<br>
Nothing could be more unfortunate should we be discovered. Upon
this point<br>
we were left little time to deliberate; for with a loud cheer,
four Spanish<br>
horsemen galloped up to the spot, their carbines in the rest. The
Frenchmen<br>
sprang to their feet, and seized their sabres, bent upon making a
resolute<br>
resistance. As for me, my determination was at once taken.
Remaining<br>
quietly seated upon the grass, I stirred not for a moment, but
addressing<br>
him who appeared to be the chief of the Guerillas, said, in
Spanish:&mdash;</p>

<p>"These are my prisoners; I am a British officer of dragoons,
and my party<br>
is yonder."</p>

<p>This evidently unexpected declaration seemed to surprise them,
and they<br>
conferred for a few moments together. Meanwhile they were joined
by two<br>
others, in one of whom we could recognize, by his costume, the
real leader<br>
of the party.</p>

<p>"I am captain in the light dragoons," said I, repeating my
declaration.</p>

<p>"<i>Morte de Dios!</i>" replied he; "it is false; you are a
spy!"</p>

<p>The word was repeated from lip to lip by his party, and I saw,
in their<br>
lowering looks and darkened features, that the moment was a
critical one<br>
for me.</p>

<p>"Down with your arms!" cried he, turning to the Frenchmen.
"Surrender<br>
yourselves our prisoners; I'll not bid ye twice!"</p>

<p>The Frenchmen turned upon me an inquiring look, as though to
say that upon<br>
me now their hopes entirely reposed.</p>

<p>"Do as he bids you," said I; while at the same moment I sprang
to my legs,<br>
and gave a loud, shrill whistle, the last echo of which had not
died away<br>
in the distance ere it was replied to.</p>


<a name="0217"></a>
<img alt="0217.jpg (167K)" src="0217.jpg" height="1043" width="677">

<p>[THE TABLES TURNED.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Make no resistance now," said I to the Frenchmen; "our safety
depends on this."</p>

<p>While this was passing two of the Spaniards had dismounted,
and detaching a<br>
coil of rope which hung from their saddle-peak, were proceeding
to tie the<br>
prisoners wrist to wrist; the others, with their carbines to the
shoulder,<br>
covered us man by man, the chief of the party having singled out
me as his<br>
peculiar prey.</p>

<p>"The fate of Mascarenhas might have taught you better," said
he, "than to<br>
play this game." And then added with a grim smile, "But we'll see
if an<br>
Englishman will not make as good a carbonado as a
Portuguese!"</p>

<p>This cruel speech made my blood run cold, for I knew well to
what he<br>
alluded. I was at Lisbon at the time it happened, but the
melancholy fate<br>
of Julian Mascarenhas, the Portuguese spy, had reached me there.
He was<br>
burned to death at Torres Vedras!</p>

<p>The Spaniard's triumph over my terror was short-lived, indeed,
for scarcely<br>
had the words fallen from his lips, when a party of the
Fourteenth,<br>
dashing through the river at a gallop, came riding up. The
attitude of the<br>
Guerillas, as they sat with presented arms, was sufficient for my
fellows<br>
who needed not the exhortation of him who rode foremost of the
party:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ride them down, boys! Tumble them over! Flatten their broad
beavers, the<br>
infernal thieves!"</p>

<p>"Whoop!" shouted Mike, as he rode at the chief with the force
of a<br>
catapult. Down went the Spaniard, horse and all; and before he
could<br>
disentangle himself, Mike was upon him, his knee pressed upon his
neck.</p>

<p>"Isn't it enough for ye to pillage the whole country without
robbing the<br>
king's throops!" cried he, as he held him fast to the earth with
one hand,<br>
while he presented a loaded pistol to his face.</p>

<p>By this time the scene around me was sufficiently ludicrous.
Such of the<br>
Guerillas as had not been thrown by force from their saddles, had
slid<br>
peaceably down, and depositing their arms upon the ground,
dropped upon<br>
their knees in a semicircle around us, and amidst the hoarse
laughter of<br>
the troopers, and the irrepressible merriment of the Frenchmen,
rose up the<br>
muttered prayers of the miserable Spaniards, who believed that
now their<br>
last hour was come.</p>

<p>"<i>Madre de Dios</i>, indeed!" cried Mike, imitating the tone of a
repentant<br>
old sinner in a patched mantle; "it's much the blessed Virgin
thinks of<br>
the like o' ye, thieves and rogues as ye are; it a'most puts me
beyond my<br>
senses to see ye there crossing yourselves like <i>rale</i>
Christians."</p>

<p>If I could not help indulging myself in this retributive
cruelty towards<br>
the chief, and leaving him to the tender mercies of Mike, I
ordered the<br>
others to rise and form in line before me. Affecting to occupy
myself<br>
entirely with them, I withdrew the attention of all from the
French<br>
officers, who remained quiet spectators of the scene around
them.</p>

<p>"<i>Point de fa&ccedil;ons</i>, gentlemen," said I, in a whisper.
"Get to your horses<br>
and away! Now's your time. Good-by!"</p>

<p>A warm grasp of the hand from each was the only reply, and I
turned once<br>
more to my discomforted friends the Guerillas.</p>

<p>"There, Mike, let the poor devil rise. I confess appearances
were strong<br>
against me just now."</p>

<p>"Well, Captain, are you convinced by this time that I was not
deceiving<br>
you?"</p>

<p>The Guerilla muttered some words of apology between his teeth,
and while he<br>
shook the dust from his cloak, and arranged the broken feather of
his<br>
hat, cast a look of scowling and indignant meaning upon Mike,
whose rough<br>
treatment he had evidently not forgiven.</p>

<p>"Don't be looking at me that way, you black thief! or
I'll&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hold there!" said I; "no more of this. Come, gentlemen, we
must be<br>
friends. If I mistake not, we've got something like refreshment
at our<br>
bivouac. In any case you'll partake of our watch-fire till
morning."</p>

<p>They gladly accepted our invitation, and ere half an hour
elapsed Mike's<br>
performance in the part of host had completely erased every
unpleasant<br>
impression his first appearance gave rise to; and as for myself,
when I did<br>
sleep at last, the confused mixture of Spanish and Irish airs
which issued<br>
from the thicket beside me, proved that a most intimate alliance
had grown<br>
up between the parties.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVII.</p>

<p>MIKE'S MISTAKE.</p>

<p>An hour before daybreak the Guerillas were in motion, and
having taken a<br>
most ceremonious leave of us, they mounted their horses and set
out upon<br>
their journey. I saw their gaunt figures wind down the valley,
and watched<br>
them till they disappeared in the distance. "Yes, brigands though
they be,"<br>
thought I, "there is something fine, something heroic in the
spirit of<br>
their unrelenting vengeance." The sleuth-hound never sought the
lair of<br>
his victim with a more ravening appetite for blood than they
track the<br>
retreating columns of the enemy. Hovering around the line of
march, they<br>
sometimes swoop down in masses, and carry off a part of the
baggage, or the<br>
wounded. The wearied soldier, overcome by heat and exhaustion,
who drops<br>
behind his ranks, is their certain victim; the sentry on an
advanced post<br>
is scarcely less so. Whole pickets are sometimes attacked and
carried off<br>
to a man; and when traversing the lonely passes of some mountain
gorge, or<br>
defiling through the dense shadows of a wooded glen, the stoutest
heart has<br>
felt a fear, lest from behind the rock that frowned above him, or
from the<br>
leafy thicket whose branches stirred without a breeze, the sharp
ring of a<br>
Guerilla carbine might sound his death-knell.</p>

<p>It was thus in the retreat upon Corunna fell Colonel Lefebvre.
Ever<br>
foremost in the attack upon our rear-guard, this gallant youth
(he was<br>
scarce six-and-twenty), a colonel of his regiment, and decorated
with the<br>
Legion of Honor, he led on every charge of his bold "<i>sabreurs</i>,"
riding<br>
up to the very bayonets of our squares, waving his hat above his
head, and<br>
seeming actually to court his death-wound; but so struck were our
brave<br>
fellows with his gallant bearing, that they cheered him as he
came on.</p>

<p>It was in one of these moments as, rising high in his
stirrups, he bore<br>
down upon the unflinching ranks of the British infantry, the
shrill whistle<br>
of a ball strewed the leaves upon the roadside, the exulting
shout of a<br>
Guerilla followed it, and the same instant Lefebvre fell forward
upon his<br>
horse's mane, a deluge of blood bursting from his bosom. A broken
cry<br>
escaped his lips,&mdash;a last effort to cheer on his men; his noble
charger<br>
galloped forward between our squares, bearing to us our prisoner,
the<br>
corpse of his rider.</p>

<p>"Captain O'Malley," said a mounted dragoon to the advanced
sentry at the<br>
bottom of the little hill upon which I was standing. "Despatches
from<br>
headquarters, sir," delivering into my hands a large sealed
packet from the<br>
adjutant-general's office. While he proceeded to search for
another letter<br>
of which he was the bearer, I broke the seal and read as
follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>    ADJUTANT-GENERAL'S OFFICE.</p>

<p>    May 15.</p>

<p>    Sir,&mdash;On the receipt of this order you are directed,
having previously<br>
    resigned your command to the officer next in seniority,
to<br>
    repair to headquarters at Fueutes d'Onoro, there to report
yourself<br>
    under arrest.</p>

<p>    I have the honor to be your obedient servant,</p>

<p>    GEORGE HOPETON,</p>

<p>    <i>Military Secretary</i>.</p>

<p>"What the devil can this mean?" said I to myself, as I read
the lines over<br>
again and again. "What have I done lately, or what have I left
undone to<br>
involve me in this scrape? Ah!" thought I, "to be sure, it can be
nothing<br>
else. Lord Wellington <i>did</i> recognize me that unlucky morning,
and has<br>
determined not to let me pass unpunished. How unfortunate.
Scarcely<br>
twenty-four hours have elapsed since fortune seemed to smile upon
me from<br>
every side, and now the very destiny I most dreaded stares me
fully in the<br>
face." A reprimand, or the sentence of a court-martial, I shrank
from with<br>
a coward's fear. It mattered comparatively little from what
source arising,<br>
the injury to my pride as a man and my spirit as a soldier would
be almost<br>
the same.</p>

<p>"This is the letter, sir," said the orderly, presenting me
with a packet,<br>
the address of which was in Power's hand-writing. Eagerly tearing
it open,<br>
I sought for something which might explain my unhappy position.
It bore the<br>
same date as the official letter, and ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    My Dear Charley,&mdash;I joined yesterday, just in time to
enjoy the<br>
    heartiest laugh I have had since our meeting. If notoriety
can gratify<br>
    you, by Jove, you have it; for Charles O'Malley and his man
Mickey<br>
    Free are bywords in every mess from Villa Formosa to the
rear-guard.<br>
    As it's only fair you should participate a little in the fun
you've<br>
    originated, let me explain the cause. Your inimitable man
Mike, to<br>
    whom it appears you intrusted the report of killed and
wounded for<br>
    the adjutant-general, having just at that moment accomplished
a<br>
    letter to his friends at home, substituted his correspondence
for your<br>
    returns, and doubtless, sent the list of the casualties as
very<br>
    interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such
be the<br>
    case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better
part than<br>
    old Colbourn, who swears he'll bring you to a court-martial,
under<br>
    Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no
bounds<br>
    since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a
kind of<br>
    neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of
except<br>
    the facings of the "dirty half-hundred." [2]</p>

<p>[Footnote 2: For the information of my unmilitary readers, I
may<br>
remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.]</p>

<p>    As Mr. Free's letter may be as great a curiosity to you as
it has<br>
    been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton
obtained for<br>
    me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light
as a<br>
    despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current
of the<br>
    letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the
pen of a<br>
    comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment
forgotten in<br>
    the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the
amanuensis<br>
    has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than
was<br>
    meant by the author:&mdash;</p>

<p>      Mrs. M'Gra,&mdash;Tear an' ages, sure I need not be treating
he<br>
      way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary&mdash;ay, that'll do&mdash;Mrs. Mary,
it's may be<br>
      surprised you'll be to be reading a letter from your humble
servant,<br>
      sitting on the top of the Alps,&mdash;arrah, may be it's not the
Alps; but<br>
      sure she'll never know,&mdash;fornent the whole French army,
with Bony<br>
      himself and all his jinnerals&mdash;God be between us and
harm&mdash;ready to<br>
      murther every mother's son of us, av they were able, Molly
darlin';<br>
      but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington
and Mister<br>
      Charles, we'll bate them yet, as we bate them afore.</p>

<p>      My lips is wathering at the thought o' the plunder. I
often<br>
      of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he'd be
worth his<br>
      weight in gold here.</p>

<p>      Mr. Charles is now a captain&mdash;devil a less&mdash;and myself
might be<br>
      somethin' that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful
n<br>
      and recommended the master in my place. "He's mighty young,
Mister<br>
      Charles is," says my Lord Wellington to me,&mdash;"He's mighty
young, Mr.<br>
      Free." "He is, my lord," says I; "he's young, as you
obsarve, but<br>
      he's as much divilment in him as many that might be his
father."<br>
      "That's somethin', Mr. Free," says my lord; "ye say he
comes from a<br>
      good stock?" "The <i>rale</i> sort, my lord," says I; "an ould,
ancient<br>
      family, that's spent every sixpence they had in treating
their<br>
      neighbors. My father lived near him for years,"&mdash;you see,
Molly, I<br>
      said that to season the discourse. "We'll make him a
captain," says<br>
      my lord; "but, Mr. Free, could we do nothing for you?"
"Nothing, at<br>
      present, my lord. When my friends comes into power," says
I, "they'll<br>
      think of me. There's many a little thing to give away in
Ireland, and<br>
      they often find it mighty hard to find a man for
lord-lieutenant; and<br>
      if that same, or a tide-waiter's place was vacant&mdash;" "Just
tell me,"<br>
      says my lord. "It's what I'll do," says I. "And now,
wishing you<br>
      happy dreams, I'll take my lave." Just so, Molly, it's hand
and glove<br>
      we are. A pleasant face, agreeable manners seasoned with
natural<br>
      modesty, and a good pair of legs, them's the gifts to push
a man's<br>
      way in the world. And even with the ladies&mdash;but sure I am
forgetting,<br>
      my master was proposed for, and your humble servant too, by
two<br>
      illigant creatures in Lisbon; but it wouldn't do, Molly,
it's higher<br>
      nor that we'll be looking,&mdash;<i>rale</i> princesses, the devil a
less. Tell<br>
      Kitty Hannigan I hope she's well; she was a disarving
young<br>
      in her situation in life. Shusey Dogherty, at the cross
roa<br>
      I don't forget the name&mdash;was a good-looking slip too; give
her my<br>
      affectionate salutations, as we say in the Portuguese. I
hope I'll be<br>
      able to bear the inclementuous nature of your climate when
I go back;<br>
      but I can't expect to stay long&mdash;for Lord Wellington can't
do without<br>
      me. We play duets on the guitar together every evening. The
master is<br>
      shouting for a blanket, so no more at present from,</p>

<p>      Your very affectionate friend,</p>

<p>      MICKEY FREE.</p>

<p>      P. S.&mdash;I don't write this myself, for the Spanish tongue
p<br>
      out o' the habit of English. Tell Father Rush, if he'd
study the<br>
      Portuguese, I'd use my interest for him with the Bishop of
Toledo.<br>
      It's a country he'd like&mdash;no regular stations, but
promiscuous eating<br>
      and drinking, and as pretty girls as ever confessed their
sins.</p>

<p>    My poor Charley, I think I am looking at you. I think I
can<br>
    see the struggle between indignation, and laughter, which
every line<br>
    of this letter inflicts upon you. Get back as quickly as you
can, and<br>
    we'll try if Crawfurd won't pull you through the business. In
any<br>
    case, expect no sympathy; and if you feel disposed to be
angry with<br>
    all who laugh at you, you had better publish a challenge in
the next<br>
    general order. George Scott, of, the Greys, bids me say, that
if<br>
    you're hard up for cash, he'll give you a couple of hundred
for<br>
    Mickey Free. I told him I thought you'd accept it, as your
uncle<br>
    has the breed of those fellows upon his estate, and might
have no<br>
    objection to weed his stud. Hammersley's gone back with the
Dashwoods;<br>
    but I don't think you need fear anything in that quarter.<br>
    At the same time, if you wish for success, make a bold push
for the<br>
    peerage and half-a-dozen decorations, for Miss Lucy is most
decidedly<br>
    gone wild about military distinction. As for me, my affairs
go on<br>
    well: I've had half-a-dozen quarrels with Inez, but we parted
good<br>
    friends, and my bad Portuguese has got me out of all
difficulties with<br>
    papa, who pressed me tolerably close as to fortune. I shall
want<br>
    your assistance in this matter yet. If parchments will
satisfy him, I<br>
    think I could get up a qualification; but somehow the matter
must<br>
    be done, for I'm resolved to have his daughter.</p>

<p>    The orderly is starting, so no more till we meet.</p>

<p>    Yours ever,            FRED POWER.</p>

<p>"Godwin," said I, as I closed the letter, "I find myself in a
scrape at<br>
headquarters; you are to take the command of the detachment, for
I must set<br>
out at once."</p>

<p>"Nothing serious, I hope. O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no; nothing of consequence. A most absurd blunder of my
rascally<br>
servant."</p>

<p>"The Irish fellow yonder?"</p>

<p>"The same."</p>

<p>"He seems to take it easily, however."</p>

<p>"Oh, confound him! he does not know what trouble he has
involved me in; not<br>
that he'll care much when he does."</p>

<p>"Why, he does not seem to be of a very desponding temperament.
Listen to<br>
the fellow! I'll be hanged, if he's not singing!"</p>

<p>"I'm devilishly disposed to spoil his mirth. They tell me,
however, he<br>
always keeps the troop in good humor; and see, the fellows are
actually<br>
cleaning his horses for him, while he is sitting on the
bank!"</p>

<p>"Faith, O'Malley, that fellow knows the world. Just hear
him."</p>

<p>Mr. Free was, as described, most leisurely reposing on a bank,
a mug of<br>
something drinkable beside him, and a pipe of that curtailed
proportion<br>
which an Irishman loves held daintily between his fingers. He
appeared to<br>
be giving his directions to some soldiers of the troop, who were
busily<br>
cleaning his horses and accoutrements for him.</p>


<a name="0225"></a>
<img alt="0225.jpg (189K)" src="0225.jpg" height="656" width="798">

<p>[MR. FREE PIPES WHILE HIS FRIENDS
PIPE-CLAY.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"That's it, Jim! Rub 'em down along the hocks; he won't kick;
it's only<br>
play. Scrub away, honey; that's the devil's own carbine to get
clean."</p>

<p>"Well, I say, Mr. Free, are you going to give us that ere
song?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I'll be danged if I burnish your sabre, if you don't
sing."</p>

<p>"Tear an' ages! ain't I composing it? Av I was Tommy Moore, I
couldn't be<br>
quicker."</p>

<p>"Well, come along, my hearty; let's hear it."</p>

<p>"Oh, murther!" said Mike, draining the pot to its last few
drops, which he<br>
poured pathetically upon the grass before him; and then having
emptied the<br>
ashes from his pipe, he heaved a deep sigh, as though to say life
had no<br>
pleasures in store for him. A brief pause followed, after which,
to the<br>
evident delight of his expectant audience, he began the following
song, to<br>
the popular air of "Paddy O'Carroll":&mdash;</p>

<p>    BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.</p>

<p>    Air,&mdash;<i>Paddy O'Carroll</i>.</p>

<p>    Bad luck to this marching,<br>
    Pipe-claying, and starching,<br>
    How neat one must be to be killed by the French,<br>
    I'm sick of parading,<br>
    Through wet and cowld wading,<br>
    Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.<br>
    To the tune of a fife<br>
    They dispose of your life,<br>
    You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;<br>
    Now, I like Garryowen,<br>
    When I hear it at home,<br>
    But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.</p>

<p>    Then, though up late and early,<br>
    Our pay comes so rarely,<br>
    The devil a farthing we've ever to spare;<br>
    They say some disaster<br>
    Befell the paymaster;<br>
    On my conscience, I think that the money's not there.<br>
    And just think what a blunder,<br>
    They won't let us plunder,<br>
    While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear;<br>
    Though there isn't a village,<br>
    But cries, "Come and pillage,"<br>
    Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.</p>

<p>    Like a sailor that's nigh land,<br>
    I long for that island<br>
    Where even the kisses we steal if we please;<br>
    Where it is no disgrace<br>
    If you don't wash your face,<br>
    And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.<br>
    With no sergeant t'abuse us,<br>
    We fight to amuse us;<br>
    Sure, it's better bate Christians than kick a baboon.<br>
    How I'd dance like a fairy<br>
    To see ould Dunleary,<br>
    And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon!</p>

<p>"There's a sweet little bit for you," said Mike, as he
concluded; "thrown<br>
off as aisy as a game at football."</p>

<p>"I say, Mr. Free, the captain's looking for you; he's just
received<br>
despatches from the camp, and wants his horses."</p>

<p>"In that case, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you; with
the more<br>
regret, too, that I was thinking of treating you to a supper this
evening.<br>
You needn't be laughing; it's in earnest I am. Coming, sir,
coming!"<br>
shouted he, in a louder tone, answering some imaginary call, as
an excuse<br>
for his exit.</p>

<p>When he appeared before me, an air of most business-like
alacrity had<br>
succeeded to his late appearance, and having taken my orders to
get the<br>
horses in readiness, he left me at once, and in less than half an
hour we<br>
were upon the road.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVIII.</p>

<p>MONSOON IN TROUBLE.</p>

<p>As I rode along towards Fuentes d'Onoro, I could not help
feeling provoked<br>
at the absurd circumstances in which I was involved. To be made
the subject<br>
of laughter for a whole army was by no means a pleasant
consideration; but<br>
what I felt far worse was the possibility that the mention of my
name in<br>
connection with a reprimand might reach the ears of those who
knew nothing<br>
of the cause.</p>

<p>Mr. Free himself seemed little under the influence of similar
feelings; for<br>
when, after a silence of a couple of hours, I turned suddenly
towards him<br>
with a half-angry look, and remarked, "You see, sir, what your
confounded<br>
blundering has done," his cool reply was,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, then! won't Mrs. M'Gra be frightened out of her life when
she reads<br>
all about the killed and wounded in your honor's report? I wonder
if they<br>
ever had the manners to send my own letter afterwards, when they
found out<br>
their mistake!"</p>

<p>"<i>Their</i> mistake, do you say? rather <i>yours!</i> You appear to
have a happy<br>
knack of shifting blame from your own shoulders. And do you fancy
that<br>
they've nothing else to do than to trouble their heads about your
absurd<br>
letters?"</p>

<p>"Faith, it's easily seen you never saw my letter, or you
wouldn't be saying<br>
that. And sure, it's not much trouble it would give Colonel
Fitzroy or any<br>
o' the staff that write a good hand just to put in a line to Mrs.
M'Gra, to<br>
prevent her feeling alarmed about that murthering paper. Well,
well; it's<br>
God's blessing! I don't think there's anybody of the name of
Mickey Free<br>
high up in the army but myself; so that the family won't be going
into<br>
mourning for me on a false alarm."</p>

<p>I had not patience to participate in this view of the case; so
that I<br>
continued my journey without speaking. We had jogged along for
some time<br>
after dark, when the distant twinkle of the-watch-fires announced
our<br>
approach to the camp. A detachment of the Fourteenth formed the
advanced<br>
post, and from the officer in command I learned that Power was
quartered<br>
at a small mill about half a mile distant; thither I accordingly
turned my<br>
steps, but finding that the path which led abruptly down to it
was broken<br>
and cut up in many places, I sent Mike back with the horses, and
continued<br>
my way alone on foot.</p>

<p>The night was deliciously calm; and as I approached the little
rustic mill,<br>
I could not help feeling struck with Power's taste in a
billet.</p>

<p>A little vine-clad cottage, built close against a rock, nearly
concealed<br>
by the dense foliage around it, stood beside a clear rivulet
whose eddying<br>
current supplied water to the mill, and rose in a dew-like spray
which<br>
sparkled like gems in the pale moonlight. All was still within,
but as I<br>
came nearer I thought I could detect the chords of a guitar. "Can
it be,"<br>
thought I, "that Master Fred has given himself up to minstrelsy;
or is<br>
it some little dress rehearsal for a serenade? But no," thought
I, "that<br>
certainly is not Power's voice." I crept stealthily down the
little path,<br>
and approached the window; the lattice lay open, and as the
curtain waved<br>
to and fro with the night air, I could see plainly all who were
in the<br>
room.</p>

<p>Close beside the window sat a large, dark-featured Spaniard,
his hands<br>
crossed upon his bosom and his head inclined heavily forward, the
attitude<br>
perfectly denoting deep sleep, even had not his cigar, which
remained<br>
passively between his lips, ceased to give forth its blue smoke
wreath. At<br>
a little distance from him sat a young girl, who, even by the
uncertain<br>
light, I could perceive was possessed of all that delicacy of
form and<br>
gracefulness of carriage which characterize her nation.</p>

<p>Her pale features&mdash;paler still from the contrast with her jet
black<br>
hair and dark costume&mdash;were lit up with an expression of
animation and<br>
enthusiasm as her fingers swept rapidly and boldly across the
strings of a<br>
guitar.</p>

<p>"And you're not tired of it yet?" said she, bending her head
downwards<br>
towards one whom I now for the first time perceived.</p>

<p>Reclining carelessly at her feet, his arm leaning upon her
chair, while his<br>
hand occasionally touched her taper fingers, lay my good friend,
Master<br>
Fred Power. An undress jacket, thrown loosely open, and a black
neck-cloth,<br>
negligently knotted, bespoke the easy <i>nonchalance</i> with which
he<br>
prosecuted his courtship.</p>

<p>"Do sing it again?" said he, pressing her fingers to his
lips.</p>

<p>What she replied, I could not catch; but Fred resumed: "No,
no; he never<br>
wakes. The infernal clatter of that mill is his lullaby."</p>

<p>"But your friend will be here soon," said she. "Is it not
so?"</p>

<p>"Oh, poor Charley! I'd almost forgotten him. By-the-bye, you
mustn't fall<br>
in love with him. There now, do not look angry; I only meant
that, as I<br>
knew he'd be desperately smitten, you shouldn't let him fancy he
got any<br>
encouragement."</p>

<p>"What would you have me do?" said she, artlessly.</p>

<p>"I have been thinking over that, too. In the first place,
you'd better<br>
never let him hear you sing; scarcely ever smile; and as far as
possible,<br>
keep out of his sight."</p>

<p>"One would think, Senhor, that all these precautions were to
be taken more<br>
on my account than on his. Is he so very dangerous, then?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it! Good-looking enough he is, but, only a boy;
at the same<br>
time, a devilish bold one! And he'd think no more of springing
through that<br>
window and throwing his arms round your neck, the very first
moment of his<br>
arrival, than I should of whispering how much I love you."</p>

<p>"How very odd he must be! I'm sure I should like him."</p>

<p>"Many thanks to both for your kind hints; and now to take
advantage of<br>
them." So saying, I stepped lightly upon the window-sill, cleared
the<br>
miller with one spring, and before Power could recover his legs
or<br>
Margeritta her astonishment, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed
her on<br>
either cheek.</p>

<p>"Charley! Charley! Damn it, man, it won't do!" cried Fred;
while the young<br>
lady, evidently more amused at his discomfiture than affronted at
the<br>
liberty, threw herself into a seat, and laughed immoderately.</p>

<p>"Ha! Hilloa there! What is't?" shouted the miller, rousing
himself from his<br>
nap, and looking eagerly round. "Are they coming? Are the French
coming?"</p>

<p>A hearty renewal of his daughter's laughter was the only
reply; while Power<br>
relieved his anxiety by saying,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, no, Pedrillo, not the French; a mere marauding
party,&mdash;nothing more. I<br>
say, Charley," continued he, in a lower tone, "you had better
lose no time<br>
in reporting yourself at headquarters. We'll walk up together.
Devilish<br>
awkward scrape, yours."</p>

<p>"Never fear, Fred; time enough for all that. For the present,
if you permit<br>
me, I'll follow up my acquaintance with our fair friend
here."</p>

<p>"Gently, gently!" said he, with a look of most imposing
seriousness. "Don't<br>
mistake her; she's not a mere country girl: you understand?&mdash;been
bred in a<br>
convent here,&mdash;rather superior kind of thing."</p>

<p>"Come, come, Fred, I'm not the man to interfere with you for a
moment."</p>

<p>"Good-night, Senhor," said the old miller, who had been
waiting patiently<br>
all this time to pay his respects before going.</p>

<p>"Yes, that's it!" cried Power, eagerly. "Good-night,
Pedrillo."</p>

<p>"<i>Buonos noches</i>," lisped out Margeritta, with a slight
curtsy.</p>

<p>I sprang forward to acknowledge her salutation, when Power
coolly<br>
interposed between us, and closing the door after them, placed
his back<br>
against it.</p>

<p>"Master Charley, I must read you a lesson&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You inveterate hypocrite, don't attempt this nonsense with
<i>me</i>. But come,<br>
tell me how long you have been here?"</p>

<p>"Just twenty-four of the shortest hours I ever passed at an
outpost. But<br>
listen,&mdash;do you know that voice? Isn't it O'Shaughnessy?"</p>

<p>"To be sure it is. Hear the fellow's song."</p>

<p>    "My father cared little for shot or shell,<br>
    He laughed at death and dangers;<br>
    And he'd storm the very gates of hell<br>
    With a company of the 'Rangers.'<br>
    So sing tow, row, row, row, row," etc.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, Mister Power, it's twice I'd think of returning
your visit, if I<br>
knew the state of your avenue. If there's a grand jury in Spain,
they might<br>
give you a presentment for this bit of road. My knees are as bare
as a<br>
commissary's conscience, and I've knocked as much flesh off my
shin-bones<br>
as would make a cornet in the hussars!"</p>

<p>A regular roar of laughter from both of us apprized Dennis of
our vicinity.</p>

<p>"And it's laughing ye are? Wouldn't it be as polite just to
hold a candle<br>
or lantern for me in this confounded watercourse?"</p>

<p>"How goes it, Major?" cried I, extending my hand to him
through the window.</p>

<p>"Charley&mdash;Charley O'Malley, my son! I'm glad to see you. It's
a hearty<br>
laugh you gave us this morning. My friend Mickey's a pleasant
fellow for a<br>
secretary-at-war. But it's all settled now; Crawfurd arranged it
for you<br>
this afternoon."</p>

<p>"You don't say so! Pray tell me all about it."</p>

<p>"That's just what I won't; for ye see I don't know it; but I
believe old<br>
Monsoon's affair has put everything out of their heads."</p>

<p>"Monsoon's affair! What is that? Out with it, Dennis."</p>

<p>"Faith, I'll be just as discreet about that as your own
business. All I can<br>
tell you is, that they brought him up to headquarters this
evening with<br>
a sergeant's guard, and they say he's to be tried by
court-martial; and<br>
Picton is in a blessed humor about it."</p>

<p>"What could it possibly have been? Some plundering affair,
depend on it."</p>

<p>"Faith, you may swear it wasn't for his little charities, as
Dr. Pangloss<br>
calls them, they've pulled him up," cried Power.</p>

<p>"Maurice is in high feather about it," said Dennis. "There are
five of them<br>
up at Fuentes, making a list of the charges to send to Monsoon;
for Bob<br>
Mahon, it seems, heard of the old fellow's doings up the
mountains."</p>

<p>"What glorious fun!" said Tower. "Let's haste and join them,
boys."</p>

<p>"Agreed," said I. "Is it far from this?"</p>

<p>"Another stage. When we've got something to eat," said the
major, "if Power<br>
has any intentions that way&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, I really did begin to fear Fred's memory was lapsing;
but somehow,<br>
poor fellow, smiles have been more in his way than sandwiches
lately."</p>

<p>An admonishing look from Power was his only reply, as he
walked towards the<br>
door. Bent upon teasing him, however, I continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"My only fear is, he may do something silly."</p>

<p>"Who? Monsoon, is it?"</p>

<p>"No, no. Not Monsoon; another friend of ours."</p>

<p>"Faith, I scarcely thought your fears of old Monsoon were
called for. He's<br>
a fox&mdash;the devil a less."</p>

<p>"No, no, Dennis. I wasn't thinking of him. My anxieties were
for a most<br>
soft-hearted young gentleman,&mdash;one Fred Power."</p>

<p>"Charley, Charley!" said Fred, from the door, where he had
been giving<br>
directions to his servant about supper. "A man can scarce do a
more silly<br>
thing than marry in the army; all the disagreeables of married
life, with<br>
none of its better features."</p>

<p>"Marry&mdash;marry!" shouted O'Shaughnessy, "upon my conscience,
it's<br>
incomprehensible to me how a man can be guilty of it. To be sure,
I don't<br>
mean to say that there are not circumstances,&mdash;such as half-pay,
old age,<br>
infirmity, the loss of your limbs, and the like; but that, with
good health<br>
and a small balance at your banker's, you should be led into such
an<br>
embarrassment&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Men will flirt," said I, interrupting; "men will press taper
fingers, look<br>
into bright eyes, and feel their witchery; and although the fair
owners be<br>
only quizzing them half the time, and amusing themselves the
other, and<br>
though they be the veriest hackneyed coquettes&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Did you ever meet the Dalrymple girls, Dennis?" said Fred,
with a look I<br>
shall never forget.</p>

<p>What the reply was I cannot tell. My shame and confusion were
overwhelming,<br>
and Power's victory complete.</p>

<p>"Here comes the prog," cried Dennis, as Power's servant
entered with a very<br>
plausible-looking tray, while Fred proceeded to place before us a
strong<br>
army of decanters.</p>

<p>Our supper was excellent, and we were enjoying ourselves to
the utmost,<br>
when an orderly sergeant suddenly opened the door, and raising
his hand to<br>
his cap, asked if Major Power was there.</p>

<p>"A letter for you, sir."</p>

<p>"Monsoon's writing, by Jove! Come, boys, let us see what it
means. What a<br>
hand the old fellow writes! The letters look all crazy, and are
tumbling<br>
against each other on every side. Did you ever see anything half
so tipsy<br>
as the crossing of that <i>t?</i>"</p>

<p>"Read it. Read it out, Fred!"</p>

<p>    Tuesday Evening.</p>

<p>    Dear Power,&mdash;I'm in such a scrape! Come up and see me
at<br>
    once, bring a little sherry with you, and we'll talk over
what's to be<br>
    done.</p>

<p>    Yours ever,</p>

<p>    B. MONSOON.</p>

<p>    Quarter-General.</p>

<p>We resolved to finish our evening with the major; so that,
each having<br>
armed himself with a bottle or two, and the remnants of our
supper, we set<br>
out towards his quarters, under the guidance of the orderly.
After a sharp<br>
walk of half an hour, we reached a small hut, where two sentries
of the<br>
Eighty-eighth were posted at the door.</p>

<p>O'Shaughnessy procured admittance for us, and in we went. At a
small table,<br>
lighted by a thin tallow candle, sat old Monsoon, who, the
weather being<br>
hot, had neither coat nor wig on; an old cracked china tea-pot,
in which<br>
as we found afterwards he had mixed a little grog, stood before
him, and a<br>
large mass of papers lay scattered around on every side,&mdash;he
himself being<br>
occupied in poring over their contents, and taking occasional
draughts from<br>
his uncouth goblet.</p>

<p>As we entered noiselessly, he never perceived us, but
continued to mumble<br>
over, in a low tone, from the documents before him:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Upon my life, it's like a dream to me! What infernal stuff
this brandy<br>
is!"</p>

<p>    CHARGE No. 8.&mdash;For conduct highly unbecoming an officer
and<br>
    a gentleman, in forcing the cellar of the San Nicholas
convent at<br>
    Banos, taking large quantities of wine therefrom, and
subsequently<br>
    compelling the prior to dance a bolero, thus creating a riot,
and<br>
    tending to destroy the harmony between the British and the
Portuguese,<br>
    so strongly inculcated to be preserved by the general
orders.</p>

<p>"Destroy the harmony! Bless their hearts! How little they know
of it! I've<br>
never passed a jollier night in the Peninsula! The prior's a
trump, and<br>
as for the bolero, he <i>would</i> dance it. I hope they say nothing
about my<br>
hornpipe."</p>

<p>    CHARGE No. 9.&mdash;For a gross violation of his duty as an
officer, in<br>
    sending a part of his brigade to attack and pillage the
alcalde of<br>
    Banos; thereby endangering the public peace of the town,
being a<br>
    flagrant breach of discipline and direct violation of the
articles of<br>
    war.</p>

<p>"Well, I'm afraid I was rather sharp on the alcalde, but we
did him no harm<br>
except the fright. What sherry the fellow had! 't would have been
a sin to<br>
let it fall into the hands of the French."</p>

<p>    CHARGE No. 10.&mdash;For threatening, on or about the night of
the<br>
    3d, to place the town of Banos under contribution, and
subsequently<br>
    forcing the authorities to walk in procession before him, in
absurd<br>
    and ridiculous costumes.</p>

<p>"Lord, how good it was! I shall never forget the old alcalde!
One of my<br>
fellows fastened a dead lamb round his neck, and told him it was
the golden<br>
fleece. The commander-in-chief would have laughed himself if he
had been<br>
there. Picton's much too grave,&mdash;never likes a joke."</p>

<p>    CHARGE No. 11.&mdash;For insubordination and disobedience, in
refusing<br>
    to give up his sword, and rendering it necessary for the
Portuguese<br>
    guard to take it by force,&mdash;thereby placing himself in a<br>
    situation highly degrading to a British officer.</p>

<p>"Didn't I lay about me before they got it! Who's that? Who's
laughing<br>
there? Ah, boys, I'm glad to see you! How are you, Fred? Well,
Charley,<br>
I've heard of your scrape; very sad thing for so young a fellow
as you are.<br>
I don't think you'll be broke; I'll do what I can. I'll see what
I can do<br>
with Picton; we are very old friends, were at Eton together."</p>

<p>"Many thanks, Major; but I hear your own affairs are not
flourishing.<br>
What's all this court-martial about?"</p>

<p>"A mere trifle; some little insubordination in the legion.
Those Portuguese<br>
are sad dogs. How very good of you, Fred, to think of that little
supper."</p>

<p>While the major was speaking, his servant, with a dexterity
the fruit of<br>
long habit, had garnished the table with the contents of our
baskets, and<br>
Monsoon, apologizing for not putting on his wig, sat down among
us with a<br>
face as cheerful as though the floor was not covered with the
charges of<br>
the court-martial to be held on him.</p>

<p>As we chatted away over the campaign and its chances, Monsoon
seemed little<br>
disposed to recur to his own fortunes. In fact, he appeared to
suffer much<br>
more from what he termed my unlucky predicament than from his own
mishaps.<br>
At the same time, as the evening wore on, and the sherry began to
tell upon<br>
him, his heart expanded into its habitual moral tendency, and by
an easy<br>
transition, he was led from the religious association of convents
to the<br>
pleasures of pillaging them.</p>

<p>"What wine they have in their old cellars! It's such fun
drinking it out of<br>
great silver vessels as old as Methuselah. 'There's much treasure
in the<br>
house of the righteous,' as David says; and any one who has ever
sacked a<br>
nunnery knows that."</p>

<p>"I should like to have seen that prior dancing the bolero,"
said Power.</p>

<p>"Wasn't it good, though! He grew jealous of me, for I
performed a hornpipe.<br>
Very good fellow the prior; not like the alcalde,&mdash;there was no
fun in him.<br>
Lord bless him! he'll never forget me."</p>

<p>"What did you do with him, Major?"</p>

<p>"Well, I'll tell you; but you mustn't let it be known, for I
see they have<br>
not put it in the court-martial. Is there no more sherry there?
There, that<br>
will do; I'm always contented. 'Better a dry morsel with
quietness,' as<br>
Moses says. Ay, Charley, never forget that 'a merry heart is just
like<br>
medicine.' Job found out that, you know."</p>

<p>"Well, but the alcalde, Major."</p>

<p>"Oh! the alcalde, to be sure. These pious meditations make me
forget<br>
earthly matters."</p>

<p>"This old alcalde at Banos, I found out, was quite spoiled by
Lord<br>
Wellington. He used to read all the general orders, and got an
absurd<br>
notion in his head that because we were his allies, we were not
allowed to<br>
plunder. Only think, he used to snap his fingers at Beresford,
didn't care<br>
twopence about the legion, and laughed outright at Wilson. So,
when I was<br>
ordered down there, I took another way with him. I waited till
night-fall,<br>
ordered two squadrons to turn their jackets, and sent forward one
of my<br>
aides-de-camp, with a few troopers, to the alcalde's house. They
galloped<br>
into the courtyard, blowing trumpets and making an infernal
hubbub. Down<br>
came the alcalde in a passion. 'Prepare quarters quickly, and
rations for<br>
eight hundred men.'</p>

<p>"'Who dares to issue such an order?' said he.</p>

<p>"The aide-de-camp whispered one word in his ear, and the old
fellow<br>
grew pale as death. 'Is he here; is he coming,&mdash;is he coming?'
said he,<br>
trembling from head to foot.</p>

<p>"I rode in myself at this moment looking thus,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'<i>O&ugrave; est le malheureux?</i>' said I, in French,&mdash;you know
I speak French like<br>
Portuguese."</p>

<p>"Devilish like, I've no doubt," muttered Power.</p>

<p>"'<i>Pardon, gracias eccellenza!</i>' said the alcalde, on his
knees."</p>

<p>"Who the deuce did he take you for, Major?"</p>

<p>"You shall hear; you'll never guess, though. Lord, I shall
never forget it!<br>
He thought I was Marmont; my aide-de-camp told him so."</p>

<p>One loud burst of laughter interrupted the major at this
moment, and it was<br>
some considerable time before he could continue his
narrative.</p>

<p>"And do you really mean," said I, "that you personated the
Duke de Raguse?"</p>

<p>"Did I not, though? If you had only seen me with a pair of
great mustaches,<br>
and a drawn sabre in my hand, pacing the room up and down in
presence of<br>
the assembled authorities. Napoleon himself might have been
deceived. My<br>
first order was to cut off all their heads; but I commuted the
sentence<br>
to a heavy fine. Ah, boys, if they only understood at
headquarters how to<br>
carry on a war in the Peninsula, they'd never have to grumble in
England<br>
about increased taxation! How I'd mulet the nunneries! How I'd
grind the<br>
corporate towns! How I'd inundate the country with exchequer
bills! I'd<br>
sell the priors at so much a head, and put the nuns up to auction
by the<br>
dozen."</p>

<p>"You sacrilegious old villain! But continue the account of
your exploits."</p>

<p>"Faith, I remember little more. After dinner I grew somewhat
mellow, and<br>
a kind of moral bewilderment, which usually steals over me about
eleven<br>
o'clock, induced me to invite the alcalde and all the aldermen to
come and<br>
sup. Apparently, we had a merry night of it, and when morning
broke,<br>
we were not quite clear in our intellects. Hence came that
infernal<br>
procession; for when the alcalde rode round the town with a paper
cap, and<br>
all the aldermen after him, the inhabitants felt offended, it
seems, and<br>
sent for a large Guerilla force, who captured me and my staff,
after a very<br>
vigorous resistance. The alcalde fought like a trump for us, for
I promised<br>
to make him Prefect of the Seine; but we were overpowered,
disarmed, and<br>
carried off. The remainder you can read in the court-martial, for
you may<br>
think that after sacking the town, drinking all night, and
fighting in the<br>
morning, my memory was none of the clearest."</p>

<p>"Did you not explain that you were not the
marshal-general?"</p>

<p>"No, faith, I know better than that; they'd have murdered me
had they known<br>
their mistake. They brought me to headquarters in the hope of a
great<br>
reward, and it was only when they reached this that they found
out I<br>
was not the Duke de Raguse; so you see, boys, it's a very
complicated<br>
business."</p>

<p>"'Gad, and so it is," said Power, "and an awkward one,
too."</p>

<p>"He'll be hanged, as sure as my name's Dennis!" vociferated
O'Shaughnessy,<br>
with an energy that made the major jump from his chair. "Picton
will hang<br>
him!"</p>

<p>"I'm not afraid," said Monsoon; "they know me so well. Lord
bless you,<br>
Beresford couldn't get on without me!"</p>

<p>"Well, Major," said I, "in any case, you certainly take no
gloomy nor<br>
desponding view of your case."</p>

<p>"Not I, boy. You know what Jeremiah says: 'a merry heart is a
continual<br>
feast;' and so it is. I may die of repletion, but they'll never
find me<br>
starved with sorrow."</p>

<p>"And, faith, it's a strange thing!" muttered O'Shaughnessy,
thinking aloud;<br>
"a most extraordinary thing! An honest fellow would be sure to be
hanged;<br>
and there's that old rogue, that's been melting down more saints
and<br>
blessed Virgins than the whole army together, he'll escape. Ye'll
see he<br>
will!"</p>

<p>"There goes the patrol," said Fred; "we must start."</p>

<p>"Leave the sherry, boys; you'll be back again. I'll have it
put up<br>
carefully."</p>

<p>We could scarcely resist a roar of laughter as we said,
"Good-night."</p>

<p>"Adieu, Major," said I; "we shall meet soon."</p>

<p>So saying, I followed Power and O'Shaughnessy towards their
quarters.</p>

<p>"Maurice has done it beautifully!" said Power. "Pleasant
revelations the<br>
old fellow will make on the court-martial, if he only remembers
what we've<br>
heard to-night! But here we are, Charley; so good-night, and
remember, you<br>
breakfast with me to-morrow."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIX.</p>

<p>THE CONFIDENCE.</p>

<p>"I have changed the venue, Charley," said Power, as he came
into my room<br>
the following morning,&mdash;"I've changed the venue, and come to
breakfast with<br>
you."</p>

<p>I could not help smiling as a certain suspicion crossed my
mind; perceiving<br>
which, he quickly added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, no, boy! I guess what you're thinking of. I'm not a bit
jealous in<br>
that quarter. The fact is, you know, one cannot be too
guarded."</p>

<p>"Nor too suspicious of one's friends, apparently."</p>

<p>"A truce with quizzing. I say, have you reported
yourself?"</p>

<p>"Yes; and received this moment a most kind note from the
general. But it<br>
appears I'm not destined to have a long sojourn among you, for
I'm desired<br>
to hold myself in readiness for a journey this very day."</p>

<p>"Where the deuce are they going to send you now?"</p>

<p>"I'm not certain of my destination. I rather suspect there are
despatches<br>
for Badajos. Just tell Mike to get breakfast, and I'll join
you<br>
immediately."</p>

<p>When I walked into the little room which served as my <i>salon</i>,
I found<br>
Power pacing up and down, apparently wrapped in meditation.</p>

<p>"I've been thinking, Charley," said he, after a pause of about
ten<br>
minutes,&mdash;"I've been thinking over our adventures in Lisbon.
Devilish<br>
strange girl that senhora! When you resigned in my favor, I took
it for<br>
granted that all difficulty was removed. Confound it! I no sooner
began to<br>
profit by your absence, in pressing my suit, than she turned
short round,<br>
treated me with marked coldness, exhibited a hundred wilful and
capricious<br>
fancies, and concluded one day by quietly confessing to me you
were the<br>
only man she cared for."</p>

<p>"You are not serious in all this, Fred?" said I.</p>

<p>"Ain't I though, by Jove! I wish to Heaven I were not! My dear
Charley,<br>
the girl is an inveterate flirt,&mdash;a decided coquette. Whether she
has a<br>
particle of heart or not, I can't say; but certainly her greatest
pleasure<br>
is to trifle with that of another. Some absurd suspicion that you
were in<br>
love with Lucy Dashwood piqued her vanity, and the anxiety to
recover a<br>
lapsing allegiance led her to suppose herself attached to you,
and made her<br>
treat all my advances with the most frigid indifference or
wayward caprice;<br>
the more provoking," continued he, with a kind of bitterness in
his tone,<br>
"as her father was disposed to take the thing favorably; and, if
I must say<br>
it, I felt devilish spooney about her myself.</p>

<p>"It was only two days before I left, that in a conversation
with Don<br>
Emanuel, he consented to receive my addresses to his daughter on
my<br>
becoming lieutenant-colonel. I hastened back with delight to
bring her the<br>
intelligence, and found her with a lock of hair on the book
before her,<br>
over which she was weeping. Confound me, if it was not yours! I
don't<br>
know what I said, nor what she replied; but when we parted, it
was with a<br>
perfect understanding we were never to meet again. Strange girl!
She came<br>
that evening, put her arm within mine as I was walking alone in
the garden,<br>
and half in jest, half in earnest, talked me out of all my
suspicions, and<br>
left me fifty times more in love with her than ever. Egad! I
thought I used<br>
to know something about women, but here is a chapter I've yet to
read.<br>
Come, now, Charley, be frank with me; tell me all you know."</p>

<p>"My poor Fred, if you were not head and ears in love, you
would see as<br>
plainly as I do that your affairs prosper. And after all, how
invariable<br>
is it that the man who has been the veriest flirt with
women,&mdash;sighing,<br>
serenading, sonneteering, flinging himself at the feet of every
pretty girl<br>
he meets with,&mdash;should become the most thorough dupe to his own
feelings<br>
when his heart is really touched. Your man of eight-and-thirty is
always<br>
the greatest fool about women."</p>

<p>"Confound your impertinence! How the devil can a fellow with a
mustache not<br>
stronger that a Circassian's eyebrow read such a lecture to
<i>me?</i>"</p>

<p>"Just for the very reason you've mentioned. You <i>glide</i> into
an attachment<br>
at <i>my</i> time of life; you <i>fall</i> in love at <i>yours</i>."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Power, musingly, "there is some truth in that.
This flirting is<br>
sad work. It is just like sparring with a friend; you put on the
gloves in<br>
perfect good humor, with the most friendly intentions of
exchanging a few<br>
amicable blows; you find yourself insensibly warm with the
enthusiasm of<br>
the conflict, and some unlucky hard knock decides the matter, and
it ends<br>
in a downright fight.</p>

<p>"Few men, believe me, are regular seducers; and among those
who behave<br>
'vilely' (as they call it), three-fourths of the number have been
more<br>
sinned against than sinning. You adventure upon love as upon a
voyage to<br>
India. Leaving the cold northern latitudes of first acquaintance
behind<br>
you, you gradually glide into the warmer and more genial climate
of<br>
intimacy. Each day you travel southward shortens the miles and
the hours of<br>
your existence; so tranquil is the passage, and so easy the
transition, you<br>
suffer no shock by the change of temperature about you. Happy
were it for<br>
us that in our courtship, as in our voyage, there were some
certain Rubicon<br>
to remind us of the miles we have journeyed! Well were it if
there were<br>
some meridian in love!"</p>

<p>"I'm not sure, Fred, that there is not that same shaving
process they<br>
practise on the line, occasionally performed for us by parents
and<br>
guardians at home; and I'm not certain that the iron hoop of old
Neptune is<br>
not a pleasanter acquaintance than the hair-trigger of some
indignant<br>
and fire-eating brother. But come, Fred, you have not told me the
most<br>
important point,&mdash;how fare your fortunes now; or in other words,
what are<br>
your present prospects as regards the senhora?"</p>

<p>"What a question to ask me! Why not request me to tell you
where Soult will<br>
fight us next, and when Marmont will cross the frontier? My dear
boy, I<br>
have not seen her for a week, an entire week,&mdash;seven full days
and nights,<br>
each with their twenty-four hours of change and vacillation."</p>

<p>"Well, then, give me the last bulletin from the seat of war;
that at least<br>
you can do. Tell me how you parted."</p>

<p>"Strangely enough. You must know we had a grand dinner at the
villa the<br>
day before I left; and when we adjourned for our coffee to the
garden, my<br>
spirits were at the top of their bent. Inez never looked so
beautiful,<br>
never was one half so gracious; and as she leaned upon my arm,
instead<br>
of following the others towards the little summer-house, I
turned, as if<br>
inadvertently, into a narrow, dark alley that skirts the
lake."</p>

<p>"I know it well; continue."</p>

<p>Power reddened slightly, and went on:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Why are we taking this path?' said Donna Inez; 'this is,
surely, not a<br>
short way?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, I wished to make my adieux to my old friends the swans.
You know I go<br>
to-morrow.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, that's true,' added she. 'I'd quite forgotten it.'</p>

<p>"This speech was not very encouraging; but as I felt myself in
for the<br>
battle, I was not going to retreat at the skirmish. 'Now or
never,' thought<br>
I. I'll not tell you what I said. I couldn't, if I would. It is
only with<br>
a pretty woman upon one's arm; it is only when stealing a glance
at her<br>
bright eyes, as you bend beyond the border of her bonnet,&mdash;that
you know<br>
what it is to be eloquent. Watching the changeful color of her
cheek with<br>
a more anxious heart than ever did mariner gaze upon the fitful
sky above<br>
him, you pour out your whole soul in love; you leave no time for
doubt, you<br>
leave no space for reply. The difficulties that shoot across her
mind you<br>
reply to ere she is well conscious of them; and when you feel her
hand<br>
tremble, or see her eyelids fall, like the leader of a storming
party when<br>
the guns slacken in their fire, you spring boldly forward in the
breach,<br>
and blind to every danger around you, rush madly on, and plant
your<br>
standard upon the walls."</p>

<p>"I hope you allow the vanquished the honors of war," said I,
interrupting.</p>

<p>Without noticing my observation, he continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I was on my knee before her, her hand passively resting in
mine, her eyes<br>
bent <i>upon</i> me softly and tearfully&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The game was your own, in fact."</p>

<p>"You shall hear.</p>

<p>"'Have we stood long enough thus, Senhor?' said she, bursting
into a fit of<br>
laughter.</p>

<p>"I sprang to my legs in anger and indignation.</p>

<p>"'There, don't be passionate; it is so tiresome. What do you
call that tree<br>
there?'</p>

<p>"'It is a tulip-tree,' said I, coldly.</p>

<p>"'Then, to put your gallantry to the test, do climb up there
and pluck me<br>
that flower. No, the far one. If you fall into the lake and are
drowned,<br>
why it would put an end to this foolish interview.'</p>

<p>"'And if not?' said I.</p>

<p>"'Oh, then I shall take twelve hours to consider of it; and if
my decision<br>
be in your favor, I'll give you the flower ere you leave
to-morrow.'</p>

<p>"It's somewhat about thirty years since I went bird-nesting,
and hang me,<br>
if a tight jacket and spurs are the best equipment for climbing a
tree; but<br>
up I went, and, amidst a running fire of laughter and quizzing,
reached the<br>
branch and brought it down safely.</p>

<p>"Inez took especial care to avoid me the rest of the evening.
We did not<br>
meet until breakfast the following morning. I perceived then that
she wore<br>
the flower in her belt; but, alas! I knew her too well to augur
favorably<br>
from that; besides that, instead of any trace of sorrow or
depression at my<br>
approaching departure, she was in high spirits, and the life of
the party.<br>
'How can I manage to speak with her?' said I to myself. 'But one
word,&mdash;I<br>
already anticipate what it must be; but let the blow
fall&mdash;anything is<br>
better than this uncertainty.'</p>

<p>"'The general and the staff have passed the gate, sir,' said
my servant at<br>
this moment.</p>

<p>"'Are my horses ready?'</p>

<p>"'At the door, sir; and the baggage gone forward.'</p>

<p>"I gave Inez one look&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Did you say more coffee?' said she, smiling.</p>

<p>"I bowed coldly, and rose from the table. They all assembled
upon the<br>
terrace to see me ride away.</p>

<p>"'You'll let us hear from you,' said Don Emanuel.</p>

<p>"'And pray don't forget the letter to my brother,' cried old
Madame Forjas.</p>

<p>"Twenty similar injunctions burst from the party, but not a
word said Inez.</p>

<p>"'Adieu, then!' said I. 'Farewell.'</p>

<p>"'Adios! Go with God!' chorused the party.</p>

<p>"'Good-by, Senhora,' said I. 'Have <i>you</i> nothing to tell me
ere we part?'</p>

<p>"'Not that I remember,' said she, carelessly. 'I hope you'll
have good<br>
weather.'</p>

<p>"'There is a storm threatening,' said I, gloomily.</p>

<p>"'Well, a soldier cares little for a wet jacket.'</p>

<p>"'Adieu!' said I, sharply, darting at her a look that spoke my
meaning.</p>

<p>"'Farewell!' repeated she, curtsying slightly, and giving one
of her<br>
sweetest smiles.</p>

<p>"I drove the spurs into my horse's flanks, but holding him
firmly on the<br>
curb at the same moment, instead of dashing forward, he bounded
madly in<br>
the air.</p>

<p>"'What a pretty creature!' said she, as she turned towards the
house; then<br>
stopping carelessly, she looked round,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Should you like this bouquet?'</p>

<p>"Before I could reply, she disengaged it from her belt, and
threw it<br>
towards me. The door closed behind her as she spoke. I galloped
on to<br>
overtake the staff, <i>et voil&agrave; tout</i>. Now, Charley, read my
fate for me, and<br>
tell me what this portends."</p>

<p>"I confess I only see one thing certain in the whole."</p>

<p>"And that is?" said Power.</p>

<p>"That Master Fred Power is more irretrievably in love than any
gentleman on<br>
full pay I ever met with."</p>

<p>"By Jove, I half fear as much! Is that orderly waiting for
you, Charley?<br>
Who do you want my man?"</p>

<p>"Captain O'Malley, sir. General Crawfurd desires to see you at
headquarters<br>
immediately."</p>

<p>"Come, Charley, I'm going towards Fuentes. Take your cap;
we'll walk down<br>
together."</p>

<p>So saying, we cantered towards the village, where we
separated,&mdash;Power to<br>
join some Fourteenth men stationed there on duty, and I to the
general's<br>
quarters to receive my orders.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXX.</p>

<p>THE CANTONMENT.</p>

<p>Soon after this the army broke up from Caja, and went into
cantonments<br>
along the Tagus, the headquarters being at Portalegre. We were
here joined<br>
by four regiments of infantry lately arrived from England, and
the 12th<br>
Light Dragoons. I shall not readily forget the first impression
created<br>
among our reinforcements by the habits of our life at this
period.</p>

<a name="0247"></a>
<img alt="0247.jpg (127K)" src="0247.jpg" height="514" width="812">

<p>[A HUNTING TURN-OUT IN THE PENINSULA.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>Brimful of expectation, they had landed at Lisbon, their minds
filled with<br>
all the glorious expectancy of a brilliant campaign; sieges,
storming, and<br>
battle-fields floated before their excited imagination.
Scarcely,<br>
however, had they reached the camp, when these illusions were
dissipated.<br>
Breakfasts, dinners, private theatricals, pigeon matches, formed
our daily<br>
occupation. Lord Wellington's hounds threw off regularly twice a
week;<br>
and here might be seen every imaginable species of equipment,
from the<br>
artillery officer mounted on his heavy troop horse, to the
infantry<br>
subaltern on a Spanish jennet. Never was anything more ludicrous
than our<br>
turn-out. Every quadruped in the army was put into requisition.
And even<br>
those who rolled not from their saddles from sheer necessity,
were most<br>
likely to do so from laughing at their neighbors. The pace may
not have<br>
equalled Melton, nor the fences have been as stubborn as in
Leicestershire,<br>
but I'll be sworn there was more laughter, more fun, and more
merriment,<br>
in one day with us, than in a whole season with the best
organized pack in<br>
England. With a lively trust that the country was open and the
leaps easy,<br>
every man took the field. Indeed, the only anxiety evinced at
all, was to<br>
appear at the meet in something like jockey fashion, and I must
confess<br>
that this feeling was particularly conspicuous among the
infantry. Happy<br>
the man whose kit boasted a pair of cords or buck skins; thrice
happy he<br>
who sported a pair of tops. I myself was in that enviable
position, and<br>
well remember with what pride of heart I cantered up to cover in
all the<br>
superior <i>&eacute;clat</i> of my costume, though, if truth were to
be spoken, I doubt<br>
if I should have passed muster among my friends of the "Blazers."
A round<br>
cavalry jacket and a foraging cap with a hanging tassel were the
strange<br>
accompaniments of my more befitting nether garments. Whatever our
costumes,<br>
the scene was a most animated one. Here the shell-jacket of a
heavy dragoon<br>
was seen storming the fence of a vineyard; there the dark green
of a<br>
rifleman was going the pace over the plain. The unsportsmanlike
figure of<br>
a staff officer might be observed emerging from a drain, while
some<br>
neck-or-nothing Irishman, with light infantry wings, was flying
at every<br>
fence before him, and overturning all in his way. The rules and
regulations<br>
of the service prevailed not here; the starred and gartered
general, the<br>
plumed and aiguilletted colonel obtained but little deference and
less<br>
mercy from his more humble subaltern. In fact, I am half disposed
to think<br>
that many an old grudge of rigid discipline or severe duty met
with its<br>
retribution here. More than once have I heard the muttered
sentences around<br>
me which boded like this,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Go the pace, Harry, never flinch it! There's old
Colquhoun&mdash;take him in<br>
the haunches; roll him over!"</p>

<p>"See here, boys&mdash;watch how I'll scatter the staff&mdash;Beg your
pardon,<br>
General, hope I haven't hurt you. Turn about&mdash;fair play&mdash;I have
taught<br>
<i>you</i> to take up a position now."</p>

<p>I need scarcely say there was one whose person was sacred from
all such<br>
attacks. He was well mounted upon a strong, half-breed horse;
rode always<br>
foremost, following the hounds with the same steady pertinacity
with which<br>
he would have followed the enemy, his compressed lip rarely
opening for a<br>
laugh when even the most ludicrous misadventure was enacting
before him;<br>
and when by chance he would give way, the short ha! ha! was over
in a<br>
moment, and the cold, stern features were as fixed and impassive
as before.</p>

<p>All the excitement, all the enthusiasm of a hunting-field,
seemed powerless<br>
to turn his mind from the pre-occupation which the mighty
interests he<br>
presided over, exacted. I remember once an incident which,
however trivial<br>
in itself, is worth recording as illustrative of what I mean. We
were going<br>
along at a topping pace, the hounds, a few fields in advance,
were hidden<br>
from our view by a small beech copse. The party consisted of not
more than<br>
six persons, one of whom was Lord Wellington himself. Our run had
been a<br>
splendid one, and as we were pursuing the fox to earth, every man
of us<br>
pushed his horse to his full stride in the hot enthusiasm of such
a moment.</p>

<p>"This way, my lord, this way," said Colonel Conyers, an old
Melton man, who<br>
led the way. "The hounds are in the valley; keep to the left." As
no reply<br>
was made, after a few moments' pause Conyers repeated his
admonition, "You<br>
are wrong, my lord, the hounds are hunting yonder."</p>

<p>"I know it!" was the brief answer given, with a shortness that
almost<br>
savored of asperity; for a second or two not a word was
spoken.</p>

<p>"How far is Niza, Gordon?" inquired Lord Wellington.</p>

<p>"About five leagues, my lord," replied the astonished
aide-de-camp.</p>

<p>"That's the direction, is it not?"</p>

<p>"Yes, my lord."</p>

<p>"Let's go over and inspect the wounded."</p>

<p>No more was said, and before a second was given for
consideration, away<br>
went his lordship, followed by his aide-de-camp, his pace the
same<br>
stretching gallop, and apparently feeling as much excitement, as
he dashed<br>
onwards towards the hospital, as though following in all the
headlong<br>
enthusiasm of a fox chase.</p>

<p>Thus passed our summer; a life of happy ease and recreation
succeeding to<br>
the harassing fatigues and severe privations of the preceding
campaign.<br>
Such are the lights and shadows of a soldier's life; such the
checkered<br>
surface of his fortunes. Constituting, by their very change, that
buoyant<br>
temperament, that happy indifference, which enables him to derive
its full<br>
enjoyment from each passing incident of his career.</p>

<p>While thus we indulged in all the fascinations of a life of
pleasure, the<br>
rigid discipline of the army was never for a moment forgotten.
Reviews,<br>
parades, and inspections were of daily occurrence, and even a
superficial<br>
observer could not fail to detect that under this apparent
devotion to<br>
amusement and enjoyment, our commander-in-chief concealed a deep
stroke of<br>
his policy.</p>

<p>The spirits of both men and officers, broken, in spite of
their successes,<br>
by the incessant privations they had endured, imperatively
demanded this<br>
period of rest and repose. The infantry, many of whom had served
in the<br>
ill-fated campaign of Walcharen, wore still suffering from the
effects of<br>
the intermittent fever. The cavalry, from deficient forage,
severe marches,<br>
and unremitting service, were in great part unfit for duty. To
take the<br>
field under circumstances like these was therefore impossible;
and with the<br>
double object of restoring their wonted spirit to his troops, and
checking<br>
the ravages which sickness and the casualties of war had made
within his<br>
ranks, Lord Wellington embraced the opportunity of the enemy's
inaction to<br>
take up his present position on the Tagus.</p>

<p>But while we were enjoying all the pleasures of a country
life, enhanced<br>
tenfold by daily association with gay and cheerful companions,
the<br>
master-mind, whose reach extended from the profoundest
calculations of<br>
strategy to minutest details of military organization, was never
idle.<br>
Foreseeing that a period of inaction, like the present, must only
be like<br>
the solemn calm that preludes the storm, he prepared for the
future by<br>
those bold conceptions and unrivalled combinations which were to
guide him<br>
through many a field of battle and of danger to end his career of
glory in<br>
the liberation of the Peninsula.</p>

<p>The failure of the attack upon Badajos had neither damped his
ardor nor<br>
changed his views; and he proceeded to the investment of Ciudad
Rodrigo<br>
with the same intense determination of uprooting the French
occupation in<br>
Spain by destroying their strongholds and cutting off their
resources.<br>
Carrying aggressive war in one hand, he turned the other towards
the<br>
maintenance of those defences which, in the event of disaster or
defeat,<br>
must prove the refuge of the army.</p>

<p>To the lines of Torres Vedras he once more directed his
attention. Engineer<br>
officers were despatched thither; the fortresses were put into
repair; the<br>
bridges broken or injured during the French invasion were
restored; the<br>
batteries upon the Tagus were rendered more effective, and
furnaces for<br>
heating shot were added to them.</p>

<p>The inactivity and apathy of the Portuguese government but ill
corresponded<br>
with his unwearied exertions; and despite of continual
remonstrances and<br>
unceasing representations, the bridges over the Leira and Alva
were left<br>
unrepaired, and the roads leading to them, so broken as to be
almost<br>
impassable, might seriously have endangered the retreat of the
army, should<br>
such a movement be deemed necessary.</p>

<p>It was in the first week of September. I was sent with
despatches for the<br>
engineer officer in command at the lines, and during the
fortnight of my<br>
absence, was enabled for the first time to examine those
extraordinary<br>
defences which, for the space of thirty miles, extended over a
country<br>
undulating in hill and valley, and presenting, by a succession of
natural<br>
and artificial resources, the strongest and most impregnable
barrier that<br>
has ever been presented against the advance of a conquering
army.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXI.</p>

<p>MICKEY FREE'S ADVENTURE.</p>

<p>When I returned to the camp, I found the greatest excitement
prevailing on<br>
all sides. Each day brought in fresh rumors that Marmont was
advancing<br>
in force; that sixty thousand Frenchmen were in full march upon
Ciudad<br>
Rodrigo, to raise the blockade, and renew the invasion of
Portugal.<br>
Intercepted letters corroborated these reports; and the Guerillas
who<br>
joined us spoke of large convoys which they had seen upon the
roads from<br>
Salamanca and Tamanes.</p>

<p>Except the light division, which, under the command of
Crawfurd, were<br>
posted upon the right of the Aguada, the whole of our army
occupied the<br>
country from El Bodon to Gallegos; the Fourth Division being
stationed at<br>
Fuente Guenaldo, where some intrenchments had been hastily thrown
up.</p>

<p>To this position Lord Wellington resolved upon retreating, as
affording<br>
points of greater strength and more capability of defence than
the other<br>
line of road, which led by Almeida upon the Coa. Of the enemy's
intentions<br>
we were not long to remain in doubt; for on the morning of the
24th, a<br>
strong body were seen descending from the pass above Ciudad
Rodrigo, and<br>
cautiously reconnoitring the banks of the Aguada. Far in the
distance a<br>
countless train of wagons, bullock-cars, and loaded mules were
seen winding<br>
their slow length along, accompanied by several squadrons of
dragoons.</p>

<p>Their progress was slow, but as evening fell they entered the
gates of<br>
the fortress; and the cheering of the garrison mixing with the
strains<br>
of martial music, faint from distance, reached us where we lay
upon the<br>
far-off heights of El Bodon. So long as the light lasted, we
could perceive<br>
fresh troops arriving; and even when the darkness came on, we
could detect<br>
the position of the reinforcing columns by the bright watch-fires
which<br>
gleamed along the plain.</p>

<p>By daybreak we were under arms, anxiously watching for the
intentions of<br>
our enemy, which soon became no longer dubious. Twenty-five
squadrons of<br>
cavalry, supported by a whole division of infantry, were seen to
defile<br>
along the great road from Ciudad Rodrigo to Guenaldo. Another
column,<br>
equally numerous, marched straight upon Espeja; nothing could be
more<br>
beautiful, nothing more martial, than their appearance: emerging
from a<br>
close mountain gorge, they wound along the narrow road and
appeared upon<br>
the bridge of the Aguada just as the morning sun was bursting
forth,<br>
its bright beams tipping the polished cuirassiers and their
glittering<br>
equipments, they shone in their panoply like the gay troop of
some ancient<br>
tournament. The lancers of Berg, distinguished by their scarlet
dolmans<br>
and gorgeous trappings, were followed by the Cuirassiers of the
Guard,<br>
who again were succeeded by the <i>chasseurs &agrave; cheval</i>,
their bright steel<br>
helmets and light-blue uniforms, their floating plumes and
dappled<br>
chargers, looking the very <i>beau id&eacute;al</i> of light horsemen;
behind, the dark<br>
masses of the infantry pressed forward and deployed into the
plain; while,<br>
bringing up the rear, the rolling din, like distant thunder,
announced the<br>
"dread artillery."</p>

<p>On they came, the seemingly interminable line converging on to
that one<br>
spot upon whose summit now we assembled a force of scarcely ten
thousand<br>
bayonets.</p>

<p>While this brilliant panorama was passing before our eyes, we
ourselves<br>
were not idle. Orders had been sent to Picton to come up from the
left with<br>
his division. Alten's cavalry and a brigade of artillery were
sent to the<br>
front, and every preparation which the nature of the ground
admitted was<br>
made to resist the advance of the enemy. While these movements on
either<br>
side occupied some hours, the scene was every moment increasing
in<br>
interest. The large body of cavalry was now seen forming into
columns of<br>
attack. Nine battalions of infantry moved up to their support,
and forming<br>
into columns, echelons, and squares, performed before us all the
manoeuvres<br>
of a review with the most admirable precision and rapidity; but
from these<br>
our attention was soon taken by a brilliant display upon our
left. Here,<br>
emerging from the wood which flanked the Aguada, were now to be
seen the<br>
gorgeous staff of Marmont himself. Advancing at a walk, they came
forward<br>
amidst the <i>vivas</i> of the assembled thousands, burning with ardor
and<br>
thirsting for victory. For a moment, as I looked, I could detect
the<br>
marshal himself, as, holding his plumed hat above his head, he
returned the<br>
salute of a lancer regiment, who proudly waved their banners as
he passed;<br>
but, hark, what are those clanging sounds which, rising high
above the<br>
rest, seem like the war-cry of a warrior?</p>

<p>"I can't mistake those tones," said a bronzed old veteran
beside me; "those<br>
are the brass bands of the Imperial Guard. Can Napoleon be there?
See,<br>
there they come!" As he spoke, the head of a column emerged from
the wood,<br>
and deploying as they came, poured into the plain. For above an
hour that<br>
mighty tide flowed on, and before noon a force of sixty thousand
men was<br>
collected in the space beneath us.</p>

<p>I was not long to remain an unoccupied spectator of this
brilliant display,<br>
for I soon received orders to move down with my squadron to the
support of<br>
the Eleventh Light Dragoons, who were posted at the base of the
hill. The<br>
order at the moment was anything but agreeable, for I was mounted
upon a<br>
hack pony, on which I had ridden over from Crawfurd's Division
early in the<br>
morning, and suspecting that there might be some hot work during
the day,<br>
had ordered Mike to follow with my horse. There was no time,
however, for<br>
hesitation, and I moved my men down the slope in the direction of
the<br>
skirmishers.</p>

<p>The position we occupied was singularly favorable,&mdash;our flanks
defended on<br>
either side by brushwood, we could only be assailed in front; and
here,<br>
notwithstanding our vast inferiority of force, we steadily
awaited the<br>
attack. As I rode from out the thick wood, I could not help
feeling<br>
surprised at the sounds which greeted me. Instead of the usual
low and<br>
murmuring tones, the muttered sentences which precede a cavalry
advance,&mdash;a<br>
roar of laughter shook the entire division, while exclamations
burst from<br>
every side around me: "Look at him now!" "They have him, by
heavens, they<br>
have him!" "Well done, well done!" "How the fellow rides!" "He's
hit, he's<br>
hit!" "No, no!" "Is he down?" "He's down!"</p>

<p>A loud cheer rent the air at this moment, and I reached the
front in time<br>
to learn, the reason of all this excitement. In the wide plain
before me a<br>
horseman was seen, having passed the ford of the Aguada, to
advance at<br>
the top of his speed towards the British lines. As he came
nearer, it was<br>
perceived that he was accompanied by a led horse, and apparently
with total<br>
disregard of the presence of an enemy, rode boldly and carelessly
forward.<br>
Behind him rode three lancers, their lances couched, their horses
at speed;<br>
the pace was tremendous, and the excitement intense: for
sometimes, as the<br>
leading horseman of the pursuit neared the fugitive, he would
bend suddenly<br>
upon the saddle, and swerving to the right or the left, totally
evade him,<br>
while again at others, with a loud cry of bold defiance, rising
in his<br>
stirrups, he would press on, and with a shake of his bridle that
bespoke<br>
the jockey, almost distance the enemy.</p>

<p>"That must be your fellow, O'Malley; that must be your Irish
groom!" cried<br>
a brother officer. There could be no doubt of it. It was Mike
himself.</p>

<p>"I'll be hanged, if he's not playing with them!" said Baker.
"Look at the<br>
villain! He's holding in; that's more than the Frenchmen are
doing. Look!<br>
look at the fellow on the gray horse! He has flung his trumpet to
his back,<br>
and drawn his sabre."</p>

<p>A loud cheer burst from the French lines; the trumpeter was
gaining at<br>
every stride. Mike had got into deep ground, and the horses would
not keep<br>
together. "Let the brown horse go! Let him go, man!" shouted the
dragoons,<br>
while I re-echoed the cry with my utmost might. But not so, Mike
held<br>
firmly on, and spurring madly, he lifted his horse at each
stride, turning<br>
from time to time a glance at his pursuer. A shout of triumph
rose from the<br>
French side; tin; trumpeter was beside him; his arm was uplifted;
the sabre<br>
above his head. A yell broke from the British, and with
difficulty could<br>
the squadron be restrained. For above a minute the horses went
side by<br>
side, but the Frenchman delayed his stroke until he could get a
little in<br>
the front. My excitement had rendered me speechless; if a word
could have<br>
saved my poor fellow, I could not have spoken. A mist seemed to
gather<br>
across my eyes, and the whole plain and its peopled thousands
danced before<br>
my vision.</p>

<p>"He's down!" "He's down, by heavens!" "No! no, no!" "Look
there! Nobly<br>
done!" "Gallant fellow!" "He has him! he has him, by &mdash;&mdash;!" A
cheer that<br>
rent the very air above us broke from the squadrons, and Mike
galloped in<br>
among us, holding the Frenchman by the throat with one hand; the
bridle of<br>
his horse he firmly grasped with his own in the other.</p>

<a name="0255"></a>
<img alt="0255.jpg (154K)" src="0255.jpg" height="627" width="820">

<p>[MIKE CAPTURING THE TRUMPETER.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"How was it? How did he do it?"</p>

<p>"He broke his sword-arm with a blow, and the Frenchman's sabre
fell to the<br>
earth."</p>

<p>"Here he is, Mister Charles; and musha, but it's trouble he
gave me to<br>
catch him! And I hope your honor won't be displeased at me losing
the brown<br>
horse. I was obliged to let him go when the thief closed on me;
but sure,<br>
there he is! May I never, if he's not galloping into the lines by
himself!"<br>
As he spoke, my brown charger came cantering up to the squadrons,
and took<br>
his place in the line with the rest.</p>

<p>I had scarcely time to mount my horse, amidst a buzz of
congratulations,<br>
when our squadron was ordered to the front. Mixed up with
detachments from<br>
the Eleventh and Sixteenth, we continued to resist the enemy for
about two<br>
hours.</p>

<p>Our charges were quick, sharp, and successive, pouring in our
numbers<br>
wherever the enemy appeared for a moment to be broken, and then
retreating<br>
under cover of our infantry when the opposing cavalry came down
upon us in<br>
overwhelming numbers.</p>

<p>Nothing could be more perfect than the manner in which the
different troops<br>
relieved each other during this part of the day. When the French
squadrons<br>
advanced, ours met them as boldly. When the ground became no
longer<br>
tenable, we broke and fell back, and the bayonets of the infantry
arrested<br>
their progress. If the cavalry pressed heavily upon the squares,
ours came<br>
up to the relief, and as they were beaten back, the artillery
opened upon<br>
them with an avalanche of grape-shot.</p>

<p>I have seen many battles of greater duration and more
important in result;<br>
many there have been in which more tactic was displayed, and
greater<br>
combinations called forth,&mdash;but never did I witness a more
desperate<br>
hand-to-hand conflict than on the heights of El Bodon.</p>

<p>Baffled by our resistance, Montbrun advanced with the
Cuirassiers of the<br>
Guard. Riding down our advanced squadrons, they poured upon us
like some<br>
mighty river, overwhelming all before it, and charged, cheering,
up the<br>
heights. Our brave troopers were thrown back upon the artillery,
and many<br>
of them cut down beside the guns. The artillerymen and the
drivers shared<br>
the same fate, and the cannon were captured. A cheer of
exultation burst<br>
from the French, and their <i>vivas</i> rent the air. Their exultation
was<br>
short-lived, and that cheer their death-cry; for the Fifth Foot,
who had<br>
hitherto lain concealed in the grass, sprang madly to their feet,
their<br>
gallant Major Ridge at their head. With a yell of vengeance they
rushed<br>
upon the foe; the glistening bayonets glanced amidst the cavalry
of the<br>
French; the troops pressed hotly home; and while the cuirassiers
were<br>
driven down the hill, the guns were recaptured, limbered up, and
brought<br>
away. This brilliant charge was the first recorded instance of
cavalry<br>
being assailed by infantry in line.</p>

<p>But the hill could no longer be held; the French were
advancing on either<br>
flank; overwhelming numbers pressed upon the front, and retreat
was<br>
unavoidable. The cavalry were ordered to the rear, and Picton's
Division,<br>
throwing themselves into squares, covered the retreating
movement.</p>

<p>The French dragoons bore down upon every face of those devoted
battalions;<br>
the shouts of triumph cheered them as the earth trembled beneath
their<br>
charge,&mdash;but the British infantry, reserving their fire until the
sabres<br>
clanked with the bayonet, poured in a shattering volley, and the
cry of the<br>
wounded and the groans of the dying rose from the smoke around
them.</p>

<p>Again and again the French came on; and the same fate ever
awaited then.<br>
The only movement in the British squares was closing up the
spaces as their<br>
comrades fell or sank wounded to the earth.</p>

<p>At last reinforcements came up from the left; the whole
retreated across<br>
the plain, until as they approached Guenaldo, our cavalry,
having<br>
re-formed, came to their aid with one crushing charge, which
closed the<br>
day.</p>

<p>That same night Lord Wellington fell back, and concentrating
his troops<br>
within a narrow loop of land bounded on either flank by the Coa,
awaited<br>
the arrival of the light division, which joined us at three in
the morning.</p>

<p>The following day Marmont again made a demonstration of his
force, but no<br>
attack followed. The position was too formidable to be easily
assailed, and<br>
the experience of the preceding day had taught him that, however
inferior<br>
in numbers, the troops he was opposed to were as valiant as they
were ably<br>
commanded.</p>

<p>Soon after this, Marmont retired on the valley of the Tagus.
Dorsenne also<br>
fell back, and for the present at least, no further effort was
made to<br>
prosecute the invasion of Portugal.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXII.</p>

<p>THE SAN PETRO.</p>

<p>"Not badly wounded, O'Malley, I hope?" said General Crawfurd,
as I waited<br>
upon him soon after the action.</p>

<p>I could not help starting at the question, while he repeated
it, pointing<br>
at the same time to my left shoulder, from which a stream of
blood was now<br>
flowing down my coat-sleeve.</p>

<p>"I never noticed it, sir, till this moment. It can't be of
much<br>
consequence, for I have been on horseback the entire day, and
never felt<br>
it."</p>

<p>"Look to it at once, boy; a man wants all his blood for this
campaign. Go<br>
to your quarters. I shall not need you for the present; so pray
see the<br>
doctor at once."</p>

<p>As I left the general's quarters, I began to feel sensible of
pain, and<br>
before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, had quite convinced
myself that my<br>
wound was a severe one. The hand and arm were swollen, heavy, and
distended<br>
with hemorrhage beneath the skin, my thirst became great, and a
cold,<br>
shuddering sensation passed over me from time to time.</p>

<p>I sat down for a moment upon the grass, and was just
reflecting within<br>
myself what course I should pursue, when I heard the tramp of
feet<br>
approaching. I looked up, and perceived some soldiers in fatigue
dresses,<br>
followed by a few others who, from their noiseless gestures and
sad<br>
countenances, I guessed were carrying some wounded comrade to the
rear.</p>

<p>"Who is it, boys?" cried I.</p>

<p>"It's the major, sir, the Lord be good to him!" said a
hardy-looking<br>
Eighty-eighth man, wiping his eye with the cuff of his coat as he
spoke.</p>

<p>"Not your major? Not Major O'Shaughnessy?" said I, jumping up
and rushing<br>
forward towards the litter. Alas, too true, it was the gallant
fellow<br>
himself! There he lay, pale and cold; his bloodless cheek and
parted lips<br>
looking like death itself. A thin blue rivulet trickled from his
forehead,<br>
but his most serious wound appeared to be in the side; his coat
was open,<br>
and showed a mass of congealed and clotted blood, from the midst
of which,<br>
with every motion of the way, a fresh stream kept welling upward.
Whether<br>
from the shock or my loss of blood or from both together, I know
not, but I<br>
sank fainting to the ground.</p>

<p>It would have needed a clearer brain and a cooler judgment
than I possessed<br>
to have conjectured where I was, and what had occurred to me,
when next<br>
I recovered my senses. Weak, fevered, and with a burning thirst,
I lay,<br>
unable to move, and could merely perceive the objects which lay
within the<br>
immediate reach of my vision. The place was cold, calm, and still
as the<br>
grave. A lamp, which hung high above my head, threw a faint light
around,<br>
and showed me, within a niche of the opposite wall, the figure of
a<br>
gorgeously dressed female; she appeared to be standing
motionless, but as<br>
the pale light flickered upon her features, I thought I could
detect the<br>
semblance of a smile. The splendor of her costume and the
glittering gems<br>
which shone upon her spotless robe gleamed through the darkness
with an<br>
almost supernatural brilliancy, and so beautiful did she look, so
calm her<br>
pale features, that as I opened and shut my eyes and rubbed my
lids, I<br>
scarcely dared to trust to my erring senses, and believe it could
be<br>
real. What could it mean? Whence this silence; this cold sense of
awe<br>
and reverence? Was it a dream; was it the fitful vision of a
disordered<br>
intellect? Could it be death? My eyes were riveted upon that
beautiful<br>
figure. I essayed to speak, but could not; I would have beckoned
her<br>
towards me, but my hands refused their office. I felt I know not
what charm<br>
she possessed to calm my throbbing brain and burning heart; but
as I turned<br>
from the gloom and darkness around to gaze upon her fair brow and
unmoved<br>
features, I felt like the prisoner who turns from the cheerless
desolation<br>
of his cell, and looks upon the fair world and the smiling
valleys lying<br>
sunlit and shadowed before him.</p>

<p>Sleep at length came over me; and when I awoke, the day seemed
breaking,<br>
for a faint gray tint stole through a stained-glass window, and
fell in<br>
many colored patches upon the pavement. A low muttering sound
attracted me;<br>
I listened, it was Mike's voice. With difficulty raising myself
upon one<br>
arm, I endeavored to see more around me. Scarcely had I assumed
this<br>
position, when my eyes once more fell upon the white-clad figure
of the<br>
preceding night. At her feet knelt Mike, his hands clasped, and
his head<br>
bowed upon his bosom. Shall I confess my surprise, my
disappointment! It<br>
was no other than an image of the blessed Virgin, decked out in
all the<br>
gorgeous splendor which Catholic piety bestows upon her saints.
The<br>
features, which the imperfect light and my more imperfect
faculties had<br>
endowed with an expression of calm, angelic beauty, were, to my
waking<br>
senses, but the cold and barren mockery of loveliness; the eyes,
which my<br>
excited brain gifted with looks of tenderness and pity, stared
with no<br>
speculation in them; yet contrasting my feelings of the night
before, full<br>
as they were of, their deceptions, with my now waking thoughts, I
longed<br>
once more for that delusion which threw a dreamy pleasure over
me, and<br>
subdued the stormy passions of my soul into rest and repose.</p>

<p>"Who knows," thought I, "but he who kneels yonder feels now as
I did then?<br>
Who can tell how little the cold, unmeaning reality before him
resembles<br>
the spiritualized creation the fervor of his love and the ardor
of his<br>
devotion may have placed upon that altar? Who can limit or bound
the depth<br>
of that adoration for an object whose attributes appeal not only
to every<br>
sentiment of the heart, but also to every sense of the brain? I
fancy<br>
that I can picture to myself how these tinselled relics, these
tasteless<br>
waxworks, changed by the magic of devotion and of dread, become
to the<br>
humble worshipper images of loveliness and beauty. The dim
religious light;<br>
the reverberating footsteps echoed along those solemn aisles; the
vaulted<br>
arches, into whose misty heights the sacred incense floats
upward, while<br>
the deep organ is pealing its notes of praise or prayer,&mdash;these
are no<br>
slight accessories to all the pomp and grandeur of a church whose
forms and<br>
ceremonial, unchanged for ages and hallowed by a thousand
associations,<br>
appeal to the mind of the humblest peasant or the proudest noble
by all the<br>
weaknesses as by all the more favored features of our
nature."</p>

<p>How long I might have continued to meditate in this strain I
know not, when<br>
a muttered observation from Mike turned the whole current of my
thoughts.<br>
His devotion over, he had seated himself upon the steps of the
altar, and<br>
appeared to be resolving some doubts within himself concerning
his late<br>
pious duties.</p>

<p>"Masses is dearer here than in Galway. Father Rush would be
well pleased<br>
at two-and-sixpence for what I paid three doubloons for, this
morning.<br>
And sure it's droll enough. How expensive an amusement it is to
kill the<br>
French! Here's half a dollar I gave for the soul of a cuirassier
that I<br>
kilt yesterday, and nearly twice as much for an artilleryman I
cut down at<br>
the guns; and because the villain swore like a heythen, Father
Pedro told<br>
me he'd cost more nor if he died like a decent man."</p>

<p>At these words he turned suddenly round towards the Virgin,
and crossing<br>
himself devoutly, added,&mdash;</p>

<p>And sure it's yourself knows if it's fair to make me pay for
devils that<br>
don't know their duties; and after all, if you don't understand
English nor<br>
Irish, I've been wasting my time here this two hours."</p>

<p>"I say, Mike, how's my friend the major! How's Major
O'Shaughnessy?"</p>

<p>"Charmingly, sir. It was only loss of blood that ailed him. A
thief with<br>
a pike&mdash;one of the chaps they call Poles, bekase of the long
sticks they<br>
carry with them&mdash;stuck the major in the ribs; but Doctor
Quill&mdash;God reward<br>
him! he's a great doctor and a funny divil too&mdash;he cured him in
no time."</p>

<p>"And where is he now, Mike?"</p>

<p>"Just convanient, in a small chapel off the sacristy; and
throuble enough<br>
we have to keep him quiet. He gave up the <i>con</i>fusion of roses,
and took<br>
to punch; and faith, it isn't hymns nor paslams [psalms] he's
singing all<br>
night. And they had me there, mixing materials and singing songs,
till I<br>
heard the bell for matins; and what between the punch and the
prayers, I<br>
never closed my eyes."</p>

<p>"What do they call this convent?"</p>

<p>"It is a hard word, I misremember. It's something like
saltpetre. But how's<br>
your honor? It's time to ask."</p>

<p>"Much better, Mike, much better. But as I see that either your
drink or<br>
your devotion seems to have affected your nerves, you'd better
lie down for<br>
an hour or two. I shall not want you."</p>

<p>"That's just what I can't; for you see I'm making a song for
this evening.<br>
The Rangers has a little supper, and I'm to be there; and though
I've made<br>
one, I'm not sure it'll do. May be your honor would give me your
opinion<br>
about it?"</p>

<p>"With all my heart, Mike; let's hear it."</p>

<p>"Arrah, is it here, before the Virgin and the two blessed
saints that's<br>
up there in the glass cases? But sure, when they make an hospital
of the<br>
place, and after the major's songs last night&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Exactly so, Mike; out with it."</p>

<p>"Well, Ma'am," said he, turning towards the Virgin, "as I
suspect you don't<br>
know English, may be you'll think it's my offices I'm singing.
So, saving<br>
your favor, here it is."</p>

<p>    MR. FREE'S SONG.</p>

<p>    AIR,&mdash;"<i>Arrah, Catty, now can't you be asy?</i>"</p>

<p>    Oh, what stories I'll tell when my sodgering's o'er,<br>
    And the gallant Fourteenth is disbanded;<br>
    Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more,<br>
    When safely in Ireland landed.<br>
    With the blood that I spilt, the Frenchmen I kilt,<br>
    I'll drive the young girls half crazy;<br>
    And some cute one will cry, with a wink of her eye,<br>
    "Mister Free, now <i>why can't you be asy?</i>"</p>

<p>    I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight,<br>
    And destroyed them all at "Talavera,"<br>
    And then I'll just add how we finished the night,<br>
    In learning to dance the "bolera;"<br>
    How by the moonshine we drank raal wine,<br>
    And rose next day fresh as a daisy;<br>
    Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly,<br>
    "Arrah, Mickey, <i>now can't you lie asy?</i>"</p>

<p>    I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent,<br>
    Around a big fire in the air too,<br>
    Or may be enjoying ourselves in a tent,<br>
    Exactly like Donnybrook fair too.<br>
    How he'd call out to me: "Pass the wine, Mr. Free,<br>
    For you're a man never is lazy!"<br>
    Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye,<br>
    "Arrah, Mickey, dear, <i>can't you be asy?</i>"</p>

<p>    I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed,<br>
    Till Mounseer asked Bony to lead him;<br>
    And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last,<br>
    Begged of one Mickey Free to succeed him.<br>
    "But, acushla," says I, "the truth is I'm shy!<br>
    There's a lady in Ballymacrazy!<br>
    And I swore on the book&mdash;" He gave me a look,<br>
    And cried: "Mickey, <i>now can't you be asy?</i>"</p>

<p>"Arrah, Mickey, now can't you be <i>asy?</i>" sang out a voice in
chorus, and<br>
the next moment Dr. Quill himself made his appearance.</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley, is it a penitential psalm you're singing, or
is my friend<br>
Mike endeavoring to raise your spirits with a Galway sonata?"</p>

<p>"A little bit of his own muse, Doctor, nothing more; but tell
me, how goes<br>
it with the major,&mdash;is the poor fellow out of danger?"</p>

<p>"Except from the excess of his appetite, I know of no risk he
runs. His<br>
servant is making gruel for him all day in a thing like the
grog-tub of a<br>
frigate. But you've heard the news,&mdash;Sparks has been exchanged.
He came<br>
here last night; but the moment he caught sight of me, he took
his<br>
departure. Begad, I'm sure he'd rather pass a month in Verdun
than a week<br>
in my company!"</p>

<p>"By-the-bye, Doctor, you never told me how this same antipathy
of Sparks<br>
for you had its origin."</p>

<p>"Sure I drove him out of the Tenth before he was three weeks
with the<br>
regiment."</p>

<p>"Ay, I remember; you began the story for me one night on the
retreat from<br>
the Coa, but something broke it off in the middle."</p>

<p>"Just so, I was sent for to the rear to take off some
gentleman's legs that<br>
weren't in dancing condition; but as there's no fear of
interruption now,<br>
I'll finish the story. But first, let us have a peep at the
wounded. What<br>
beautiful anatomists they are in the French artillery! Do you
feel the<br>
thing I have now in my forceps? There,&mdash;don't jump,&mdash;that's a bit
of the<br>
brachial nerve most beautifully displayed. Faith, I think I'll
give Mike a<br>
demonstration."</p>

<p>"Oh, Mister Quill, dear! Oh, Doctor, darling!"</p>

<p>"Arrah, Mickey, now can't ye be asy?" sang out Maurice, with a
perfect<br>
imitation of Mike's voice and manner.</p>

<p>"A little lint here! Bend your arm,&mdash;that's it&mdash;Don't move
your fingers.<br>
Now, Mickey, make me a cup of coffee with a glass of brandy in
it. And now,<br>
Charley, for Sparks. I believe I told you what kind of fellows
the Tenth<br>
were,&mdash;regular out-and-outers. We hadn't three men in the
regiment that<br>
were not from the south of Ireland,&mdash;the <i>bocca Corkana</i> on their
lips, fun<br>
and devilment in their eyes, and more drollery and humbug in
their hearts<br>
than in all the messes in the service put together. No man had
any chance<br>
among them if he wasn't a real droll one; every man wrote his own
songs and<br>
sang them too. It was no small promotion could tempt a fellow to
exchange<br>
out of the corps. You may think, then, what a prize your friend
Sparks<br>
proved to us; we held a court-martial upon him the week after he
joined. It<br>
was proved in evidence that he had never said a good thing in his
life,<br>
and had about as much notion of a joke as a Cherokee has of the
Court of<br>
Chancery; and as to singing, Lord bless you, he had a tune with
wooden<br>
turns to it,&mdash;it was most cruel to hear; and then the look of
him, those<br>
eyes, like dropsical oysters, and the hair standing every way,
like a field<br>
of insane flax, and the mouth with a curl in it like the slit in
the side<br>
of a fiddle. A pleasant fellow that for a mess that always
boasted the<br>
best-looking chaps in the service.</p>

<p>"'What's to be done with him?' said the major; 'shall we tell
him we are<br>
ordered to India, and terrify him about his liver?'</p>

<p>"'Or drill him into a hectic fever?'</p>

<p>"'Or drink him dry?'</p>

<p>"'Or get him into a fight and wing him?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, no,' said I, 'leave him to me; we'll laugh him out of
the corps.'</p>

<p>"'Yes, we'll leave him to you, Maurice,' said the rest.</p>

<p>"And that day week you might read in the 'Gazette,' 'Pierce
Flynn<br>
O'Haygerty, to be Ensign, 10th Foot, <i>vice</i> Sparks,
exchanged.'"</p>

<p>"But how was it done, Maurice; you haven't told me that."</p>

<p>"Nothing easier. I affected great intimacy with Sparks,
bemoaned our hard<br>
fate, mutually, in being attached to such a regiment: 'A damnable
corps<br>
this,&mdash;low, vulgar fellows, practical jokes; not the kind of
thing one<br>
expects in the army. But as for me, I've joined it partly from
necessity.<br>
You, however, who might be in a crack regiment, I can't conceive
your<br>
remaining in it.'</p>

<p>"'But why did you join, Doctor?' said he; 'what necessity
could have<br>
induced you?'</p>

<p>"'Ah, my friend,' said I, '<i>that</i> is the secret,&mdash;<i>that</i> is
the hidden<br>
grief that must lie buried in my own bosom.'</p>

<p>"I saw that his curiosity was excited, and took every means to
increase it<br>
farther. At length, as if yielding to a sudden impulse of
friendship, and<br>
having sworn him to secrecy, I took him aside, and began
thus,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'I may trust you, Sparks, I feel I may; and when I tell you
that my<br>
honor, my reputation, my whole fortune is at stake, you will
judge of the<br>
importance of the trust.'</p>

<p>"The goggle eyes rolled fearfully, and his features exhibited
the most<br>
craving anxiety to hear my story.</p>

<p>"'You wish to know why I left the Fifty-sixth. Now I'll tell
you; but mind,<br>
you're pledged, you're sworn, never to divulge it.'</p>

<p>"'Honor bright.'</p>

<p>"'There, that's enough; I'm satisfied. It was a slight
infraction of the<br>
articles of war; a little breach of the rules and regulations of
the<br>
service; a trifling misconception of the mess code,&mdash;they caught
me one<br>
evening leaving the mess with&mdash;What do you think in my pocket?
But<br>
you'll never tell! No, no, I know you'll not; eight forks and
a<br>
gravy-spoon,&mdash;silver forks every one of them. There now,' said I,
grasping<br>
his hand, 'you have my secret; my fame and character are in your
hands, for<br>
you see they made me quit the regiment,&mdash;a man can't stay in a
corps where<br>
he is laughed at.'</p>

<p>"Covering my face with my handkerchief, as if to conceal my
shame, I turned<br>
away, and left Sparks to his meditations. That same evening we
happened to<br>
have some strangers at mess; the bottle was passing freely round,
and as<br>
usual the good spirits of the party at the top of their bent,
when suddenly<br>
from the lower end of the table, a voice was heard demanding, in
tones of<br>
the most pompous importance, permission to address the president
upon a<br>
topic where the honor of the whole regiment was concerned.</p>

<p>"'I rise, gentlemen,' said Mr. Sparks, 'with feelings the most
painful;<br>
whatever may have been the laxity of habit and freedom of
conversation<br>
habitual in this regiment, I never believed that so flagrant an
instance as<br>
this morning came to my ears&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Oh, murder!' said I. 'Oh, Sparks, darling, sure you're not
going to<br>
tell?'</p>

<p>"'Doctor Quill,' replied he, in an austere tone, 'it is
impossible for me<br>
to conceal it.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, Sparks, dear, will you betray me?'</p>

<p>"I gave him here a look of the most imploring entreaty, to
which he replied<br>
by one of unflinching sternness.</p>

<p>"'I have made up my mind, sir,' continued he; 'it is possible
the officers<br>
of this corps may look more leniently than I do upon this
transaction; but<br>
know it they shall.'</p>

<p>"'Out with it, Sparks; tell it by all means!' cried a number
of voices; for<br>
it was clear to every one, by this time, that he was involved in
a hoax.</p>

<p>"Amidst, therefore, a confused volley of entreaty on one side,
and my<br>
reiterated prayers for his silence, on the other, Sparks thus
began:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Are you aware, gentlemen, why Dr. Quill left the
Fifty-sixth?'</p>

<p>"'No, no, no!' rang from all sides; 'let's have it!'</p>

<p>"'No, sir,' said he, turning towards me, 'concealment is
impossible; an<br>
officer detected with the mess-plate in his pocket&mdash;'</p>

<p>"They never let him finish, for a roar of laughter shook the
table from one<br>
end to the other; while Sparks, horror-struck at the lack of
feeling and<br>
propriety that could make men treat such a matter with ridicule,
glared<br>
around him on every side.</p>

<p>"'Oh, Maurice, Maurice!' cried the major, wiping his eyes,
'this is too<br>
bad; this is too bad!'</p>

<p>"'Gracious Heaven!' screamed Sparks, 'can you laugh at
it?'</p>

<p>"'Laugh at it!' re-echoed the paymaster, 'God grant I only
don't burst a<br>
blood-vessel!' And once more the sounds of merriment rang out
anew, and<br>
lasted for several minutes.</p>

<p>"'Oh, Maurice Quill,' cried an old captain, 'you've been too
heavy on the<br>
lad. Why, Sparks, man, he's been humbugging you.'</p>

<p>"Scarcely were the words spoken when he sprang from the room.
The whole<br>
truth flashed at once upon his mind; in an instant he saw that he
had<br>
exposed himself to the merciless ridicule of a mess-table and
that all<br>
peace for him, in that regiment at least, was over.</p>

<p>"We got a glorious fellow in exchange for him; and Sparks
descended into<br>
a cavalry regiment,&mdash;I ask your pardon, Charley,&mdash;where, as you
are well<br>
aware, sharp wit and quick intellect are by no means
indispensable. There<br>
now, don't be angry or you'll do yourself harm. So good-by, for
an hour or<br>
two."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIII.</p>

<p>THE COUNT'S LETTER.</p>

<p>O'Shaughnessy's wound, like my own, was happily only
formidable from the<br>
loss of blood. The sabre or the lance are rarely, indeed, so
death-dealing<br>
as the musket or the bayonet; and the murderous fire from a
square of<br>
infantry is far more terrific in its consequences than the
heaviest charge<br>
of a cavalry column. In a few weeks, therefore, we were once more
about and<br>
fit for duty; but for the present the campaign was ended. The
rainy season<br>
with its attendant train of sickness and sorrow set in. The
troops were<br>
cantoned along the line of the frontier,&mdash;the infantry occupying
the<br>
villages, and the cavalry being stationed wherever forage could
be<br>
obtained.</p>

<p>The Fourteenth were posted at Avintas, but I saw little of
them. I was<br>
continually employed upon the staff; and as General Crawfurd's
activity<br>
suffered no diminution from the interruption of the campaign,
rarely passed<br>
a day without eight or nine hours on horseback.</p>

<p>The preparations for the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo occupied our
undivided<br>
attention. To the reduction of this fortress and of Badajos,
Lord<br>
Wellington looked as the most important objects, and prosecuted
his plans<br>
with unremitting zeal. To my staff appointment I owed the
opportunity of<br>
witnessing that stupendous feature of war, a siege; and as many
of my<br>
friends formed part of the blockading force, I spent more than
one night in<br>
the trenches. Indeed, except for this, the tiresome monotony of
life was<br>
most irksome at this period. Day after day the incessant rain
poured down.<br>
The supplies were bad, scanty, and irregular; the hospitals
crowded with<br>
sick; field-sports impracticable; books there were none; and a
dulness and<br>
spiritless depression prevailed on every side. Those who were
actively<br>
engaged around Ciudad Rodrigo had, of course, the excitement and
interest<br>
which the enterprise involved: but even there the works made slow
progress.<br>
The breaching artillery was defective in every way: the rain
undermined the<br>
faces of the bastions; the clayey soil sank beneath the weight of
the heavy<br>
guns; and the storms of one night frequently destroyed more than
a whole<br>
week's labor had effected.</p>

<p>Thus passed the dreary months along; the cheeriest and gayest
among us<br>
broken in spirit, and subdued in heart by the tedium of our life.
The very<br>
news which reached us partook of the gloomy features of our
prospects. We<br>
heard only of strong reinforcements marching to the support of
the French<br>
in Estramadura. We were told that the Emperor, whose successes in
Germany<br>
enabled him to turn his entire attention to the Spanish campaign,
would<br>
himself be present in the coming spring, with overwhelming odds
and a firm<br>
determination to drive us from the Peninsula.</p>

<p>In that frame of mind which such gloomy and depressing
prospects are well<br>
calculated to suggest, I was returning one night to my quarters
at Mucia,<br>
when suddenly I beheld Mike galloping towards me with a large
packet in his<br>
hand, which he held aloft to catch my attention. "Letters from
England,<br>
sir," said he, "just arrived with the general's despatches." I
broke the<br>
envelope at once, which bore the war-office seal, and as I did
so, a<br>
perfect avalanche of letters fell at my feet. The first which
caught my eye<br>
was an official intimation from the Horse Guards that the Prince
Regent had<br>
been graciously pleased to confirm my promotion to the troop, my
commission<br>
to bear date from the appointment, etc., etc. I could not help
feeling<br>
struck, as my eye ran rapidly across the lines, that although the
letter<br>
came from Sir George Dashwood's office, it contained not a word
of<br>
congratulation nor remembrance on his part, but was couched in
the usual<br>
cold and formal language of an official document. Impatient,
however, to<br>
look over my other letters, I thought but little of this; so,
throwing them<br>
hurriedly into my sabretasche, I cantered on to my quarters
without delay.<br>
Once more alone in silence, I sat down to commune with my far-off
friends,<br>
and yet with all my anxiety to hear of home, passed several
minutes in<br>
turning over the letters, guessing from whom they might have
come, and<br>
picturing to myself their probable contents. "Ah, Frank Webber, I
recognize<br>
your slap-dash, bold hand without the aid of the initials in the
corner;<br>
and this&mdash;what can this be?&mdash;this queer, misshapen thing,
representing<br>
nothing save the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid, and the
address<br>
seemingly put on with a cat's-tail dipped in lampblack? Yes, true
enough,<br>
it is from Mister Free himself. And what have we here? This
queer, quaint<br>
hand is no new acquaintance; how many a time have I looked upon
it as the<br>
<i>ne plus ultra</i> of caligraphy! But here is one I'm not so sure
of. Who<br>
could have written this bolt-upright, old-fashioned
superscription, not<br>
a letter of which seems on speaking terms with its neighbor? The
very O<br>
absolutely turns its back upon the M in O'Malley, and the final Y
wags his<br>
tail with a kind of independent shake, as if he did not care a
curse for<br>
his predecessors! And the seal, too,&mdash;surely I know that
griffin's head,<br>
and that stern motto, <i>Non rogo sed capio</i>. To be sure, it is
Billy<br>
Considine's, the count himself. The very paper, yellow and
time-stained,<br>
looks coeval with his youth; and I could even venture to wager
that his<br>
sturdy pen was nibbed half a century since. I'll not look farther
among<br>
this confused mass of three-cornered billets, and long,
treacherous-looking<br>
epistles, the very folding of which denote the dun. Here goes for
the<br>
count!" So saying to myself, I drew closer to the fire, and began
the<br>
following epistle:&mdash;</p>

<p>    O'MALLEY CASTLE, November 3.</p>

<p>    Dear Charley,&mdash;Here we sit in the little parlor with your
last<br>
    letter, the "Times," and a big map before us, drinking your
health,<br>
    and wishing you a long career of the same glorious success
you have<br>
    hitherto enjoyed. Old as I am&mdash;eighty-two or eighty-three (I
forget<br>
    which) in June&mdash;I envy you with all my heart. Luck has
stood<br>
    to you, my boy; and if a French sabre or a bayonet finish you
now,<br>
    you've at least had a splendid burst of it. I was right in my
opinion<br>
    of you, and Godfrey himself owns it now,&mdash;a lawyer, indeed!
Bad<br>
    luck to them! we've had enough of lawyers. There's old
Hennesy,&mdash;honest<br>
    Jack, as they used to call him,&mdash;that your uncle trusted<br>
    for the last forty years, has raised eighteen thousand pounds
on the<br>
    title-deeds, and gone off to America. The old scoundrel! But
it's<br>
    no use talking; the blow is a sore one to Godfrey, and the
gout<br>
    more troublesome than ever. Drumgold is making a motion
in<br>
    Chancery about it, to break the sale, and the tenants are in
open<br>
    rebellion and swear they'll murther a receiver, if one is
sent down<br>
    among them. Indeed, they came in such force into Galway
during<br>
    the assizes, and did so much mischief, that the cases for
trial were<br>
    adjourned, and the judges left with a military escort to
protect them.<br>
    This, of course, is gratifying to our feelings; for, thank
Providence,<br>
    there is some good in the world yet. Kilmurry was sold last
week<br>
    for twelve thousand. Andy Blake would foreclose the
mortgage,<br>
    although we offered him every kind of satisfaction. This has
done<br>
    Godfrey a deal of harm; and some pitiful economy&mdash;taking
only<br>
    two bottles of claret after his dinner&mdash;has driven the gout
to his<br>
    head. They've been telling him he'd lengthen his days by
this, and<br>
    I tried it myself, and, faith, it was the longest day I ever
spent in<br>
    my life. I hope and trust you take your liquor like a
gentleman and<br>
    an Irish gentleman.</p>

<p>    Kinshela, we hear, has issued an execution against the
house and<br>
    furniture; but the attempt to sell the demesne nearly killed
your<br>
    uncle. It was advertised in a London paper, and an offer made
for it<br>
    by an old general whom you may remember when down here.
Indeed,<br>
    if I mistake not, he was rather kind to you in the beginning.
It<br>
    would appear he did not wish to have his name known, but we
found<br>
    him out, and such a letter as we sent him! It's little liking
he'll<br>
    have to buy a Galway gentleman's estate over his head, that
same Sir<br>
    George Dashwood! Godfrey offered to meet him anywhere he<br>
    pleased, and if the doctor thought he could bear the sea
voyage,<br>
    he'd even go over to Holyhead; but the sneaking fellow sent
an<br>
    apologetic kind of a letter, with some humbug excuse about
very<br>
    different motives, etc. But we've done with him, and I think
he<br>
    with us.</p>

<p>When I had read thus far, I laid down the letter, unable to go
on; the<br>
accumulated misfortunes of one I loved best in the world,
following so fast<br>
one upon another, the insult&mdash;unprovoked, gratuitous insult&mdash;to
him upon<br>
whom my hopes of future happiness so much depended, completely
overwhelmed<br>
me. I tried to continue. Alas, the catalogue of evils went on;
each line<br>
bore testimony to some farther wreck of fortune, some clearer
evidence of a<br>
ruined house.</p>

<p>All that my gloomiest and darkest forebodings had pictured was
come to<br>
pass; sickness, poverty, harassing unfeeling creditors,
treachery, and<br>
ingratitude were goading to madness and despair a spirit whose
kindliness<br>
of nature was unequalled. The shock of blasted fortunes was
falling upon<br>
the dying heart; the convictions which a long life had never
brought<br>
home&mdash;that men were false and their words a lie&mdash;were stealing
over the<br>
man upon the brink of the grave; and he who had loved his
neighbor like a<br>
brother was to be taught, at the eleventh hour, that the beings
he trusted<br>
were perjured and forsworn.</p>

<p>A more unsuitable adviser than Considine, in difficulties like
these, there<br>
could not be; his very contempt for all the forms of law and
justice was<br>
sufficient to embroil my poor uncle still farther; so that I
resolved at<br>
once to apply for leave, and if refused, and no other alternative
offered,<br>
to leave the service. It was not without a sense of sorrow
bordering on<br>
despair, that I came to this determination. My soldier's life had
become<br>
a passion with me. I loved it for its bold and chivalrous
enthusiasm, its<br>
hour of battle and strife, its days of endurance and hardship,
its trials,<br>
its triumphs; its very reverses were endeared by those they were
shared<br>
with; and the spirit of adventure and the love of danger&mdash;that
most<br>
exciting of all gambling&mdash;had now entwined themselves in my very
nature. To<br>
surrender all these at once, and to exchange the daily, hourly
enthusiasm<br>
of a campaign for the prospects now before me, was almost
maddening. But<br>
still a sustaining sense of duty of what I owed to him, who, in
his love,<br>
had sacrificed all for me, overpowered every other consideration.
My mind<br>
was made up.</p>

<p>Father Rush's letter was little more than a recapitulation of
the count's.<br>
Debt, distress, sickness, and the heart-burnings of altered
fortunes filled<br>
it; and when I closed it, I felt like one over all whose views in
life a<br>
dark and ill-omened cloud was closing forever. Webber's I could
not read;<br>
the light and cheerful raillery of a friend would have seemed, at
such a<br>
time, like the cold, unfeeling sarcasm of an enemy. I sat down at
last to<br>
write to the general, enclosing my application for leave, and
begging of<br>
him to forward it, with a favorable recommendation, to
headquarters.</p>

<p>This done, I lay down upon my bed, and overcome by fatigue and
fretting,<br>
fell asleep to dream of my home and those I had left there;
which,<br>
strangely too, were presented to my mind with all the happy
features that<br>
made them so dear to my infancy.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIV.</p>

<p>THE TRENCHES.</p>

<p>"I have not had time, O'Malley, to think of your application,"
said<br>
Crawfurd, "nor is it likely I can for a day or two. Read that."
So saying,<br>
he pushed towards me a note, written, in pencil, which ran
thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    CIUDAD RODRIGO, December 18.</p>

<p>    Dear C.,&mdash;Fletcher tells me that the breaches will be
practicable<br>
    by to-morrow evening, and I think so myself. Come over, then,
at<br>
    once, for we shall not lose any time.</p>

<p>    Yours,           W.</p>

<p>"I have some despatches for your regiment, but if you prefer
coming along<br>
with me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"My dear General, dare I ask for such a favor?"</p>

<p>"Well, come along; only remember that, although my division
will be<br>
engaged, I cannot promise you anything to do. So now, get your
horses<br>
ready; let's away."</p>

<p>It was in the afternoon of the following day that we rode into
the large<br>
plain before Ciudad Rodrigo, and in which the allied armies were
now<br>
assembled to the number of twelve thousand men. The loud booming
of<br>
the siege artillery had been heard by me for some hours before;
but<br>
notwithstanding this prelude and my own high-wrought
expectations, I<br>
was far from anticipating the magnificent spectacle which burst
upon my<br>
astonished view. The air was calm and still; a clear, blue,
wintry sky<br>
stretched overhead, but below, the dense blue smoke of the
deafening guns<br>
rolled in mighty volumes along the earth, and entirely concealed
the lower<br>
part of the fortress; above this the tall towers and battlemented
parapets<br>
rose into the thin, transparent sky like fairy palaces. A bright
flash of<br>
flame would now and then burst forth from the walls, and a
clanging crash<br>
of the brass metal be heard; but the unceasing roll of our
artillery nearly<br>
drowned all other sounds, save when a loud cheer would burst from
the<br>
trenches, while the clattering fall of masonry, and the crumbling
stones<br>
as they rolled down, bespoke the reason of the cry. The utmost
activity<br>
prevailed on all sides; troops pressed forward to the reliefs in
the<br>
parallels; ammunition wagons moved to the front; general and
staff officers<br>
rode furiously about the plain; and all betokened that the hour
of attack<br>
was no longer far distant.</p>

<p>While all parties were anxiously awaiting the decision of our
chief, the<br>
general order was made known, which, after briefly detailing the
necessary<br>
arrangements, concluded with the emphatic words, "Ciudad Rodrigo
<i>must</i> be<br>
stormed to-night." All speculation as to the troops to be engaged
in this<br>
daring enterprise was soon at an end; for with his characteristic
sense of<br>
duty, Lord Wellington made no invidious selection, but merely
commanded<br>
that the attack should be made by whatever divisions might chance
to be<br>
that day in the trenches. Upon the Third and Light Divisions,
therefore,<br>
this glorious task devolved. The former was to attack the main
breach;<br>
to Crawfurd's Division was assigned the, if possible, more
difficult<br>
enterprise of carrying the lesser one; while Pack's Portuguese
Brigade were<br>
to menace the convent of La Caridad by a feint attack, to be
converted into<br>
a real one, if circumstances should permit.</p>

<p>The decision, however matured and comprehensive in all its
details, was<br>
finally adopted so suddenly that every staff officer upon the
ground was<br>
actively engaged during the entire evening in conveying the
orders to the<br>
different regiments. As the day drew to a close, the cannonade
slackened on<br>
either side, a solitary gun would be heard at intervals, and in
the calm<br>
stillness around, its booming thunder re-echoed along the valleys
of the<br>
Sierra; but as the moon rose and night set in, these were no
longer heard,<br>
and a perfect stillness and tranquillity prevailed around. Even
in the<br>
trenches, crowded with armed and anxious soldiers, not a whisper
was heard;<br>
and amidst that mighty host which filled the plain, the tramp of
a patrol<br>
could be distinctly noted, and the hoarse voice of the French
sentry upon<br>
the walls, telling that all was well in Ciudad Rodrigo.</p>

<p>The massive fortress, looming larger as its dark shadow stood
out from the<br>
sky, was still as the grave; while in the greater breach a faint
light was<br>
seen to twinkle for a moment, and then suddenly to disappear,
leaving all<br>
gloomy and dark as before.</p>

<p>Having been sent with orders to the Third Division, of which
the<br>
Eighty-eighth formed a part, I took the opportunity of finding
out<br>
O'Shaughnessy, who was himself to lead an escalade party in
M'Kinnon's<br>
Brigade. He sprang towards me as I came forward, and grasping my
hand with<br>
a more than usual earnestness, called out, "The very man I
wanted! Charley,<br>
my boy, do us a service now!"</p>

<p>Before I could reply, he continued in a lower tone, "A young
fellow of<br>
ours, Harry Beauclerc, has been badly wounded in the trenches;
but by some<br>
blunder, his injury is reported as a slight one, and although the
poor<br>
fellow can scarcely stand, he insists upon going with the
stormers."</p>

<p>"Come here, Major, come here!" cried a voice at a little
distance.</p>

<p>"Follow me, O'Malley," cried O'Shaughnessy, moving in the
direction of the<br>
speaker.</p>

<p>By the light of a lantern we could descry two officers
kneeling upon the<br>
ground; between them on the grass lay the figure of a third, upon
whose<br>
features, as the pale light fell, the hand of death seemed
rapidly<br>
stealing. A slight froth, tinged with blood, rested on his lip,
and the<br>
florid blood which stained the buff facing of his uniform
indicated that<br>
his wound was through the lungs.</p>

<p>"He has fainted," said one of the officers, in a low tone.</p>

<p>"Are you certain it is fainting?" said the other, in a still
lower.</p>

<p>"You see how it is, Charley," said O'Shaughnessy; "this poor
boy must be<br>
carried to the rear. Will you then, like a kind fellow, hasten
back to<br>
Colonel Campbell and mention the fact. It will kill Beauclerc
should any<br>
doubt rest upon his conduct, if he ever recover this."</p>

<p>While he spoke, four soldiers of the regiment placed the
wounded officer in<br>
a blanket. A long sigh escaped him, and he muttered a few broken
words.</p>

<p>"Poor fellow, it's his mother he's talking of! He only joined
a month<br>
since, and is a mere boy. Come, O'Malley, lose no time. By Jove!
it is too<br>
late; there goes the first rocket for the columns to form. In ten
minutes<br>
more the stormers must fall in."</p>

<p>"What's the matter, Giles?" said he to one of the officers,
who had stopped<br>
the soldiers as they were moving off with their burden,&mdash;"what is
it?"</p>

<p>"I have been cutting the white tape off his arm; for if he
sees it on<br>
waking, he'll remember all about the storming."</p>

<p>"Quite right&mdash;thoughtfully done!" said the other; "but who is
to lead his<br>
fellows? He was in the forlorn hope."</p>

<p>"I'll do it," cried I, with eagerness. "Come, O'Shaughnessy,
you'll not<br>
refuse me."</p>

<p>"Refuse you, boy!" said he, grasping my hand within both of
his, "never!<br>
But you must change your coat. The gallant Eighty-eighth will
never mistake<br>
their countryman's voice. But your uniform would be devilish
likely to get<br>
you a bayonet through it; so come back with me, and we'll make
you a Ranger<br>
in no time."</p>

<p>"I can give your friend a cap."</p>

<p>"And I," said the other, "a brandy flask, which, after all, is
not the<br>
worst part of a storming equipage."</p>

<p>"I hope," said O'Shaughnessy, "they may find Maurice in the
rear.<br>
Beauclerc's all safe in his hands."</p>

<p>"That they'll not," said Giles, "you may swear. Quill is this
moment in the<br>
trenches, and will not be the last man at the breach."</p>

<p>"Follow me now, lads," said O'Shaughnessy, in a low voice.
"Our fellows are<br>
at the angle of this trench. Who the deuce can that be, talking
so loud?"</p>

<p>"It must be Maurice," said Giles.</p>

<p>The question was soon decided by the doctor himself, who
appeared giving<br>
directions to his hospital-sergeant.</p>

<p>"Yes, Peter, take the tools up to a convenient spot near the
breach.<br>
There's many a snug corner there in the ruins; and although we
mayn't have<br>
as good an operation-room as in old 'Steevens's,' yet we'll beat
them<br>
hollow in cases."</p>

<p>"Listen to the fellow," said Giles, with a shudder. "The
thought of his<br>
confounded thumbscrews and tourniquets is worse to me than a
French<br>
howitzer."</p>

<p>"The devil a kinder-hearted fellow than Maurice," said
O'Shaughnessy, "for<br>
all that; and if his heart was to be known this moment, he'd
rather handle<br>
a sword than a saw."</p>

<p>"True for you, Dennis," said Quill, overhearing him, "but we
are both<br>
useful in our way, as the hangman said to Lord Clare."</p>

<p>"But should you not be in the rear, Maurice?" said I.</p>

<p>"You are right, O'Malley," said he, in a whisper; "but, you
see, I owe the<br>
Cork Insurance Company a spite for making me pay a gout premium,
and that's<br>
the reason I'm here. I warned them at the time that their
stinginess would<br>
come to no good."</p>

<p>"I say, Captain O'Malley," said Giles, "I find I can't be as
good as my<br>
word with you; my servant has moved to the rear with all my
traps."</p>

<p>"What is to be done?" said I.</p>

<p>"Is it shaving utensils you want?" said Maurice. "Would a
scalpel serve<br>
your turn?"</p>

<p>"No, Doctor, I'm going to take a turn of duty with your
fellows to-night."</p>

<p>"In the breach, with the stormers?"</p>

<p>"With the forlorn hope," said O'Shaughnessy. "Beauclerc is so
badly wounded<br>
that we've sent him back; and Charley, like a good fellow, has
taken his<br>
place."</p>

<p>"Martin told me," said Maurice, "that Beauclerc was only
stunned; but,<br>
upon my conscience, the hospital-mates, now-a-days, are no better
than the<br>
watchmakers; they can't tell what's wrong with the instrument
till they<br>
pick it to pieces. Whiz! there goes a blue light."</p>

<p>"Move on, move on," whispered O'Shaughnessy; "they're telling
off the<br>
stormers. That rocket is the order to fall in."</p>

<p>"But what am I to do for a coat?"</p>

<p>"Take mine, my boy," said Maurice, throwing off an upper
garment of coarse<br>
gray frieze as he spoke.</p>

<p>"There's a neat bit of uniform," continued he, turning himself
round for<br>
our admiration; "don't I look mighty like the pictures of George
the First<br>
at the battle of Dettingen!"</p>

<p>A burst of approving laughter was our only answer to this
speech, while<br>
Maurice proceeded to denude himself of his most extraordinary
garment.</p>

<p>"What, in the name of Heaven, is it?" said I.</p>

<p>"Don't despise it, Charley; it knows the smell of gunpowder as
well as any<br>
bit of scarlet in the service;" while he added, in a whisper,
"it's the<br>
ould Roscommon Yeomanry. My uncle commanded them in the year '42,
and this<br>
was his coat. I don't mean to say that it was new then; for you
see it's a<br>
kind of heirloom in the Quill family, and it's not every one I'd
be giving<br>
it to."</p>

<p>"A thousand thanks, Maurice," said I, as I buttoned it on,
amidst an<br>
ill-suppressed titter of laughter.</p>

<p>"It fits you like a sentry-box," said Maurice, as he surveyed
me with a<br>
lantern. "The skirts separate behind in the most picturesque
manner; and<br>
when you button the collar, it will keep your head up so high
that the<br>
devil a bit you'll see except the blessed moon. It's a thousand
pities you<br>
haven't the three-cocked hat with the feather trimming. If you
wouldn't<br>
frighten the French, my name's not Maurice. Turn about here till
I admire<br>
you. If you only saw yourself in a glass, you'd never join the
dragoons<br>
again. And look now, don't be exposing yourself, for I wouldn't
have those<br>
blue facings destroyed for a week's pay."</p>

<p>"Ah, then, it's yourself is the darling, Doctor, dear!" said a
voice behind<br>
me. I turned round; it was Mickey Free, who was standing with a
most<br>
profound admiration of Maurice beaming in every feature of his
face. "It's<br>
yourself has a joke for every hour o' the day."</p>

<p>"Get to the rear, Mike, get to the rear with the cattle; this
is no place<br>
for you or them."</p>

<p>"Good-night, Mickey," said Maurice.</p>

<p>"Good-night, your honor," muttered Mike to himself; "may I
never die till<br>
you set a leg for me."</p>

<p>"Are you dressed for the ball?" said Maurice, fastening the
white tape upon<br>
my arm. "There now, my boy, move on, for I think I hear Picton's
voice; not<br>
that it signifies now, for he's always in a heavenly temper when
any one's<br>
going to be killed. I'm sure he'd behave like an angel, if he
only knew the<br>
ground was mined under his feet."</p>

<p>"Charley, Charley!" called out O'Shaughnessy, in a suppressed
voice, "come<br>
up quickly!"</p>

<p>"No. 24, John Forbes&mdash;here! Edward Gillespie&mdash;here!"</p>

<p>"Who leads this party, Major O'Shaughnessy?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Beauclerc, sir," replied O'Shaughnessy, pushing me
forward by the arm<br>
while he spoke.</p>

<p>"Keep your people together, sir; spare the powder, and trust
to your cold<br>
iron." He grasped my hand within his iron grip, and rode on.</p>

<p>"Who was it, Dennis?" said I.</p>

<p>"Don't you know him, Charley? That was Picton."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXV.</p>

<p>THE STORMING OF CIUDAD RODRIGO.</p>

<p>Whatever the levity of the previous moment, the scene before
us now<br>
repressed it effectually. The deep-toned bell of the cathedral
tolled<br>
seven, and scarcely were its notes dying away in the distance,
when the<br>
march of the columns was heard stealing along the ground. A low
murmuring<br>
whisper ran along the advanced files of the forlorn hope; stocks
were<br>
loosened; packs and knapsacks thrown to the ground; each man
pressed his<br>
cap more firmly down upon his brow, and with lip compressed and
steadfast<br>
eye, waited for the word to move.</p>

<p>It came at last: the word "March!" passed in whispers from
rank to rank,<br>
and the dark mass moved on. What a moment was that as we advanced
to the<br>
foot of the breach! The consciousness that at the same instant,
from<br>
different points of that vast plain, similar parties were moving
on; the<br>
feeling that at a word the flame of the artillery and the flash
of steel<br>
would spring from that dense cloud, and death and carnage, in
every shape<br>
our imagination can conceive, be dealt on all sides; the hurried,
fitful<br>
thought of home; the years long past compressed into one minute's
space;<br>
the last adieu of all we've loved, mingling with the muttered
prayer to<br>
Heaven, while, high above all, the deep pervading sense that
earth has no<br>
temptation strong enough to turn us from that path whose ending
must be a<br>
sepulchre!</p>

<p>Each heart was too full for words. We followed noiselessly
along the turf,<br>
the dark figure of our leader guiding us through the gloom. On
arriving<br>
at the ditch, the party with the ladders moved to the front.
Already some<br>
hay-packs were thrown in, and the forlorn hope sprang
forward.</p>

<p>All was still and silent as the grave. "Quietly, my men,
quietly!" said<br>
M'Kinnon; "don't press." Scarcely had he spoken when a musket
whose charge,<br>
contrary to orders, had not been drawn, went off. The whizzing
bullet could<br>
not have struck the wall, when suddenly a bright flame burst
forth from the<br>
ramparts, and shot upward towards the sky. For an instant the
whole scene<br>
before us was bright as noonday. On one side, the dark ranks and
glistening<br>
bayonets of the enemy; on the other, the red uniform of the
British<br>
columns: compressed like some solid wall, they stretched along
the plain.</p>

<p>A deafening roll of musketry from the extreme right announced
that the<br>
Third Division was already in action, while the loud cry of our
leader, as<br>
he sprang into the trench, summoned us to the charge. The leading
sections,<br>
not waiting for the ladders, jumped down, others pressing rapidly
behind<br>
them, when a loud rumbling thunder crept along the earth, a
hissing,<br>
crackling noise followed, and from the dark ditch a forked and
livid<br>
lightning burst like the flame from a volcano, and a mine
exploded.<br>
Hundreds of shells and grenades scattered along the ground were
ignited at<br>
the same moment; the air sparkled with the whizzing fuses, the
musketry<br>
plied incessantly from the walls, and every man of the leading
company<br>
of the stormers was blown to pieces. While this dreadful
catastrophe was<br>
enacting before our eyes, the different assaults were made on all
sides;<br>
the whole fortress seemed girt around with fire. From every part
arose the<br>
yells of triumph and the shouts of the assailants. As for us, we
stood upon<br>
the verge of the ditch, breathless, hesitating, and
horror-struck. A sudden<br>
darkness succeeded to the bright glare, but from the midst of the
gloom the<br>
agonizing cries of the wounded and the dying rent our very
hearts.</p>

<p>"Make way there! make way! here comes Mackie's party," cried
an officer<br>
in the front, and as he spoke the forlorn hope of the
Eighty-eighth came<br>
forward at a run; jumping recklessly into the ditch, they made
towards the<br>
breach; the supporting division of the stormers gave one
inspiring cheer,<br>
and sprang after them. The rush was tremendous; for scarcely had
we reached<br>
the crumbling ruins of the rampart, when the vast column,
pressing on like<br>
some mighty torrent, bore down upon our rear. Now commenced a
scene to<br>
which nothing I ever before conceived of war could in any degree
compare:<br>
the whole ground, covered with combustibles of every deadly and
destructive<br>
contrivance, was rent open with a crash; the huge masses of
masonry bounded<br>
into the air like things of no weight; the ringing clangor of the
iron<br>
howitzers, the crackling of the fuses, the blazing splinters, the
shouts of<br>
defiance, the more than savage yell of those in whose ranks alone
the dead<br>
and the dying were numbered, made up a mass of sights and sounds
almost<br>
maddening with their excitement. On we struggled; the mutilated
bodies of<br>
the leading files almost filling the way.</p>

<p>By this time the Third Division had joined us, and the crush
of our<br>
thickening ranks was dreadful; every moment some well-known
leader fell<br>
dead or mortally wounded, and his place was supplied by some
gallant fellow<br>
who, springing from the leading files, would scarcely have
uttered his<br>
cheer of encouragement, ere he himself was laid low. Many a voice
with<br>
whose notes I was familiar, would break upon my ear in tones of
heroic<br>
daring, and the next moment burst forth in a death-cry. For above
an hour<br>
the frightful carnage continued, fresh troops continually
advancing, but<br>
scarcely a foot of ground was made; the earth belched forth its
volcanic<br>
fires, and that terrible barrier did no man pass. In turn the
bravest and<br>
the boldest would leap into the whizzing flame, and the taunting
cheers of<br>
the enemy triumphed in derision at the effort.</p>

<p>"Stormers to the front! Only the bayonet! trust to nothing but
the<br>
bayonet!" cried a voice whose almost cheerful accents contrasted
strangely<br>
with the dead-notes around, and Gurwood, who led the forlorn hope
of<br>
the Fifty-second, bounded into the chasm; all the officers
sprang<br>
simultaneously after him; the men pressed madly on; a roll of
withering<br>
musketry crashed upon them; a furious shout replied to it. The
British,<br>
springing over the dead and dying, bounded like blood-hounds on
their prey.<br>
Meanwhile the ramparts trembled beneath the tramp of the light
division,<br>
who, having forced the lesser breach, came down upon the flank of
the<br>
French. The garrison, however, thickened their numbers, and
bravely held<br>
their ground. Man to man now was the combat. No cry for quarter,
no<br>
supplicating look for mercy; it was the death struggle of
vengeance and<br>
despair. At this instant an explosion louder than the loudest
thunder shook<br>
the air; the rent and torn up ramparts sprang into the sky; the
conquering<br>
and the conquered were alike the victims; for one of the greatest
magazines<br>
had been ignited by a shell; the black smoke, streaked with a
lurid flame,<br>
hung above the dead and the dying. The artillery and the
murderous musketry<br>
were stilled, paralyzed, as it were, by the ruin and devastation
before<br>
them. Both sides stood leaning upon their arms; the pause was
but<br>
momentary; the cries of wounded comrades called upon their
hearts. A fierce<br>
burst of vengeance rent the air; the British closed upon the foe;
for one<br>
instant they were met; the next, the bayonets gleamed upon the
ramparts,<br>
and Ciudad Rodrigo was won.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVI.</p>

<p>THE RAMPART.</p>

<p>While such were the scenes passing around me, of my own part
in them, I<br>
absolutely knew nothing; for until the moment that the glancing
bayonets<br>
of the light division came rushing on the foe, and the loud, long
cheer of<br>
victory burst above us, I felt like one in a trance. Then I
leaned against<br>
an angle of the rampart, overpowered and exhausted; a bayonet
wound, which<br>
some soldier of our own ranks had given me when mounting the
breach, pained<br>
me somewhat; my uniform was actually torn to rags; my head bare;
of my<br>
sword, the hilt and four inches of the blade alone remained,
while my left<br>
hand firmly grasped the rammer of a cannon, but why or wherefore
I could<br>
not even guess. As thus I stood, the unceasing tide of soldiery
pressed on;<br>
fresh divisions came pouring in, eager for plunder, and thirsting
for the<br>
spoil. The dead and the dying were alike trampled beneath the
feet of that<br>
remorseless mass, who, actuated by vengeance and by rapine,
sprang fiercely<br>
up the breach.</p>

<p>Weak and exhausted, faint from my wound, and overcome by my
exertions, I<br>
sank among the crumbling ruin. The loud shouts which rose from
the town,<br>
mingled with cries and screams, told the work of pillage was
begun; while<br>
still a dropping musketry could be heard on the distant rampart,
where even<br>
yet the French made resistance. At last even this was hushed, but
to it<br>
succeeded the far more horrifying sounds of rapine and of murder;
the<br>
forked flames of burning houses rose here and there amidst the
black<br>
darkness of the night; and through the crackling of the timbers,
and the<br>
falling crash of roofs, the heart-rending shriek of women rent
the very<br>
air. Officers pressed forward, but in vain were their efforts to
restrain<br>
their men; the savage cruelty of the moment knew no bounds of
restraint.<br>
More than one gallant fellow perished in his fruitless endeavor
to enforce<br>
obedience; and the most awful denunciations were now uttered
against those<br>
before whom, at any other time, they dared not mutter.</p>

<p>Thus passed the long night, far more terrible to me than all
the dangers of<br>
the storm itself, with all its death and destruction dealing
around it. I<br>
know not if I slept: if so, the horrors on every side were
pictured in my<br>
dreams; and when the gray dawn was breaking, the cries from the
doomed city<br>
were still ringing in my ears. Close around me the scene was
still<br>
and silent; the wounded had been removed during the night, but
the<br>
thickly-packed dead lay side by side where they fell. It was a
fearful<br>
sight to see them as, blood-stained and naked (for already
the<br>
camp-followers had stripped the bodies), they covered the entire
breach.<br>
From the rampart to the ditch, the ranks lay where they had stood
in life.<br>
A faint phosphoric flame flickered above their ghastly corpses,
making even<br>
death still more horrible. I was gazing steadfastly, with all
that stupid<br>
intensity which imperfect senses and exhausted faculties possess,
when the<br>
sound of voices near aroused me.</p>

<p>"Bring him along,&mdash;this way, Bob. Over the breach with the
scoundrel, into<br>
the fosse."</p>

<p>"He shall die no soldier's death, by Heaven!" cried another
and a deeper<br>
voice, "if I lay his skull open with my axe."</p>

<p>"Oh, mercy, mercy! as you hope for&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Traitor! don't dare to mutter here!" As the last words were
spoken, four<br>
infantry soldiers, reeling from drunkenness, dragged forward a
pale and<br>
haggard wretch, whose limbs trailed behind him like those of
palsy, his<br>
uniform was that of a French chasseur, but his voice bespoke him
English.</p>

<p>"Kneel down there, and die like a man! You were one once!"</p>

<p>"Not so, Bill, never. Fix bayonets, boys! That's right! Now
take the word<br>
from me."</p>

<p>"Oh, forgive me! for the love of Heaven, forgive me!" screamed
the voice of<br>
the victim; but his last accents ended in a death-cry, for as he
spoke, the<br>
bayonets flashed for an instant in the air, and the next were
plunged into<br>
his body. Twice I had essayed to speak, but my voice, hoarse from
shouting,<br>
came not; and I could but look upon this terrible murder with
staring eyes<br>
and burning brain. At last speech came, as if wrested by the very
excess of<br>
my agony, and I muttered aloud, "O God!" The words were not
well-spoken,<br>
when the muskets were brought to the shoulders, and reeking with
the blood<br>
of the murdered man, their savage faces scowled at me as I
lay.</p>

<p>A short and heart-felt prayer burst from my lips, and I was
still. The<br>
leader of the party called out, "Be steady, and together. One,
two! Ground<br>
arms, boys! Ground arms!" roared he, in a voice of thunder; "it's
the<br>
captain himself!" Down went the muskets with a crash; while,
springing<br>
towards me, the fellows caught me in their arms, and with one
jerk mounted<br>
me upon their shoulders, the cheer that accompanied the sudden
movement<br>
seeming like the yell of maniacs. "Ha, ha, ha! we have him now!"
sang their<br>
wild voices, as, with blood-stained hands and infuriated
features, they<br>
bore me down the rampart. My sensations of disgust and repugnance
to the<br>
party seemed at once to have evidenced themselves, for the
corporal,<br>
turning abruptly round, called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't <i>pity</i> him, Captain; the scoundrel was a deserter; he
escaped from<br>
the picket two nights ago, and gave information of all our plans
to the<br>
enemy."</p>

<p>"Ay," cried another, "and what's worse, he fired through an
embrasure near<br>
the breach, for two hours, upon his own regiment. It was there we
found<br>
him. This way, lads."</p>

<p>So saying, they turned short from the walls, and dashed down a
dark<br>
and narrow lane into the town. My struggles to get free were
perfectly<br>
ineffectual, and to my entreaties they were totally
indifferent.</p>

<p>In this way, therefore, we made our entrance into the Plaza,
where some<br>
hundred soldiers, of different regiments, were bivouacked. A
shout of<br>
recognition welcomed the fellows as they came; while suddenly a
party of<br>
Eighty-eighth men, springing from the ground, rushed forward with
drawn<br>
bayonets, calling out, "Give him up this minute, or, by the
Father of<br>
Moses, we'll make short work of ye!"</p>

<p>The order was made by men who seemed well disposed to execute
it; and I was<br>
accordingly grounded with a shock and a rapidity that savored
much more<br>
of ready compliance than any respect for my individual comfort. A
roar of<br>
laughter rang through the motley mass, and every powder-stained
face around<br>
me seemed convulsed with merriment. As I sat passively upon the
ground,<br>
looking ruefully about, whether my gestures or my words
heightened the<br>
absurdity of my appearance, it is hard to say; but certainly the
laughter<br>
increased at each moment, and the drunken wretches danced round
me in<br>
ecstasy.</p>

<p>"Where is your major? Major O'Shaughnessy, lads?" said I.</p>

<p>"He's in the church, with the general, your honor," said the
sergeant of<br>
the regiment, upon whom the mention of his officer's name seemed
at once<br>
to have a sobering influence. Assisting me to rise (for I was
weak as a<br>
child), he led me through the dense crowd, who, such is the
influence of<br>
example, now formed into line, and as well as their state
permitted, gave<br>
me a military salute as I passed. "Follow me, sir," said the
sergeant;<br>
"this little dark street to the left will take us to the private
door of<br>
the chapel."</p>

<p>"Wherefore are they there, Sergeant?"</p>

<p>"There's a general of division mortally wounded."</p>

<p>"You did not hear his name?"</p>

<p>"No, sir. All I know is, he was one of the storming party at
the lesser<br>
breach."</p>

<p>A cold, sickening shudder came over me; I durst not ask
farther, but<br>
pressed on with anxious steps towards the chapel.</p>

<p>"There, sir, yonder, where you see the light. That's the
door."</p>

<p>So saying, the sergeant stopped suddenly, and placed his hand
to his cap. I<br>
saw at once that he was sufficiently aware of his condition not
to desire<br>
to appear before his officers; so, hurriedly thanking him, I
walked<br>
forward.</p>

<p>"Halt, there! and give the countersign," cried a sentinel, who
with fixed<br>
bayonet stood before the door.</p>

<p>"I am an officer," said I, endeavoring to pass in.</p>

<p>"Stand bock, stand bock!" said the harsh voice of the
Highlander, for such<br>
he was.</p>

<p>"Is Major O'Shaughnessy in the church?"</p>

<p>"I dinna ken," was the short, rough answer.</p>

<p>"Who is the officer so badly wounded?"</p>

<p>"I dinna ken," repeated he, as gruffly as before; while he
added, in a<br>
louder key, "Stand bock, I tell ye, man! Dinna ye see the staff
coming?"</p>

<p>I turned round hastily, and at the same instant several
officers, who<br>
apparently from precaution had dismounted at the end of the
street, were<br>
seen approaching. They came hurriedly forward, but without
speaking. He<br>
who was in advance of the party wore a short, blue cape over an
undress<br>
uniform. The rest were in full regimentals. I had scarcely time
to throw a<br>
passing glance upon him, when the officer I have mentioned as
coming first<br>
called out in a stern voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Who are you, sir?"</p>

<p>I started at the sounds; it was not the first time those
accents had been<br>
heard by me.</p>

<p>"Captain O'Malley, Fourteenth Light Dragoons."</p>

<p>"What brings you here, sir? Your regiment is at Caya."</p>

<p>"I have been employed as acting aide-de-camp to General
Crawfurd," said I,<br>
hesitatingly.</p>

<p>"Is that your staff uniform?" said he, as with compressed brow
and stern<br>
look he fixed his eyes upon my coat. Before I had time to reply,
or,<br>
indeed, before I well knew how to do so, a gruff voice from
behind called<br>
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Damn me! if that ain't the fellow that led the stormers
through a broken<br>
embrasure! I say, my lord, that's the yeoman I was telling you
of. Is it<br>
not so, sir?" continued he, turning towards me.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. I led a party of the Eighty-eight at the
breach."</p>

<p>"And devilish well you did it, too!" added Picton, for it was
he who<br>
recognized me. "I saw him, my lord, spring down from the parapet
upon a<br>
French gunner, and break his sword as he cleft his helmet in two.
Yes, yes;<br>
I shall not forget in a hurry how you laid about you with the
rammer of the<br>
gun! By Jove! that's it he has in his hand!"</p>

<p>While Picton ran thus hurriedly on, Lord Wellington's calm but
stern<br>
features never changed their expression. The looks of those
around were<br>
bent upon me with interest and even admiration; but his evinced
nothing of<br>
either.</p>

<p>Reverting at once to my absence from my post, he asked
me,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Did you obtain leave for a particular service, sir?"</p>

<p>"No, my lord. It was simply from an accidental circumstance
that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Then, report yourself at your quarters as under arrest."</p>

<p>"But, my lord&mdash;" said Picton. Lord Wellington waited not for
the<br>
explanation, but walked firmly forward, and strode into the
church. The<br>
staff followed in silence, Picton turning one look of kindness on
me as he<br>
went, as though to say, "I'll not forget you."</p>

<p>"The devil take it," cried I, as I found myself once more
alone, "but<br>
I'm unlucky! What would turn out with other men the very basis of
their<br>
fortune, is ever with me the source of ill-luck."</p>

<p>It was evident, from Picton's account, that I had
distinguished myself<br>
in the breach; and yet nothing was more clear than that my
conduct had<br>
displeased the commander-in-chief. Picturing him ever to my
mind's eye as<br>
the <i>beau id&eacute;al</i> of a military leader, by some fatality of
fortune I was<br>
continually incurring his displeasure, for whose praise I would
have<br>
risked my life. "And this confounded costume&mdash;What, in the name
of every<br>
absurdity, could have ever persuaded me to put it on. What
signifies it,<br>
though a man should cover himself with glory, if in the end he is
to be<br>
laughed at? Well, well, it matters not much, now my soldiering's
over! And<br>
yet I could have wished that the last act of my campaigning had
brought<br>
with it pleasanter recollections."</p>

<p>As thus I ruminated, the click of the soldier's musket near
aroused me:<br>
Picton was passing out. A shade of gloom and depression was
visible upon<br>
his features, and his lip trembled as he muttered some sentences
to<br>
himself.</p>

<p>"Ha! Captain&mdash;I forget the name. Yes, Captain O'Malley; you
are released<br>
from arrest. General Crawfurd has spoken very well of you, and
Lord<br>
Wellington has heard the circumstances of your case."</p>

<p>"Is it General Crawfurd, then, that is wounded, sir?" said I,
eagerly.</p>

<p>Picton paused for a moment, while, with an effort, he
controlled his<br>
features into their stern and impassive expression, then added
hurriedly<br>
and almost harshly:&mdash;</p>

<p>Yes, sir; badly wounded through the arm and in the lung. He
mentioned you<br>
to the notice of the commander-in-chief, and your application for
leave is<br>
granted. In fact, you are to have the distinguished honor of
carrying back<br>
despatches. There, now; you had better join your brigade."</p>

<p>"Could I not see my general once more? It may be for the last
time."</p>

<p>"No, sir!" sternly replied Picton. "Lord Wellington believes
you under<br>
arrest. It is as well he should suppose you obeyed his
orders."</p>

<p>There was a tone of sarcasm in these words that prevented my
reply; and<br>
muttering my gratitude for his well-timed and kindly interference
in my<br>
behalf, I bowed deeply and turned away.</p>

<p>"I say, sir!" said Picton, as he returned towards the church,
"should<br>
anything befall,&mdash;that is, if, unfortunately, circumstances
should make you<br>
in want and desirous of a staff appointment, remember that you
are known to<br>
General Picton."</p>

<p>Downcast and depressed by the news of my poor general, I
wended my way with<br>
slow and uncertain steps towards the rampart. A clear, cold,
wintry sky and<br>
a sharp, bracing air made my wound, slight as it was, more
painful, and<br>
I endeavored to reach the reserves, where I knew the
hospital-staff had<br>
established, for the present, their quarters. I had not gone far
when, from<br>
a marauding party, I learned that my man Mike was in search of me
through<br>
the plain. A report of my death had reached him, and the poor
fellow was<br>
half distracted.</p>

<p>Longing anxiously to allay his fears on my account, which I
well knew<br>
might lead him into any act of folly or insanity, I pressed
forward;<br>
besides&mdash;shall I confess it?&mdash;amidst the manifold thoughts of
sorrow and<br>
affliction which weighed me down, I could not divest myself of
the feeling<br>
that so long as I wore my present absurd costume, I could be
nothing but an<br>
object of laughter and ridicule to all who met me.</p>

<p>I had not long to look for my worthy follower, for I soon
beheld him<br>
cantering about the plain. A loud shout brought him beside me;
and<br>
truly the poor fellow's delight was great and sincere. With a
thousand<br>
protestations of his satisfaction, and reiterated assurances of
what he<br>
would not have done to the French prisoners if anything had
happened me, we<br>
took our way together towards the camp.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVII.</p>

<p>THE DESPATCH.</p>

<p>I was preparing to visit the town on the following morning,
when my<br>
attention was attracted by a dialogue which took place beneath my
window.</p>

<p>"I say, my good friend," cried a mounted orderly to Mike, who
was busily<br>
employed in brushing a jacket,&mdash;"I say, are you Captain
O'Malley's man?"</p>

<p>"The least taste in life o' that same," replied he, with a
half-jocular<br>
expression.</p>

<p>"Well, then," said the other, "take up these letters to your
master. Be<br>
alive, my fine fellow, for they are despatches, and I must have a
written<br>
return for them."</p>

<p>"Won't ye get off and take a drop of somethin' refreshing; the
air is cowld<br>
this morning."</p>

<p>"I can't stay, my good friend, but thank you all the same; so
be alive,<br>
will you?"</p>

<p>"Arrah, there's no hurry in life. Sure, it's an invitation to
dinner to<br>
Lord Wellington or a tea-party at Sir Denny's; sure, my master's
bothered<br>
with them every day o' th' week: that's the misfortune of being
an<br>
agreeable creature; and I'd be led into dissipation myself, if I
wasn't<br>
rear'd prudent."</p>

<p>"Well, come along, take these letters, for I must be off; my
time is<br>
short."</p>

<p>"That's more nor your nose is, honey," said Mike, evidently
piqued at the<br>
little effect his advances had produced upon the Englishman.
"Give them<br>
here," continued he, while he turned the various papers in every
direction,<br>
affecting to read their addresses.</p>

<p>"There's nothing for me here, I see. Did none of the generals
ask after<br>
me?"</p>

<p>"You <i>are</i> a queer one!" said the dragoon, not a little
puzzled what to<br>
make of him.</p>

<p>Mike meanwhile thrust the papers carelessly into his pocket,
and strode<br>
into the house, whistling a quick-step as he went, with the air
of a man<br>
perfectly devoid of care or occupation. The next moment, however,
he<br>
appeared at my door, wiping his forehead with the back of his
hand, and<br>
apparently breathless with haste.</p>

<p>"Despatches, Mister Charles, despatches from Lord Wellington.
The orderly<br>
is waiting below for a return."</p>

<p>"Tell him he shall have it in one moment," replied I. "And now
bring me a<br>
light."</p>

<p>Before I had broken the seal of the envelope, Mike was once
more at the<br>
porch.</p>

<p>"My master is writing a few lines to say he'll do it. Don't be
talking<br>
of it," added he, dropping his voice, "but they want him to take
another<br>
fortress."</p>

<p>What turn the dialogue subsequently took, I cannot say, for I
was entirely<br>
occupied by a letter which accompanied the despatches. It ran as
follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>    QUARTER-GENERAL,</p>

<p>    CIUDAD RODRIGO, Jan. 20, 1812.</p>

<p>    Dear Sir,&mdash;The commander-in-chief has been kind enough to
accord you<br>
    the leave of absence you applied for, and takes the
opportunity<br>
    of your return to England to send you the accompanying
letters<br>
    for his Royal Highness the Duke of York. To his approval
of<br>
    your conduct in the assault last night you owe this
distinguished<br>
    mark of Lord Wellington's favor, which, I hope, will be
duly<br>
    appreciated by you, and serve to increase your zeal for that
service<br>
    in which you have already distinguished yourself.</p>

<p>    Believe me that I am most happy in being made the medium
of<br>
    this communication, and have the honor to be,</p>

<p>    Very truly yours,</p>

<p>    T. PICTON.</p>

<p>I read and re-read this note again and again. Every line was
conned over by<br>
me, and every phrase weighed and balanced in my mind. Nothing
could be more<br>
gratifying, nothing more satisfactory to my feelings; and I would
not have<br>
exchanged its possession for the brevet of a
lieutenant-colonel.</p>

<p>"Halloo, Orderly!" cried I, from the window, as I hurriedly
sealed my few<br>
words of acknowledgment, "take this note back to General Picton,
and here's<br>
a guinea for yourself." So saying, I pitched into his ready hand
one of the<br>
very few which remained to me in the world. "This is, indeed,
good news!"<br>
said I, to myself. "This is, indeed, a moment of unmixed
happiness!"</p>

<p>As I closed the window, I could hear Mike pronouncing a
glowing eulogium<br>
upon my liberality, from which he could not, however, help in
some degree<br>
detracting, as he added:</p>

<p>"But the devil thank him, after all! Sure, it's himself has
the illigant<br>
fortune and the fine place of it!"</p>

<p>Scarcely were the last sounds of the retiring horseman dying
away in the<br>
distance, when Mike's meditations took another form, and he
muttered<br>
between his teeth, "Oh, holy Agatha! a guinea, a raal gold guinea
to a<br>
thief of a dragoon that come with the letter, and here am I
wearing a<br>
picture of the holy family for a back to my waistcoat, all out of
economy;<br>
and sure, God knows, but may be they'll take their dealing trick
out of<br>
me in purgatory for this hereafter; and faith, it's a beautiful
pair of<br>
breeches I'd have had, if I wasn't ashamed to put the twelve
apostles on<br>
my legs."</p>

<p>While Mike ran on at this rate, my eyes fell upon a few lines
of postscript<br>
in Picton's letter, which I had not previously noticed.</p>

<p>    "The official despatches of the storming are, of course,
intrusted to<br>
    senior officers, but I need scarcely remind you that it will
be a<br>
    polite and proper attention to his Royal Highness to present
your<br>
    letters with as little delay as possible. Not a moment is to
be lost<br>
    on your landing in England."</p>

<p>"Mike!" cried I, "how look the cattle for a journey?"</p>

<p>"The chestnut is a little low in flesh, but in great wind,
your honor; and<br>
the black horse is jumping like a filly."</p>

<p>"And Badger?" said I.</p>

<p>"Howld him, if you can, that's all; but it's murthering work
this, carrying<br>
despatches day after day."</p>

<p>"This time, however, Mike, we must not grumble."</p>

<p>"May be it isn't far?"</p>

<p>"Why, as to that, I shall not promise much. I'm bound for
England, Mickey."</p>

<p>"For England!"</p>

<p>"Yes, Mike, and for Ireland."</p>

<p>"For Ireland! whoop!" shouted he, as he shied his cap into one
corner of<br>
the room, the jacket he was brushing into the other, and began
dancing<br>
round the table with no bad imitation of an Indian war dance.</p>

<p>    "How I'll dance like a fairy,<br>
    To see ould Dunleary,<br>
    And think twice ere I leave it to be a dragoon."</p>

<p>"Oh, blessed hour! Isn't it beautiful to think of the
illuminations and<br>
dinners and speeches and shaking of hands, huzzaing, and
hip-hipping. May<br>
be there won't be pictures of us in all the shops,&mdash;Mister
Charles and his<br>
man Mister Free. May be they won't make plays out of us; myself
dressed in<br>
the gray coat with the red cuffs, the cords, the tops, and the
Caroline hat<br>
a little cocked, with a phiz in the side of it." Here he made a
sign with<br>
his expanded fingers to represent a cockade, which he designated
by this<br>
word. "I think I see myself dining with the corporation, and the
Lord Major<br>
of Dublin getting up to propose the health of the hero of El
Bodon, Mr.<br>
Free; and three times three, hurra! hurra! hurra! Musha, but it's
dry I am<br>
gettin' with the thoughts of the punch and the poteen negus."</p>

<p>"If you go on at this rate, we're not likely to be soon at our
journey's<br>
end. So be alive now; pack up my kit; I shall start by twelve
o'clock."</p>

<p>With one spring Mike cleared the stairs, and overthrowing
everything and<br>
everybody in his way, hurried towards the stable, chanting at the
top of<br>
his voice the very poetical strain he had indulged me with a few
minutes<br>
before.</p>

<p>My preparations were rapidly made; a few hurried lines of
leave-taking to<br>
the good fellows I had lived so much with and felt so strongly
attached to,<br>
with a firm assurance that I should join them again ere long, was
all<br>
that my time permitted. To Power I wrote more at length,
detailing the<br>
circumstances which my own letters informed me of, and also those
which<br>
invited me to return home. This done, I lost not another moment,
but set<br>
out upon my journey.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</p>

<p>THE LEAVE.</p>

<p>After an hour's sharp riding we reached the Aguada, where the
river was yet<br>
fordable; crossing this, we mounted the Sierra by a narrow and
winding pass<br>
which leads through the mountains towards Almeida. Here I turned
once more<br>
to cast a last and farewell look at the scene of our late
encounter. It<br>
was but a few hours that I had stood almost on the same spot, and
yet how<br>
altered was all around. The wide plain, then bustling with all
the life and<br>
animation of a large army, was now nearly deserted,&mdash;some
dismounted guns,<br>
some broken-up, dismantled batteries, around which a few
sentinels seemed<br>
to loiter rather than to keep guard; a strong detachment of
infantry could<br>
be seen wending their way towards the fortress, and a confused
mass of<br>
camp-followers, sutlers, and peasants following their steps for
protection<br>
against the pillagers and the still ruder assaults of their own
Guerillas.<br>
The fortress, too, was changed indeed. Those mighty walls before
whose<br>
steep sides the bravest fell back baffled and beaten, were now a
mass of<br>
ruin and decay; the muleteer could be seen driving his mule along
through<br>
the rugged ascent of that breach to win whose top the best blood
of<br>
Albion's chivalry was shed; and the peasant child looked timidly
from those<br>
dark enclosures in the deep fosse below, where perished hundreds
of our<br>
best and bravest. The air was calm, clear, and unclouded; no
smoke obscured<br>
the transparent atmosphere; the cannon had ceased; and the voices
that rang<br>
so late in accents of triumphant victory were stilled in death.
Everything,<br>
indeed, had undergone a mighty change; but nothing brought the
altered<br>
fortunes of the scene so vividly to my mind as when I remembered
that when<br>
last I had seen those walls, the dark shako of the French
grenadiers<br>
peered above their battlements, and now the gay tartan of the
Highlanders<br>
fluttered above them, and the red flag of England waved boldly in
the<br>
breeze.</p>

<p>Up to that moment my sensations were those of unmixed
pleasure. The thought<br>
of my home, my friends, my country, the feeling that I was
returning with<br>
the bronze of the battle upon my cheek, and the voice of praise
still<br>
ringing in my heart,&mdash;these were proud thoughts, and my bosom
heaved short<br>
and quickly as I revolved them; but as I turned my gaze for the
last time<br>
towards the gallant army I was leaving, a pang of sorrow, of
self-reproach,<br>
shot through me, and I could not help feeling how far less
worthily was<br>
I acting in yielding to the impulse of my wishes, than had I
remained to<br>
share the fortunes of the campaign.</p>

<p>So powerfully did these sensations possess me, that I sat
motionless for<br>
some time, uncertain whether to proceed; forgetting that I was
the bearer<br>
of important information, I only remembered that by my own desire
I was<br>
there; my reason but half convinced me that the part I had
adopted was<br>
right and honorable, and more than once my resolution to proceed
hung in<br>
the balance. It was just at this critical moment of my doubts
that Mike,<br>
who had been hitherto behind, came up.</p>

<p>"Is it the upper road, sir?" said he, pointing to a steep and
rugged path<br>
which led by a zigzag ascent towards the crest of the
mountain.</p>

<p>I nodded in reply, when he added:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Doesn't this remind your honor of Sleibh More, above the
Shannon, where we<br>
used to be grouse shooting? And there's the keeper's house in the
valley;<br>
and that might be your uncle, the master himself, waving his hat
to you."</p>

<p>Had he known the state of my conflicting feelings at the
moment, he could<br>
not more readily have decided this doubt. I turned abruptly away,
put<br>
spurs to my horse, and dashed up the steep pass at a pace which
evidently<br>
surprised, and as evidently displeased, my follower.</p>

<p>How natural it is ever to experience a reaction of depression
and lowness<br>
after the first burst of unexpected joy! The moment of happiness
is<br>
scarce experienced ere come the doubts of its reality, the fears
for its<br>
continuance; the higher the state of pleasurable excitement, the
more<br>
painful and the more pressing the anxieties that await on it; the
tension<br>
of delighted feelings cannot last, and our overwrought faculties
seek<br>
repose in regrets. Happy he who can so temper his enjoyments as
to view<br>
them in their shadows as in their sunshine; he may not, it is
true, behold<br>
the landscape in the blaze of its noonday brightness, but he need
not fear<br>
the thunder-cloud nor the hurricane. The calm autumn of <i>his</i>
bliss, if it<br>
dazzle not in its brilliancy, will not any more be shrouded in
darkness and<br>
in gloom.</p>

<p>My first burst of pleasure over, the thought of my uncle's
changed fortunes<br>
pressed deeply on my heart, and a hundred plans suggested
themselves in<br>
turn to my mind to relieve his present embarrassments; but I knew
how<br>
impracticable they would all prove when opposed by his
prejudices. To<br>
sell the old home of his forefathers, to wander from the roof
which had<br>
sheltered his name for generations, he would never consent to;
the law<br>
might by force expel him, and drive him a wanderer and an exile,
but of<br>
his own free will the thing was hopeless. Considine, too, would
encourage<br>
rather than repress such feelings; his feudalism would lead him
to any<br>
lengths; and in defence of what he would esteem a right, he would
as soon<br>
shoot a sheriff as a snipe, and, old as he was, ask for no better
amusement<br>
than to arm the whole tenantry and give battle to the king's
troops on the<br>
wide plain of Scariff. Amidst such conflicting thought, I
travelled on<br>
moodily and in silence, to the palpable astonishment of Mike, who
could not<br>
help regarding me as one from whom fortune met the most
ungrateful returns.<br>
At every new turn of the road he would endeavor to attract my
attention by<br>
the objects around,&mdash;no white-turreted ch&acirc;teau, no tapered
spire in the<br>
distance, escaped him; he kept up a constant ripple of
half-muttered praise<br>
and censure upon all he saw, and instituted unceasing comparisons
between<br>
the country and his own, in which, I am bound to say, Ireland
rarely, if<br>
ever, had to complain of his patriotism.</p>

<p>When we arrived at Almeida, I learned that the "Medea"
sloop-of-war was<br>
lying off Oporto, and expected to sail for England in a few days.
The<br>
opportunity was not to be neglected. The official despatches, I
was aware,<br>
would be sent through Lisbon, where the "Gorgon" frigate was in
waiting to<br>
convey them; but should I be fortunate enough to reach Oporto in
time, I<br>
had little doubt of arriving in England with the first
intelligence of the<br>
fall of Ciudad Rodrigo. Reducing my luggage, therefore, to the
smallest<br>
possible compass, and having provided myself with a juvenile
guide for the<br>
pass of La Reyna, I threw myself, without undressing, upon the
bed, and<br>
waited anxiously for the break of day to resume my journey.</p>

<p>As I ruminated over the prospect my return presented, I
suddenly remembered<br>
Frank Webber's letter, which I had hastily thrust into a
portfolio without<br>
reading, so occupied was I by Considine's epistle; with a little
searching<br>
I discovered it, and trimming my lamp, as I felt no inclination
to sleep, I<br>
proceeded to the examination of what seemed a more than usually
voluminous<br>
epistle. It contained four closely-written pages, accompanied by
something<br>
like a plan in an engineering sketch. My curiosity becoming
further<br>
stimulated by this, I sat down to peruse it. It began thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Official Despatch of Lieutenant-General Francis Webber to
Lord<br>
    Castlereagh, detailing the assault and capture of the old
pump, in<br>
    Trinity College, Dublin, on the night of the second of
December,<br>
    eighteen hundred and eleven, with returns of killed,
wounded,<br>
    and missing, with other information from the seat of war.</p>

<p>    HEADQUARTERS, No. 2, OLD SQUARE.</p>

<p>    My Lord,&mdash;In compliance with the instructions contained in
your<br>
    lordship's despatch of the twenty-first ultimo, I
concentrated the<br>
    force under my command, and assembling the generals of
division,<br>
    made known my intentions in the following general
order:&mdash;</p>

<p>      A. G. O.</p>

<p>      The following troops will this evening assemble at
headquarters, and<br>
      having partaken of a sufficient dinner for the next two
days, with<br>
      punch for four, will hold themselves in readiness to march
in the<br>
      following order:&mdash;</p>

<p>      Harry Nesbitt's Brigade of Incorrigibles will form a
blockading<br>
      force, in the line extending from the vice-provost's house
to the<br>
      library. The light division, under Mark Waller, will
skirmish from<br>
      the gate towards the middle of the square, obstructing the
march of<br>
      the Cuirassiers of the Guard, which, under the command of
old Duncan<br>
      the porter, are expected to move in that direction. Two
columns of<br>
      attack will be formed by the senior sophisters of the Old
Guard, and<br>
      a forlorn hope of the "cautioned" men at the last four
examinations<br>
      will form, under the orders of Timothy O'Rourke, beneath
the shadow<br>
      of the dining-hall.</p>

<p>      At the signal of the dean's bell the stormers will move
forward. A<br>
      cheer from the united corps will then announce the moment
of attack.</p>

<p>      The word for the night will be, "May the Devil admire
me!"</p>

<p>      The commander-of-the-forces desires that the different
corps should<br>
      be as strong as possible, and expects that no man will
rema<br>
      any pretence whatever, in the rear with the lush. During
the main<br>
      assault, Cecil Cavendish will make a feint upon the
provost's<br>
      windows, to be converted into a real attack if the ladies
scream.</p>

<p>      GENERAL ORDER.</p>

<p>      The commissary-general, Foley, will supply the following
articles for<br>
      the use of the troops: Two hams; eight pair of chickens,
the same to<br>
      be roasted; a devilled turkey; sixteen lobsters; eight
hundred of<br>
      oysters, with a proportionate quantity of cold sherry and
hot punch.</p>

<p>      The army will get drunk by ten o'clock to-night.</p>

<p>    Having made these dispositions, my lord, I proceeded to
mislead<br>
    the enemy as to our intentions, in suffering my servant to be
taken<br>
    with an intercepted despatch. This, being a prescription by
Doctor<br>
    Colles, would convey to the dean's mind the impression that I
was<br>
    still upon the sick list. This being done, and four canisters
of<br>
    Dartford gunpowder being procured on tick, our military chest
being in<br>
    a most deplorable condition, I waited for the moment of
attack.</p>

<p>    A heavy rain, accompanied with a frightful hurricane,
prevailed<br>
    during the entire day, rendering the march of the troops who
came<br>
    from the neighborhood of Merrion Square and Fitzwilliam
Street, a<br>
    service of considerable fatigue. The outlying pickets in
College Green,<br>
    being induced probably by the inclemency of the season, were
rather<br>
    tipsy on joining, and having engaged in a skirmish with old
M'Calister,<br>
    tying his red uniform over his head, the moment of attack<br>
    was precipitated, and we moved to the trenches by half-past
nine<br>
    o'clock.</p>

<p>    Nothing could be more orderly, nothing more perfect, than
the<br>
    march of the troops. As we approached the corner of the
commons-hall,<br>
    a skirmish on the rear apprised us that our intentions had
become<br>
    known; and I soon learned from my aide-de-camp, Bob
Moore,<br>
    that the attack was made by a strong column of the enemy,
under<br>
    the command of old Fitzgerald.</p>

<p>    Perpendicular (as your lordship is aware he is styled by
the army)<br>
    came on in a determined manner, and before many minutes
had<br>
    elapsed had taken several prisoners, among others Tom
Drummond,&mdash;Long<br>
    Tom,&mdash;who, having fallen on all fours, was mistaken for a<br>
    long eighteen. The success, however, was but momentary;
Nesbitt's<br>
    Brigade attacked them in flank, rescued the prisoners,
extinguished<br>
    the dean's lantern, and having beaten back the heavy porters,
took<br>
    Perpendicular himself prisoner.</p>

<p>    An express from the left informed me that the attack upon
the<br>
    provost's house had proved equally successful; there wasn't a
whole<br>
    pane of glass in the front, and from a footman who deserted,
it was<br>
    learned that Mrs. Hutchinson was in hysterics.</p>

<p>    While I was reading this despatch, a strong feeling of the
line<br>
    towards the right announced that something was taking place
in that<br>
    direction. Bob Moore, who rode by on Drummond's back,
hurriedly<br>
    informed me that Williams had put the lighted end of his
cigar to<br>
    one of the fuses, but the powder, being wet, did not
explode<br>
    notwithstanding his efforts to effect it. Upon this, I
hastened to the<br>
    front, where I found the individual in question kneeling upon
the<br>
    ground, and endeavoring, as far as punch would permit him, to
kindle a<br>
    flame at the portfire. Before I could interfere, the spark
had caught;<br>
    a loud, hissing noise followed; the different magazines
successively<br>
    became ignited, and at length the fire reached the great
four-pound<br>
    charge.</p>

<p>    I cannot convey to your lordship, by any words of mine, an
idea of<br>
    this terrible explosion; the blazing splinters were hurled
into the<br>
    air, and fell in fiery masses on every side from the park to
King<br>
    William; Ivey the bell-ringer, was precipitated from the
scaffold<br>
    beside the bell, and fell headlong into the mud beneath;
the<br>
    surrounding buildings trembled at the shock; the windows
were<br>
    shattered, and in fact a scene of perfect devastation ensued
on all<br>
    sides.</p>

<p>    When the smoke cleared away, I rose from my recumbent
position,<br>
    and perceived with delight that not a vestige of the pump
remained.<br>
    The old iron handle was imbedded in the wall of the
dining-hall, and<br>
    its round knob stood out like the end of a queue.</p>

<p>    Our loss was, of course, considerable; and ordering the
wounded<br>
    to the rear, I proceeded to make an orderly and regular
retreat. At<br>
    this time, however, the enemy had assembled in force. Two
battalions<br>
    of porters, led on by Dr. Dobbin, charged us on the flank;
a<br>
    heavy brigade poured down upon us from the battery, and but
for<br>
    the exertions of Harry Nesbitt, our communication with our
reserves<br>
    must have been cut off. Cecil Cavendish also came up; for
although<br>
    beaten in his great attack, the forces under his command had
penetrated<br>
    by the kitchen windows, and carried oil a considerable
quantity<br>
    of cold meat.</p>

<p>    Concentrating the different corps, I made an echelon
movement<br>
    upon the chapel, to admit of the light division coming up.
This they<br>
    did in a few moments, informing me that they had left
Perpendicular<br>
    in the haha, which, as your lordship is aware, is a fosse of
the<br>
    very greenest and most stagnant nature. We now made good our
retreat<br>
    upon number "2," carrying our wounded with us. The
plunder<br>
    we also secured; but we kicked the prisoners, and suffered
them to<br>
    escape.</p>

<p>    Thus terminated, my lord, one of the brightest
achievements of the<br>
    undergraduate career. I enclose a list of the wounded, as
also an<br>
    account of the various articles returned in the
commissary-general's<br>
    list.</p>

<p>    Harry Nesbitt: severely wounded; no coat nor hat; a
black-eye;<br>
    left shoe missing.</p>

<p>    Cecil Cavendish: face severely scratched; supposed to have
received<br>
    his wound in the attack upon the kitchen.</p>

<p>    Tom Drummond: not recognizable by his friends; his
features<br>
    resembling a transparency disfigured by the smoke of the
preceding<br>
    night's illumination.</p>

<p>    Bob Moore: slightly wounded.</p>

<p>    I would beg particularly to recommend all these officers
to your<br>
    lordship's notice; indeed, the conduct of Moore, in kicking
the dean's<br>
    lantern out of the porter's hand, was marked by great
promptitude<br>
    and decision. This officer will present to H. R. H. the
following<br>
    trophies, taken from the enemy: The dean's cap and tassel;
the key<br>
    of his chambers; Dr. Dobbin's wig and bands; four porters'
helmets,<br>
    and a book on the cellar.</p>

<p>    I have the honor to remain, my lord, etc.,</p>

<p>    FRANCIS WEBBER.</p>

<p>      G. O.</p>

<p>      The commander-of-the-forces returns his thanks to the
various<br>
      officers and soldiers employed in the late assault, for
their<br>
      persevering gallantry and courage. The splendor of the
achievement<br>
      can only be equalled by the humanity and good conduct of
the troops.<br>
      It only remains for him to add, that the less they say
about the<br>
      transaction, and the sooner they are severally confined to
their beds<br>
      with symptoms of contagious fever, the better.</p>

<p>      Meanwhile, to concert upon the future measures of the
campaign, the<br>
      army will sup to-night at Morrison's.</p>

<p>Here ended this precious epistle, rendering one fact
sufficiently<br>
evident,&mdash;that, however my worthy friend advanced in years, he
had not<br>
grown in wisdom.</p>

<p>While ruminating upon the strange infatuation which could
persuade a gifted<br>
and an able man to lavish upon dissipation and reckless absurdity
the<br>
talents that must, if well directed, raise him to eminence and
distinction,<br>
a few lines of a newspaper paragraph fell from the paper I was
reading. It<br>
ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>      LATE OUTRAGE IN TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN.</p>

<p>      We have great pleasure in stating that the serious
disturbance which<br>
      took place within the walls of our University a few
evenings since,<br>
      was in no wise attributable to the conduct of the students.
A party<br>
      of ill-disposed townspeople were, it would appear, the
instigators<br>
      and perpetrators of the outrage. That their object was the
total<br>
      destruction of our venerated University there can be but
little<br>
      doubt. Fortunately, however, they did not calculate upon
the <i>esprit<br>
      de corps</i> of the students, a body of whom, under the
direction of Mr.<br>
      Webber, successfully opposed the assailants, and finally
drove them<br>
      from the walls.</p>

<p>      It is, we understand, the intention of the board to
confer some mark<br>
      of approbation upon Mr. Webber, who, independently of this,
has<br>
      strong claims upon their notice, his collegiate success
pointing him<br>
      out as the most extraordinary man of his day.</p>

<p>    This, my dear Charley, will give you some faint conception
of one<br>
    of the most brilliant exploits of modern days. The bulletin,
believe<br>
    me, is not Napoleonized into any bombastic extravagance of
success.<br>
    The tiling was splendid; from the brilliant firework of the
old pump<br>
    itself, to the figure of Perpendicular dripping with
duckweed, like<br>
    an insane river-god, it was unequalled. Our fellows behaved
like<br>
    trumps; and to do them justice, so did the enemy. But
unfortunately,<br>
    notwithstanding this, and the plausible paragraphs of the<br>
    morning papers, I have been summoned before the board for
Tuesday<br>
    next.</p>

<p>    Meanwhile I employ myself in throwing off a shower of
small<br>
    squibs for the journals, so that if the board deal not
mercifully with<br>
    me, I may meet with sympathy from the public. I have just
despatched<br>
    a little editorial bit for the "Times," calling, in terms
of<br>
    parental tenderness, upon the University to say&mdash;</p>

<p>      "How long will the extraordinary excesses of a learned
funct<br>
      be suffered to disgrace college? Is Doctor &mdash;&mdash; to be
permitted to<br>
      exhibit an example of more riotous insubordination than
would be<br>
      endured in an undergraduate? More on this subject
hereafter."</p>

<p>      "'Saunders' News-letter.'&mdash;Dr. Barret appeared at the
head<br>
      police-office, before Alderman Darley, to make oath that
neither he<br>
      nor Catty were concerned in the late outrage upon the
pump." etc.,<br>
      etc.</p>

<p>    Paragraphs like these are flying about in every provincial
paper of<br>
    the empire. People shake their heads when they speak of the
University,<br>
    and respectable females rather cross over by King William
and<br>
    the Bank than pass near its precincts.</p>

<p>    Tuesday Evening.</p>

<p>    Would you believe it, they've expelled me! Address your
next<br>
    letter as usual, for they haven't got rid of me yet.</p>

<p>    Yours,                   F. W.</p>

<p>"So I shall find him in his old quarters," thought I, "and
evidently not<br>
much altered since we parted." It was not without a feeling of (I
trust<br>
pardonable) pride that I thought over my own career in the
interval. My<br>
three years of campaigning life had given me some insight into
the world,<br>
and some knowledge of myself, and conferred upon me a boon, of
which I know<br>
not the equal,&mdash;that, while yet young, and upon the very
threshold of life,<br>
I should have tasted the enthusiastic pleasures of a soldier's
fortune, and<br>
braved the dangers and difficulties of a campaign at a time when,
under<br>
other auspices, I might have wasted my years in unprofitable
idleness or<br>
careless dissipation.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIX.</p>

<p>LONDON.</p>

<p>Twelve hours after my arrival in England I entered London. I
cannot attempt<br>
to record the sensations which thronged my mind as the din and
tumult of<br>
that mighty city awoke me from a sound sleep I had fallen into in
the<br>
corner of the chaise. The seemingly interminable lines of
lamplight, the<br>
crash of carriages, the glare of the shops, the buzz of voices,
made up a<br>
chaotic mass of sights and sounds, leaving my efforts at thought
vain and<br>
fruitless.</p>

<p>Obedient to my instructions, I lost not a moment in my
preparations to<br>
deliver my despatches. Having dressed myself in the full uniform
of my<br>
corps, I drove to the Horse Guards. It was now nine o'clock, and
I learned<br>
that his Royal Highness had gone to dinner at Carlton House. In a
few words<br>
which I spoke with the aide-de-camp, I discovered that no
information of<br>
the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo had yet reached England. The greatest
anxiety<br>
prevailed as to the events of the Peninsula, from which no
despatches had<br>
been received for several weeks past.</p>

<p>To Carlton House I accordingly bent my steps, without any
precise<br>
determination how I should proceed when there, nor knowing how
far<br>
etiquette might be an obstacle to the accomplishment of my
mission. The<br>
news of which I was the bearer was, however, of too important a
character<br>
to permit me to hesitate, and I presented myself to the
aide-de-camp in<br>
waiting, simply stating that I was intrusted with important
letters to his<br>
Royal Highness, the purport of which did not admit of delay.</p>

<p>"They have not gone to dinner yet," lisped out the
aide-de-camp, "and if<br>
you would permit me to deliver the letters&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Mine are despatches," said I, somewhat proudly, and in no way
disposed to<br>
cede to another the honor of personally delivering them into the
hands of<br>
the duke.</p>

<p>"Then you had better present yourself at the levee to-morrow
morning,"<br>
replied he, carelessly, while he turned into one of the window
recesses,<br>
and resumed the conversation with one of the
gentlemen-in-waiting.</p>

<p>I stood for some moments uncertain and undecided; reluctant on
the one<br>
part to relinquish my claim as the bearer of the despatches, and
equally<br>
unwilling to defer their delivery till the following day.</p>

<p>Adopting the former alternative, I took my papers from my
sabretasche,<br>
and was about to place them in the hands of the aide-de-camp,
when the<br>
folding-doors at the end of the apartment suddenly flew open, and
a large<br>
and handsome man with a high bald forehead entered hastily.</p>

<p>The different persons in waiting sprang from their lounging
attitudes upon<br>
the sofas, and bowed respectfully as he passed on towards another
door.<br>
His dress was a plain blue coat, buttoned to the collar, and his
only<br>
decoration a brilliant star upon the breast. There was that air,
however,<br>
of high birth and bearing about him that left no doubt upon my
mind he was<br>
of the blood royal.</p>

<p>As the aide-de-camp to whom I had been speaking opened the
door for him to<br>
pass out, I could hear some words in a low voice, in which the
phrases,<br>
"letters of importance" and "your Royal Highness" occurred. The
individual<br>
addressed turned suddenly about, and casting a rapid glance
around the<br>
room, without deigning a word in reply, walked straight up to
where I was<br>
standing.</p>

<p>"Despatches for me, sir?" said he, shortly, taking, as he
spoke, the packet<br>
from my hand.</p>

<p>"For his Royal Highness the commander-in-chief," said I,
bowing<br>
respectfully, and still uncertain in whose presence I was
standing. He<br>
broke the seal without answering, and as his eye caught the first
lines of<br>
the despatch, broke out into an exclamation of&mdash;</p>

<p>Ha, Peninsular news! When did you arrive, sir?"</p>

<p>"An hour since, sir."</p>

<p>"And these letters are from&mdash;"</p>

<p>"General Picton, your Royal Highness."</p>

<p>"How glorious! How splendidly done!" muttered he to himself,
as he ran his<br>
eyes rapidly over the letter. "Are you Captain O'Malley, whose
name is<br>
mentioned here so favorably?"</p>

<p>I bowed deeply in reply.</p>

<p>"You are most highly spoken of, and it will give me sincere
pleasure to<br>
recommend you to the notice of the Prince Regent. But stay a
moment," so<br>
saying, he hurriedly passed from the room, leaving me overwhelmed
at the<br>
suddenness of the incident, and a mark of no small astonishment
to the<br>
different persons in waiting, who had hitherto no other idea but
that my<br>
despatches were from Hounslow or Knightsbridge.</p>

<p>"Captain O'Malley," said an officer covered with decorations,
and whose<br>
slightly foreign accent bespoke the Hanoverian, "his Royal
Highness<br>
requests you will accompany me." The door opened as he spoke, and
I found<br>
myself in a most splendidly lit-up apartment,&mdash;the walls covered
with<br>
pictures, and the ceiling divided, into panels resplendent with
the richest<br>
gilding. A group of persons in court dresses were conversing in a
low tone<br>
as we entered, but suddenly ceased, and saluting my conductor
respectfully,<br>
made way for us to pass on. The folding-doors again opened as
we<br>
approached, and we found ourselves in a long gallery, whose
sumptuous<br>
furniture and costly decorations shone beneath the rich tints of
a massive<br>
lustre of ruby glass, diffusing a glow resembling the most
gorgeous sunset.<br>
Here also some persons in handsome uniform were conversing, one
of whom<br>
accosted my companion by the title of "Baron;" nodding familiarly
as he<br>
muttered a few words in German, he passed forward, and the next
moment the<br>
doors were thrown suddenly wide, and we entered the
drawing-room.</p>

<p>The buzz of voices and the sound of laughter reassured me as I
came<br>
forward, and before I had well time to think where and why I was
there, the<br>
Duke of York advanced towards me, with a smile of peculiar
sweetness in its<br>
expression, and said, as he turned towards one side:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Your Royal Highness&mdash;Captain O'Malley!"</p>

<p>As he spoke the Prince moved forward, and bowed slightly.</p>

<p>"You've brought us capital news, Mr. O'Malley. May I beg, if
you're not<br>
too much tired, you'll join us at dinner. I am most anxious to
learn the<br>
particulars of the assault."</p>

<p>As I bowed my acknowledgments to the gracious invitation, he
continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Are you acquainted with my friend here?&mdash;but of course you
can scarcely<br>
be; you began too early as a soldier. So let me present you to my
friend,<br>
Mr. Tierney," a middle-aged man, whose broad, white forehead and
deep-set<br>
eyes gave a character to features that were otherwise not
remarkable in<br>
expression, and who bowed rather stiffly.</p>

<p>Before he had concluded a somewhat labored compliment to me,
we were joined<br>
by a third person, whose strikingly-handsome features were lit up
with an<br>
expression of the most animated kind. He accosted the Prince with
an air<br>
of easy familiarity, and while he led him from the group,
appeared to be<br>
relating some anecdote which actually convulsed his Royal
Highness with<br>
laughter.</p>

<p>Before I had time or opportunity to inquire who the individual
could<br>
be, dinner was announced, and the wide folding-doors being thrown
open,<br>
displayed the magnificent dining-room of Carlton House in all the
blaze and<br>
splendor of its magnificence.</p>

<p>The sudden change from the rough vicissitudes of campaigning
life to all<br>
the luxury and voluptuous elegance of a brilliant court, created
too much<br>
confusion in my mind to permit of my impressions being the most
accurate<br>
or most collected. The splendor of the scene, the rank, but even
more the<br>
talent of the individuals by whom I was surrounded, had all their
full<br>
effect upon me. And although I found, from the tone of the
conversation<br>
about, how immeasurably I was their inferior, yet by a delicate
and<br>
courteous interest in the scene of which I had lately partaken,
they took<br>
away the awkwardness which in some degree was inseparable from
the novelty<br>
of my position among them.</p>

<p>Conversing about the Peninsula with a degree of knowledge
which I could<br>
in no wise comprehend from those not engaged in the war, they
appeared<br>
perfectly acquainted with all the details of the campaign; and I
heard on<br>
every side of me anecdotes and stories which I scarcely believed
known<br>
beyond the precincts of a regiment. The Prince himself&mdash;the grace
and charm<br>
of whose narrative talents have seldom been excelled&mdash;was
particularly<br>
conspicuous, and I could not help feeling struck with his
admirable<br>
imitations of voice and manner. The most accomplished actor could
not have<br>
personated the canny, calculating spirit of the Scot, or the
rollicking<br>
recklessness of the Irishman, with more tact and <i>finesse</i>. But
far above<br>
all this, shone the person I have already alluded to as speaking
to his<br>
Royal Highness in the drawing-room. Combining the happiest
conversational<br>
eloquence with a quick, ready, and brilliant fancy, he threw from
him in<br>
all the careless profusion of boundless resource a shower of
pointed and<br>
epigrammatic witticisms. Now illustrating a really difficult
subject by one<br>
happy touch, as the blaze of the lightning will light up the
whole surface<br>
of the dark landscape beneath it; now turning the force of an
adversary's<br>
argument by some fallacious but unanswerable jest, accompanying
the whole<br>
by those fascinations of voice, look, gesture, and manner which
have made<br>
those who once have seen, never able to forget Brinsley
Sheridan.</p>

<p>I am not able, were I even disposed, to record more
particularly the<br>
details of that most brilliant evening of my life. On every side
of me I<br>
heard the names of those whose fame as statesmen or whose repute
as men of<br>
letters was ringing throughout Europe. They were then, too, not
in the easy<br>
indolence of ordinary life, but displaying with their utmost
effort those<br>
powers of wit, fancy, imagination, and eloquence which had won
for them<br>
elsewhere their high and exalted position. The masculine
understanding<br>
and powerful intellect of Tierney vied with the brilliant and
dazzling<br>
conceptions of Sheridan. The easy <i>bonhomie</i> and English
heartiness of Fox<br>
contrasted with the cutting sarcasm and sharp raillery of
O'Kelly. While<br>
contesting the palm with each himself, the Prince evinced powers
of mind<br>
and eloquent facilities of expression that, in any walk of life,
must<br>
have made their possessor a most distinguished man. Politics,
war, women,<br>
literature, the turf, the navy, the opposition, architecture, and
the<br>
drama, were all discussed with a degree of information and
knowledge that<br>
proved to me how much of real acquirements can be obtained by
those whose<br>
exalted station surrounds them with the collective intellect of a
nation.<br>
As for myself, the time flew past unconsciously. So brilliant a
display of<br>
all that was courtly and fascinating in manner, and all that was
brightest<br>
in genius, was so novel to me, that I really felt like one
entranced. To<br>
this hour, my impression, however confused in details, is as
vivid as<br>
though that evening were but yesternight; and although since that
period<br>
I have enjoyed numerous opportunities of meeting with the great
and the<br>
gifted, yet I treasure the memory of that evening as by far the
most<br>
exciting of my whole life.</p>

<p>While I abstain from any mention of the many incidents of the
evening,<br>
I cannot pass over one which, occurring to myself, is valuable
but as<br>
showing, by one slight and passing trait, the amiable and kind
feeling of<br>
one whose memory is hallowed in the service.</p>

<p>A little lower than myself, on the opposite side of the table,
I perceived<br>
an old military acquaintance whom I had first met in Lisbon. He
was then on<br>
Sir Charles Stewart's staff, and we met almost daily. Wishing to
commend<br>
myself to his recollection, I endeavored for some time to catch
his eye,<br>
but in vain; but at last when I thought I had succeeded, I called
to him,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I say, Fred, a glass of wine with you."</p>

<p>When suddenly the Duke of York, who was speaking to Lord
Hertford, turned<br>
quickly round, and taking the decanter in his hand,
replied,&mdash;</p>

<p>"With pleasure, O'Malley. What shall it be, my boy?"</p>

<p>I shall never forget the manly good-humor of his look as he
sat waiting for<br>
my answer. He had taken my speech as addressed to himself, and
concluding<br>
that from fatigue, the novelty of the scene, my youth, etc., I
was not over<br>
collected, vouchsafed in this kind way to receive it.</p>

<p>"So," said he, as I stammered out my explanation, "I was
deceived. However,<br>
don't cheat me out of my glass of wine. Let us have it now."</p>

<p>With this little anecdote, whose truth I vouch for, I shall
conclude. More<br>
than one now living was a witness to it, and my only regret in
the mention<br>
of it is my inability to convey the readiness with which he
seized the<br>
moment of apparent difficulty to throw the protection of his kind
and<br>
warm-hearted nature over the apparent folly of a boy.</p>

<p>It was late when the party broke up, and as I took my leave of
the Prince,<br>
he once more expressed himself in gracious terms towards me, and
gave<br>
me personally an invitation to a breakfast at Hounslow on the
following<br>
Saturday.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XL.</p>

<p>THE BELL AT BRISTOL.</p>

<p>On the morning after my dinner at Carlton House, I found my
breakfast-table<br>
covered with cards and invitations. The news of the storming of
Ciudad<br>
Rodrigo was published in all the morning papers, and my own
humble name, in<br>
letters of three feet long, was exhibited in placards throughout
the city.<br>
Less to this circumstance, however, than to the kind and gracious
notice of<br>
the Prince, was I indebted for the attentions which were shown me
by<br>
every one; and indeed, so flattering was the reception I met
with, and so<br>
overwhelming the civility showered on me from all sides, that it
required<br>
no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero
as they<br>
would make me. An eternal round of dinners, balls, breakfasts,
and<br>
entertainments filled up the entire week. I was included in
every<br>
invitation to Carlton House, and never appeared without receiving
from his<br>
Royal Highness the most striking marks of attention. Captivating
as all<br>
this undoubtedly was, and fascinated as I felt in being the lion
of London,<br>
the courted and sought after by the high, the titled, and the
talented of<br>
the great city of the universe, yet amidst all the splendor and
seduction<br>
of that new world, my heart instinctively turned from the glare
and<br>
brilliancy of gorgeous saloons, from the soft looks and softer
voice of<br>
beauty, from the words of praise as they fell from the lips of
those whose<br>
notice was fame itself,&mdash;to my humble home amidst the mountains
of the<br>
west. Delighted and charmed as I felt by that tribute of flattery
which<br>
associated my name with one of the most brilliant actions of my
country,<br>
yet hitherto I had experienced no touch of home or fatherland.
England was<br>
to me as the high and powerful head of my house, whose greatness
and whose<br>
glory shed a halo far and near, from the proudest to the humblest
of those<br>
that call themselves Britons; but Ireland was-the land of my
birth,&mdash;the<br>
land of my earliest ties, my dearest associations,&mdash;the kind
mother whose<br>
breath had fanned my brow in infancy, and for her in my manhood
my heart<br>
beat with every throb of filial affection. Need I say, then, how
ardently<br>
I longed to turn homeward; for independent of all else, I could
not avoid<br>
some self-reproach on thinking what might be the condition of
those I<br>
prized the most on earth, at that very moment I was engaging in
all the<br>
voluptuous abandonment, and all the fascinating excesses of a
life of<br>
pleasure. I wrote several letters home, but received no answer;
nor did I,<br>
in the whole round of London society, meet with a single person
who could<br>
give me information of my family or my friends. The Easter recess
had sent<br>
the different members of Parliament to their homes; and thus,
within a<br>
comparatively short distance of all I cared for, I could learn
nothing of<br>
their fate.</p>

<p>The invitations of the Prince Regent, which were, of course,
to be regarded<br>
as commands, still detained me in London; and I knew not in what
manner<br>
to escape from the fresh engagements which each day heaped upon
me. In<br>
my anxiety upon the subject, I communicated my wishes to a friend
on the<br>
duke's staff, and the following morning, as I presented myself at
his<br>
levee, he called me towards him and addressed me:&mdash;</p>

<p>"What leave have you got, Captain O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"Three months, your Royal Highness."</p>

<p>"Do you desire an unattached troop; for if so, an opportunity
occurs just<br>
at this moment."</p>

<p>"I thank you most sincerely, sir, for your condescension in
thinking of me;<br>
but my wish is to join my regiment at the expiration of my
leave."</p>

<p>"Why, I thought they told me you wanted to spend some time in
Ireland?"</p>

<p>"Only sufficient to see my friends, your Royal Highness. That
done, I'd<br>
rather join my regiment immediately."</p>

<p>"Ah, that alters the case! So then, probably, you'd like to
leave us at<br>
once. I see how it is; you've been staying here against your will
all this<br>
while. Then, don't say a word. I'll make your excuses at Carlton
House; and<br>
the better to cover your retreat, I'll employ you on service.
Here, Gordon,<br>
let Captain O'Malley have the despatches for Sir Henry Howard, at
Cork." As<br>
he said this, he turned towards me with an air of affected
sternness in his<br>
manner, and continued: "I expect, Captain O'Malley, that you will
deliver<br>
the despatches intrusted to your care without a moment's loss of
time. You<br>
will leave London within an hour. The instructions for your
journey will<br>
be sent to your hotel. And now," said he, again changing his
voice to its<br>
natural tone of kindliness and courtesy,&mdash;"and now, my boy,
good-by, and a<br>
safe journey to you. These letters will pay your expenses, and
the occasion<br>
save you all the worry of leave-taking."</p>

<p>I stood confused and speechless, unable to utter a single word
of gratitude<br>
for such unexpected kindness. The duke saw at once my difficulty,
and as he<br>
shook me warmly by the hand, added, in a laughing tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't wait, now; you mustn't forget that your despatches are
pressing."</p>

<p>I bowed deeply, attempted a few words of acknowledgment,
hesitated,<br>
blundered, broke down, and at last got out of the room, Heaven
knows how,<br>
and found myself running towards Long's at the top of my speed.
Within that<br>
same hour I was rattling along towards Bristol as fast as four
posters<br>
could burn the pavement, thinking with ecstasy over the pleasures
of my<br>
reception in England; but far more than all, of the kindness
evinced<br>
towards me by him who, in every feeling of his nature, and in
every feature<br>
of his deportment was "every inch a prince."</p>

<p>However astonished I had been at the warmth, by which I was
treated in<br>
London, I was still less prepared for the enthusiasm which
greeted me in<br>
every town through which I passed. There was not a village where
we stopped<br>
to change horses whose inhabitants did not simultaneously pour
forth to<br>
welcome me with every demonstration of delight. That the fact of
four<br>
horses and a yellow chaise should have elicited such testimonies
of<br>
satisfaction, was somewhat difficult to conceive; and even had
the<br>
important news that I was the bearer of despatches been
telegraphed from<br>
London by successive postboys, still the extraordinary excitement
was<br>
unaccountable. It was only on reaching Bristol that I learned to
what<br>
circumstance my popularity was owing. My friend Mike, in humble
imitation<br>
of election practices, had posted a large placard on the back of
the<br>
chaise, announcing, in letters of portentous length, something
like the<br>
following:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Bloody news! Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo! Five thousand
prisoners<br>
    and two hundred pieces of cannon taken!"</p>

<p>This veracious and satisfactory statement, aided by Mike's
personal<br>
exertions, and an unwearied performance on the trumpet he had
taken from<br>
the French dragoon, had roused the population of every hamlet,
and made our<br>
journey from London to Bristol one scene of uproar, noise, and
confusion.<br>
All my attempts to suppress Mike's oratory or music were
perfectly<br>
unavailing. In fact, he had pledged my health so many times
during the day;<br>
he had drunk so many toasts to the success of the British arms,
so many to<br>
the English nation, so many in honor of Ireland, and so many in
honor of<br>
Mickey Free himself,&mdash;that all respect for my authority was lost
in his<br>
enthusiasm for my greatness, and his shouts became wilder, and
the blasts<br>
from the trumpet more fearful and incoherent; and finally, on the
last<br>
stage of our journey, having exhausted as it were every tribute
of his<br>
lungs, he seemed (if I were to judge by the evidence of my ears)
to be<br>
performing something very like a hornpipe on the roof of the
chaise.</p>

<p>Happily for me there is a limit to all human efforts, and even
<i>his</i> powers<br>
at length succumbed; so that, when we arrived at Bristol, I
persuaded him<br>
to go to bed, and I once more was left to the enjoyment of some
quiet. To<br>
fill up the few hours which intervened before bedtime, I strolled
into the<br>
coffee room. The English look of every one, and everything
around, had<br>
still its charm for me; and I contemplated, with no small
admiration, that<br>
air of neatness and propriety so observant from the bright-faced
clock that<br>
ticked unwearily upon the mantelpiece, to the trim waiter
himself, with<br>
noiseless step and a mixed look of vigilance and vacancy. The
perfect<br>
stillness struck me, save when a deep voice called for
"another<br>
brandy-and-water," and some more modestly-toned request would
utter a<br>
desire for "more cream." The attention of each man, absorbed in
the folds<br>
of his voluminous newspaper, scarcely deigning a glance at the
new-comer<br>
who entered, was in keeping with the general
surroundings,&mdash;giving, in<br>
their solemnity and gravity, a character of almost religious
seriousness,<br>
to what, in any other land, would be a scene of riotous and
discordant<br>
tumult. I was watching all this with a more than common interest,
when the<br>
door opened, and the waiter entered with a large placard. He was
followed<br>
by another with a ladder, by whose assistance he succeeded in
attaching the<br>
large square of paper to the wall above the fireplace. Every one
about rose<br>
up, curious to ascertain what was going forward; and I myself
joined in the<br>
crowd around the fire. The first glance of the announcement
showed me<br>
what it meant; and it was with a strange mixture of shame and
confusion I<br>
read:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "<i>Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo: with a full and detailed account
of the<br>
    storming of the great breach, capture of the enemy's cannon,
etc., by<br>
    Michael Free, 14th Light Dragoons</i>."</p>

<p>Leaving the many around me busied in conjecturing who the
aforesaid Mr.<br>
Free might be, and what peculiar opportunities he might have
enjoyed for<br>
his report, I hurried from the room and called the waiter.</p>

<p>"What's the meaning of the announcement you've just put up in
the<br>
coffee-room? Where did it come from?"</p>

<p>"Most important news, sir; exclusively in the columns of the
'<i>Bristol<br>
Telegraph</i>,'&mdash;the gentleman has just arrived&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Who, pray? What gentleman?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Free, sir, No. 13&mdash;large bed-room&mdash;blue damask&mdash;supper
for<br>
two&mdash;oysters&mdash;a devil&mdash;brandy-and-water-mulled port."</p>

<p>"What the devil do you mean? Is the fellow at supper?"</p>

<p>Somewhat shocked by the tone I ventured to assume towards the
illustrious<br>
narrator, the waiter merely bowed his reply.</p>

<p>"Show me to his room," said I; "I should like to see him."</p>

<p>"Follow me, if you please, sir,&mdash;this way. What name shall I
say, sir?"</p>

<p>"You need not mind announcing me,&mdash;I'm an old
acquaintance,&mdash;just show me<br>
the room."</p>

<p>"I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Meekins, the editor of the
'<i>Telegraph</i>,' is<br>
engaged with him at present; and positive orders are given not to
suffer<br>
any interruption."</p>

<p>"No matter; do as I bid you. Is that it? Oh, I hear his voice.
There, that<br>
will do. You may go down-stairs, I'll introduce myself."</p>

<a name="0317"></a>
<img alt="0317.jpg (203K)" src="0317.jpg" height="689" width="801">

<p>[CAPTAIN MICKEY FREE RELATING HIS HEROIC
DEEDS.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>So saying, and slipping a crown into the waiter's hand, I
proceeded<br>
cautiously towards the door, and opened it stealthily. My caution
was,<br>
however, needless; for a large screen was drawn across this part
of the<br>
room, completely concealing the door, closing which behind me, I
took my<br>
place beneath the shelter of this ambuscade, determined on no
account to be<br>
perceived by the parties.</p>

<p>Seated in a large arm-chair, a smoking tumbler of mulled port
before him,<br>
sat my friend Mike, dressed in my full regimentals, even to the
helmet,<br>
which, unfortunately however for the effect, he had put on back
foremost; a<br>
short "dudeen" graced his lip, and the trumpet so frequently
alluded to lay<br>
near him.</p>

<p>Opposite him sat a short, puny, round-faced little gentleman
with rolling<br>
eyes and a turned up nose. Numerous sheets of paper, pens, etc.,
lay<br>
scattered about; and he evinced, by his air and gesture, the most
marked<br>
and eager attention to Mr. Free's narrative, whose frequent
interruptions,<br>
caused by the drink and the oysters, were viewed with no small
impatience<br>
by the anxious editor.</p>

<p>"You must remember, Captain, time's passing; the placards are
all out. Must<br>
be at press before one o'clock to-night,&mdash;the morning edition is
everything<br>
with us. You were at the first parallel, I think."</p>

<p>"Devil a one o' me knows. Just ring that bell near you. Them's
elegant<br>
oysters; and you're not taking your drop of liquor. Here's a
toast for you:<br>
'May&mdash;' Whoop! raal Carlingford's, upon my conscience! See now,
if I won't<br>
hit the little black chap up there the first shot."</p>

<p>Scarcely were the words spoken, when a little painted bust of
Shakespeare<br>
fell in fragments on the floor, as an oyster-shell laid him
low.</p>

<p>A faint effort at a laugh at the eccentricities of his friend
was all the<br>
poor editor could accomplish, while Mike's triumph knew no
bounds.</p>

<p>"Didn't I tell you? But come now, are you ready? Give the pen
a drink, if<br>
you won't take one yourself."</p>

<p>"I am ready, quite ready," responded the editor.</p>

<p>"Faith, and it's more nor I am. See now, here it is: The night
was<br>
murthering dark; you could not see a stim."</p>

<p>"Not see a&mdash;a what?"</p>

<p>"A stim, bad luck to you; don't you know English? Hand me the
hot water.<br>
Have you that down yet?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Pray proceed."</p>

<p>"The Fifth Division was orthered up, bekase they were fighting
chaps; the<br>
Eighty-eighth was among them; the Rangers&mdash;Oh, upon my soul, we
must drink<br>
the Rangers! Here, devil a one o' me will go on till we give them
all the<br>
honors&mdash;Hip!&mdash;begin."</p>

<p>"Hip!" sighed the luckless editor, as he rose from his chair,
obedient to<br>
the command.</p>

<p>"Hurra! hurra! hurra! Well done! There's stuff in you yet,
ould foolscap!<br>
The little bottle's empty; ring again, if ye plaze.</p>

<p>    'Oh, Father Magan<br>
    Was a beautiful man,<br>
    But a bit of a rogue, a bit of a rogue!<br>
    He was just six feet high,<br>
    Had a cast in his eye,<br>
    And an illigint brogue, an illigint brogue!</p>

<p>    'He was born in Killarney,<br>
    And reared up in blarney&mdash;'</p>

<p>"Arrah, don't be looking miserable and dissolute that way.
Sure, I'm only<br>
screwing myself up for you; besides, you can print the song av
you like.<br>
It's a sweet tune, 'Teddy, you Gander,'"</p>

<p>"Really, Mr. Free, I see no prospect of our ever getting
done."</p>

<p>"The saints in Heaven forbid!" interrupted Mike, piously; "the
evening's<br>
young, and drink plenty. Here now, make ready!"</p>

<p>The editor once more made a gesture of preparation.</p>

<p>"Well, as I was saying," resumed Mike, "it was pitch dark when
the columns<br>
moved up, and a cold, raw night, with a little thin rain falling.
Have you<br>
that down?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Pray go on."</p>

<p>"Well, just as it might be here, at the corner of the trench,
I met Dr.<br>
Quill. 'They're waiting for you, Mr. Free,' says he, 'down there.
Picton's<br>
asking for you.' 'Faith, and he must wait,' says I, 'for I'm
terrible<br>
dry.' With that, he pulled out his canteen and mixed me a
little<br>
brandy-and-water. 'Are you taking it without a toast?' says
Doctor Maurice.<br>
'Never fear,' says I; 'here's Mary Brady&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"But, my dear sir," interposed Mr. Meekins, "pray <i>do</i>
remember this is<br>
somewhat irrelevant. In fifteen minutes it will be twelve
o'clock."</p>

<p>"I know it, ould boy, I know it. I see what you're at. You
were going to<br>
observe how much better we'd be for a broiled bone."</p>

<p>"Nothing of the kind, I assure you. For Heaven's sake, no more
eating and<br>
drinking!"</p>

<p>"No more eating nor drinking! Why not? You've a nice notion of
a convivial<br>
evening. Faith, we'll have the broiled bone sure enough, and,
what's more,<br>
a half gallon of the strongest punch they can make us; an' I hope
that,<br>
grave as you are, you'll favor the company with a song."</p>

<p>"Really, Mr. Free&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Arrah, none of your blarney! Don't be misthering me! Call me
Mickey, or<br>
Mickey Free, if you like better."</p>

<p>"I protest," said the editor, with dismay, "that here we are
two hours at<br>
work, and we haven't got to the foot of the great breach."</p>

<p>"And wasn't the army three months and a half in just getting
that far, with<br>
a battering train and mortars and the finest troops ever were
seen? And<br>
there you sit, a little fat creature, with your pen in your hand,
grumbling<br>
that you can't do more than the whole British army. Take care you
don't<br>
provoke me to beat you; for I am quiet till I'm roused. But, by
the Rock o'<br>
Cashel&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here he grasped the brass trumpet with an energy that made the
editor<br>
spring from his chair.</p>

<p>"For mercy's sake, Mr. Free&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, I won't; but sit down there, and don't be bothering me
about sieges<br>
and battles and things you know nothing about."</p>

<p>"I protest," rejoined Mr. Meekins, "that, had you not sent to
my office<br>
intimating your wish to communicate an account of the siege, I
never should<br>
have thought of intruding myself upon you. And now, since you
appear<br>
indisposed to afford the information in question, if you will
permit me,<br>
I'll wish you a very good-night."</p>

<p>"Faith, and so you shall, and help me to pass one too; for not
a step out<br>
o' that chair shall you take till morning. Do ye think I am going
to be<br>
left here by myself all alone?"</p>

<p>"I must observe&mdash;" said Mr. Meekins.</p>

<p>"To be sure, to be sure," said Mickey; "I see what you mean.
You're not the<br>
best of company, it's true; but at a pinch like this&mdash;There now,
take, your<br>
liquor."</p>

<p>"Once for all, sir," said the editor, "I would beg you to
recollect that,<br>
on the faith of your message to me, I have announced an account
of the<br>
storming of Ciudad Rodrigo for our morning edition. Are you
prepared, may I<br>
ask, for the consequences of my disappointing ten thousand
readers?"</p>

<p>"It's little I care for one of them. I never knew much of
reading myself."</p>

<p>"If you think to make a jest of me&mdash;" interposed Mr. Meekins,
reddening<br>
with passion.</p>

<p>"A jest of you! Troth, it's little fun I can get out of you;
you're as<br>
tiresome a creature as ever I spent an evening with. See now, I
told you<br>
before not to provoke me; we'll have a little more drink; ring
the bell.<br>
Who knows but you'll turn out better by-and-by?"</p>

<p>As Mike rose at these words to summon the waiter, Mr. Meekins
seized the<br>
opportunity to make his escape. Scarcely had he reached the door,
however,<br>
when he was perceived by Mickey, who hurled the trumpet at him
with all his<br>
force, while he uttered a shout that nearly left the poor editor
lifeless<br>
with terror. This time, happily, Mr. Free's aim failed him, and
before he<br>
could arrest the progress of his victim, he had gained the
corridor,<br>
and with one bound, cleared the first flight of the staircase,
his pace<br>
increasing every moment as Mike's denunciations grew louder and
louder,<br>
till at last, as he reached the street, Mr. Free's delight
overcame his<br>
indignation, and he threw himself upon a chair and laughed
immoderately.</p>

<p>"Oh, may I never! if I didn't frighten the editor. The little
spalpeen<br>
couldn't eat his oysters and take his punch like a man. But sure
if he<br>
didn't, there's more left for his betters." So saying, he filled
himself<br>
a goblet and drank it off. "Mr. Free, we won't say much for
your<br>
inclinations, for maybe they are not the best; but here's bad
luck to the<br>
fellow that doesn't think you good company; and here," added he,
again<br>
filling his glass,&mdash;"and here's may the devil take editors and
authors and<br>
compositors, that won't let us alone, but must be taking our
lives and our<br>
songs and our little devilments, that belongs to one's own
family, and tell<br>
them all over the world. A lazy set of thieves you are, every one
of you;<br>
spending your time inventing lies, devil a more nor less; and
here," this<br>
time he filled again,&mdash;"and here's a hot corner and Kilkenny
coals, that's<br>
half sulphur, to the villain&mdash;"</p>

<p>For what particular class of offenders Mike's penal code was
now devised, I<br>
was not destined to learn; for overcome by punch and indignation,
he gave<br>
one loud whoop, and measured his length upon the floor. Having
committed<br>
him to the care of the waiters, from whom I learned more fully
the<br>
particulars of his acquaintance with Mr. Meekins, I enjoined
them,<br>
strictly, not to mention that I knew anything of the matter; and
betook<br>
myself to my bed sincerely rejoicing that in a few hours more
Mike would<br>
be again in that laud where even his eccentricities and excesses
would be<br>
viewed with a favorable and forgiving eye.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLI.</p>

<p>IRELAND.</p>

<p>"You'd better call your master up," said the skipper to Mickey
Free, on the<br>
second evening after our departure from Bristol; "he said he'd
like to have<br>
a look at the coast."</p>

<p>The words were overheard by me, as I lay between sleeping and
waking in the<br>
cabin of the packet, and without waiting for a second invitation,
I rushed<br>
upon deck. The sun was setting, and one vast surface of yellow
golden light<br>
played upon the water, as it rippled beneath a gentle gale. The
white foam<br>
curled at our prow, and the rushing sound told the speed we were
going at.<br>
The little craft was staggering under every sheet of her canvas,
and her<br>
spars creaked as her white sails bent before the breeze. Before
us, but to<br>
my landsman's eyes scarcely perceptible, were the ill-defined
outlines of<br>
cloudy darkness they called land, and which I continued to gaze
at with a<br>
strange sense of interest, while I heard the names of certain
well-known<br>
headlands assigned to apparently mere masses of fog-bank and
vapor.</p>

<p>He who has never been separated in early years, while yet the
budding<br>
affections of his heart are tender shoots, from the land of his
birth and<br>
of his home, knows nothing of the throng of sensations that crowd
upon him<br>
as he nears the shore of his country. The names, familiar as
household<br>
words, come with a train of long-buried thoughts; the feeling of
attachment<br>
to all we call our own&mdash;that patriotism of the heart&mdash;stirs
strongly within<br>
him, as the mingled thrills of hope and fear alternately move him
to joy or<br>
sadness.</p>

<p>Hard as are the worldly struggles between the daily cares of
him who carves<br>
out his own career and fortune, yet he has never experienced the
darkest<br>
poverty of fate who has not felt what it is to be a wanderer,
without a<br>
country to lay claim to. Of all the desolations that visit us,
this is the<br>
gloomiest and the worst. The outcast from the land of his
fathers, whose<br>
voice must never be heard within the walls where his infancy was
nurtured,<br>
nor his step be free upon the mountains where he gambolled in his
youth,<br>
this is indeed wretchedness. The instinct of country grows and
strengthens<br>
with our years; the joys of early life are linked with it; the
hopes of<br>
age point towards it; and he who knows not the thrill of ecstasy
some<br>
well-remembered, long-lost-sight-of place can bring to his heart
when<br>
returning after years of absence, is ignorant of one of the
purest sources<br>
of happiness of our nature.</p>

<p>With what a yearning of the heart, then, did I look upon the
dim and misty<br>
cliffs, that mighty framework of my island home, their stern
sides lashed<br>
by the blue waters of the ocean, and their summits lost within
the clouds!<br>
With what an easy and natural transition did my mind turn from
the wild<br>
mountains and the green valleys to their hardy sons, who toiled
beneath<br>
the burning sun of the Peninsula; and how, as some twinkling
light of the<br>
distant shore would catch my eye, did I wonder within myself
whether<br>
beside that hearth and board there might not sit some whose
thoughts<br>
were wandering over the sea beside the bold steeps of El Bodon,
or the<br>
death-strewn plain of Talavera,&mdash;their memories calling up some
trait of<br>
him who was the idol of his home; whose closing lids some fond
mother had<br>
watched over; above whose peaceful slumber her prayers had
fallen; but<br>
whose narrow bed was now beneath the breach of Badajos, and his
sleep the<br>
sleep that knows not waking!</p>

<p>I know not if in my sad and sorrowing spirit I did not envy
him who thus<br>
had met a soldier's fate,&mdash;for what of promise had my own! My
hopes of<br>
being in any way instrumental to my poor uncle's happiness grew
hourly<br>
less. His prejudices were deeply rooted and of long standing; to
have asked<br>
him to surrender any of what he looked upon as the prerogatives
of his<br>
house and name, would be to risk the loss of his esteem. What
then remained<br>
for me? Was I to watch, day by day and hour by hour, the falling
ruin of<br>
our fortunes? Was I to involve myself in the petty warfare of
unavailing<br>
resistance to the law? And could I stand aloof from my best, my
truest, my<br>
earliest friend, and see him, alone and unaided, oppose his weak
and final<br>
struggle to the unrelenting career of persecution. Between these
two<br>
alternatives the former could be my only choice; and what a
choice!</p>

<p>Oh, how I thought over the wild heroism of the battle-field,
the reckless<br>
fury of the charge, the crash, the death-cry, and the sad picture
of the<br>
morrow, when all was past, and a soldier's glory alone remained
to shed its<br>
high halo over the faults and the follies of the dead.</p>

<p>As night fell, the twinkling of the distant lighthouses&mdash;some
throwing<br>
a column of light from the very verge of the horizon, others
shining<br>
brightly, like stars, from some lofty promontory&mdash;marked the
different<br>
outlines of the coast, and conveyed to me the memory of that
broken and<br>
wild mountain tract that forms the bulwark of the Green Isle
against the<br>
waves of the Atlantic. Alone and silently I trod the deck, now
turning to<br>
look towards the shore, where I thought I could detect the
position of some<br>
well-known headland, now straining my eyes seaward to watch some
bright<br>
and flitting star, as it rose from or merged beneath the foaming
water,<br>
denoting the track of the swift pilot-boat, or the hardy lugger
of the<br>
fisherman; while the shrill whistle of the floating sea-gull was
the only<br>
sound save the rushing waves that broke in spray upon our
quarter.</p>

<p>What is it that so inevitably inspires sad and depressing
thoughts as we<br>
walk the deck of some little craft in the silence of the night's
dark<br>
hours? No sense of danger near, we hold on our course swiftly and
steadily,<br>
cleaving the dark waves and bending gracefully beneath the
freshening<br>
breeze. Yet still the motion, which, in the bright sunshine of
the noonday<br>
tells of joy and gladness, brings now no touch of pleasure to our
hearts.<br>
The dark and frowning sky, the boundless expanse of gloomy water,
spread<br>
like some gigantic pall around us, and our thoughts either turn
back upon<br>
the saddest features of the past or look forward to the future
with a<br>
sickly hope that all may not be as we fear it.</p>

<p>Mine were, indeed, of the gloomiest; and the selfishness alone
of the<br>
thought prevented me from wishing that, like many another, I had
fallen by<br>
a soldier's death on the plains of the Peninsula!</p>

<p>As the night wore on, I wrapped myself in my cloak and lay
down beneath the<br>
bulwark. The whole of my past life came in review before me, and
I thought<br>
over my first meeting with Lucy Dashwood; the thrill of boyish
admiration<br>
gliding into love; the hopes, the fears, that stirred my heart;
the firm<br>
resolve to merit her affection, which made me a soldier. Alas,
how little<br>
thought she of him to whose whole life she had been a guide-star
and a<br>
beacon! And as I thought over the hard-fought fields, the long,
fatiguing<br>
marches, the nights around the watch-fires, and felt how, in the
whirl<br>
and enthusiasm of a soldier's life, the cares and sorrows of
every day<br>
existence are forgotten, I shuddered to reflect upon the career
that might<br>
now open before me. To abandon, perhaps forever, the glorious
path I had<br>
been pursuing for a life of indolence and weariness, while my
name, that<br>
had already, by the chance of some fortunate circumstances, begun
to be<br>
mentioned with a testimony of approval, should be lost in
oblivion or<br>
remembered but as that of one whose early promise was not borne
out by the<br>
deeds of his manhood.</p>

<p>As day broke, overcome by watching, I slept, but was soon
awoke by the stir<br>
and bustle around me. The breeze had freshened, and we were
running under<br>
a reefed mainsail and foresail; and as the little craft bounded
above the<br>
blue water, the white foam crested above her prow, and ran in
boiling<br>
rivulets along towards the after-deck. The tramp of the seamen,
the hoarse<br>
voice of the captain, the shrill cry of the sea-birds, betokened,
however,<br>
nothing of dread or danger; and listlessly I leaned upon my elbow
and asked<br>
what was going forward.</p>

<p>"Nothing, sir; only making ready to drop our anchor."</p>

<p>"Are we so near shore, then?" said I.</p>

<p>"You've only to round that point to windward, and have a clear
run into<br>
Cork harbor."</p>

<p>I sprang at once to my legs. The land-fog prevented my seeing
anything<br>
whatever, but I thought that in the breeze, fresh and balmy as it
blew, I<br>
could feel the wind off shore. "At last," said I,&mdash;"at last!" as
I stepped<br>
into the little wherry which shot alongside of us, and we glided
into the<br>
still basin of Cove. How I remember every white-walled cottage,
and the<br>
beetling cliffs, and that bold headland beside which the valley
opens, with<br>
its dark-green woods, and then Spike Island. And what a stir is
yonder,<br>
early as it is; the men-of-war tenders seem alive with people,
while still<br>
the little village is sunk in slumber, not a smoke-wreath rising
from its<br>
silent hearths. Every plash of the oars in the calm water as I
neared the<br>
land, every chance word of the bronzed and hardy fisherman, told
upon my<br>
heart. I felt it was my home.</p>

<p>"Isn't it beautiful, sir? Isn't it illigant?" said a voice
behind me, which<br>
there could be little doubt in my detecting, although I had not
seen the<br>
individual since I left England.</p>

<p>"Is not what beautiful?" replied I, rather harshly, at the
interruption of<br>
my own thoughts.</p>

<p>"Ireland, to be sure; and long life to her!" cried he, with a
cheer that<br>
soon found its responsive echoes in the hearts of our sailors,
who seconded<br>
the sentiment with all their energy.</p>

<p>"How am I to get up to Cork, lads?" said I. "I am pressed for
time, and<br>
must get forward."</p>

<p>"We'll row your honor the whole way, av it's plazing to
you."</p>

<p>"Why, thank you, I'd rather find some quicker mode of
proceeding."</p>

<p>"Maybe you'd have a chaise? There's an elegant one at
M'Cassidy's."</p>

<p>"Sure, the blind mare's in foal," said the bow oar. "The devil
a step she<br>
can go out of a walk; so, your honor, take Tim Riley's car, and
you'll get<br>
up cheap. Not that you care for money; but he's going up at eight
o'clock<br>
with two young ladies."</p>

<p>"Oh, be-gorra!" said the other, "and so he is. And faix, ye
might do worse;<br>
they're nice craytures."</p>

<p>"Well," said I, "your advice seems good; but perhaps they
might object to<br>
my company."</p>

<p>"I've no fear; they're always with the officers. Sure, the
Miss<br>
Dalrymples&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The Miss Dalrymples! Push ahead, boys; it must be later than
I thought. We<br>
must get the chaise; I can't wait."</p>

<p>Ten minutes more brought us to land.</p>

<p>My arrangements were soon made, and as my impatience to press
forward<br>
became greater the nearer I drew to my destination, I lost not a
moment.</p>

<p>The yellow chaise&mdash;sole glory of Cove&mdash;was brought forth at my
request; and<br>
by good fortune, four posters which had been down the preceding
evening<br>
from Cork to some gentleman's seat near were about to return.
These were<br>
also pressed into my service; and just as the first early riser
of the<br>
little village was drawing his curtain to take a half-closed
eye-glance<br>
upon the breaking morning, I rattled forth upon my journey at a
pace which,<br>
could I only have secured its continuance, must soon have
terminated my<br>
weary way.</p>

<p>Beautiful as the whole line of country is, I was totally
unconscious of it;<br>
and even Mike's conversational powers, divided as they were
between myself<br>
and the two postilions, were fruitless in arousing me from the
deep<br>
pre-occupation of my mind by thoughts of home.</p>

<p>It was, then, with some astonishment I heard the boy upon the
wheeler ask<br>
whither he should drive me to.</p>

<p>"Tell his honor to wake up; we're in Cork now."</p>

<p>"In Cork! Impossible, already!"</p>

<p>"Faith, may be so; but it's Cork, sure enough."</p>

<p>"Drive to the 'George.' It's not far from the
commander-in-chief's<br>
quarters."</p>

<p>"'Tis five minutes' walk, sir. You'll be there before they're
put to<br>
again."</p>

<p>"Horses for Fermoy!" shouted out the postilions, as we tore up
to the door<br>
in a gallop. I sprang out, and by the assistance of the waiter,
discovered<br>
Sir Henry Howard's quarters, to whom my despatches were
addressed. Having<br>
delivered them into the hands of an aide-de-camp, who sat bolt
upright in<br>
his bed, rubbing his eyes to appear awake, I again hurried
down-stairs, and<br>
throwing myself into the chaise, continued my journey.</p>

<p>"Them's beautiful streets, any how!" said Mike, "av they
wasn't kept so<br>
dirty, and the houses so dark, and the pavement bad. That's Mr.
Beamish's,<br>
that fine house there with the brass rapper and the green lamp
beside it;<br>
and there's the hospital. Faix, and there's the place we beat the
police<br>
when I was here before; and the house with the sign of the
Highlander is<br>
thrown down; and what's the big building with the stone posts at
the door?"</p>

<p>"The bank, sir," said the postilion, with a most deferential
air as Mike<br>
addressed him. "What bank, acushla?"</p>

<p>"Not a one of me knows, sir; but they call it the bank, though
it's only an<br>
empty house."</p>

<p>"Cary and Moore's bank, perhaps?" said I, having heard that in
days long<br>
past some such names had failed in Cork for a large amount.</p>

<p>"So it is; your honor's right," cried the postilion; while
Mike, standing<br>
up on the box, and menacing the house with his clinched fist,
shouted out<br>
at the very top of his voice:</p>

<p>"Oh, bad luck to your cobwebbed windows and iron railings!
Sure, it's my<br>
father's son ought to hate the sight of you."</p>

<p>"I hope, Mike, your father never trusted his property in such
hands?"</p>

<p>"I don't suspect he did, your honor. He never put much belief
in the banks;<br>
but the house cost him dear enough without that."</p>

<p>As I could not help feeling some curiosity in this matter, I
pressed Mickey<br>
for an explanation.</p>

<p>"But maybe it's not Cary and Moore's, after all; and I may be
cursing<br>
dacent people."</p>

<p>Having reassured his mind by telling him that the reservation
he made by<br>
the doubt would tell in their favor should he prove mistaken, he
afforded<br>
me the following information:&mdash;</p>

<p>"When my father&mdash;the heavens be his bed!&mdash;was in the 'Cork,'
they put him<br>
one night on guard at that same big house you just passed, av it
was the<br>
same; but if it wasn't that, it was another. And it was a
beautiful fine<br>
night in August and the moon up, and plenty of people walking
about,<br>
and all kinds of fun and devilment going on,&mdash;drinking and
dancing and<br>
everything.</p>

<p>"Well, my father was stuck up there with his musket, to walk
up and down,<br>
and not say, 'God save you kindly,' or the time of day or
anything, but<br>
just march as if he was in the barrack-yard; and by reason of his
being the<br>
man he was he didn't like it half, but kept cursing and swearing
to himself<br>
like mad when he saw pleasant fellows and pretty girls going by,
laughing<br>
and joking.</p>

<p>"'Good-evening, Mickey,' says one. 'Fine sport ye have all to
yourself,<br>
with your long feather in your cap.'</p>

<p>"'Arrah, look how proud he is,' says another, 'with his head
up as if he<br>
didn't see a body.'</p>

<p>"'Shoulder, hoo!' cried a drunken chap, with a shovel in his
hand. Then<br>
they all began laughing away at my father.</p>

<p>"'Let the dacent man alone,' said an ould fellow in a wig.
'Isn't he<br>
guarding the bank, wid all the money in it?'</p>

<p>"'Faix, he isn't,' says another; 'for there's none left.'</p>

<p>"'What's that you're saying?' says my father.</p>

<p>"'Just that the bank's broke; devil a more!' says he.</p>

<p>"'And there's no goold in it?' says my father.</p>

<p>'"Divil a guinea.'</p>

<p>"'Nor silver?'</p>

<p>"'No, nor silver; nor as much as sixpence, either.'</p>

<p>"'Didn't ye hear that all day yesterday when the people was
coming in with<br>
their notes, the chaps there were heating the guineas in a
frying-pan,<br>
pretending that they were making them as fast as they could; and
sure, when<br>
they had a batch red-hot they spread them out to cool; and what
betune the<br>
hating and the cooling, and the burning the fingers counting
them, they<br>
kept the bank open to three o'clock, and then they ran away.'</p>

<p>"'Is it truth yer telling?' says my father.</p>

<p>"'Sorra word o' lie in it! Myself had two-and-fourpence of
their notes.'</p>

<p>"'And so they're broke,' says my father, 'and nothing
left?'</p>

<p>"'Not a brass farden.'</p>

<p>"'And what am I staying here for, I wonder, if there's nothing
to guard?'</p>

<p>"'Faix, if it isn't for the pride of the thing&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Oh, sorra taste!'</p>

<p>"'Well, may be for divarsion.'</p>

<p>"'Nor that either.'</p>

<p>"'Faix, then you're a droll man, to spend the evening that
way,' says he;<br>
and all the crowd&mdash;for there was a crowd&mdash;said the same. So with
that my<br>
father unscrewed his bayonet, and put his piece on his shoulder,
and walked<br>
off to his bed in the barrack as peaceable as need be. But well,
when they<br>
came to relieve him, wasn't there a raal commotion? And faith,
you see, it<br>
went mighty hard with my father the next morning; for the bank
was open<br>
just as usual, and my father was sintinced to fifty lashes, but
got<br>
off with a week in prison, and three more rowling a big stone in
the<br>
barrack-yard."</p>

<p>Thus chatting away, the time passed over, until we arrived at
Fermoy.<br>
Here there was some little delay in procuring horses; and during
the<br>
negotiation, Mike, who usually made himself master of the
circumstances of<br>
every place through which he passed, discovered that the grocer's
shop of<br>
the village was kept by a namesake, and possibly a relation of
his own.</p>

<p>"I always had a notion, Mister Charles, that I came from a
good stock; and<br>
sure enough, here's 'Mary Free' over the door there, and a
beautiful place<br>
inside; full of tay and sugar and gingerbread and glue and coffee
and bran,<br>
pickled herrings, soap, and many other commodities."</p>

<p>"Perhaps you'd like to claim kindred, Mike," said I,
interrupting; "I'm<br>
sure she'd feel flattered to discover a relative in a Peninsular
hero."</p>

<p>"It's just what I'm thinking; av we were going to pass the
evening here,<br>
I'd try if I couldn't make her out a second cousin at least."</p>

<p>Fortune, upon this occasion, seconded Mike's wishes, for when
the horses<br>
made their appearance, I learned, to my surprise, that the near
side one<br>
would not bear a saddle, and the off-sider could only run on his
own<br>
side. In this conjuncture, the postilion was obliged to drive
from what,<br>
<i>Hibernic&egrave;</i> speaking, is called the perch,&mdash;no ill-applied
denomination to<br>
a piece of wood which, about the thickness of one's arm, is hung
between<br>
the two fore-springs, and serves as a resting-place in which the
luckless<br>
wight, weary of the saddle, is not sorry to repose himself.</p>

<p>"What's to be done?" cried I. "There's no room within; my
traps barely<br>
leave space for myself among them."</p>

<p>"Sure, sir," said the postilion, "the other gentleman can
follow in the<br>
morning coach; and if any accident happens to yourself on the
road, by<br>
reason of a break-down, he'll be there as soon as yourself."</p>

<p>This, at least, was an agreeable suggestion, and as I saw it
chimed with<br>
Mike's notions, I acceded at once; he came running up at the
moment.</p>

<p>"I had a peep at her through the window, Mister Charles, and,
faix, she has<br>
a great look of the family."</p>

<p>"Well, Mickey, I'll leave you twenty-four hours to cultivate
the<br>
acquaintance; and to a man like you the time, I know, is ample.
Follow me<br>
by the morning's coach. Till then, good-by."</p>

<p>Away we rattled once more, and soon left the town behind us.
The wild<br>
mountain tract which stretched on either side of the road
presented one<br>
bleak and brown surface, unrelieved by any trace of tillage or
habitation;<br>
an apparently endless succession of fern-clad hills lay on every
side;<br>
above, the gloomy sky of leaden, lowering aspect, frowned darkly;
the sad<br>
and wailing cry of the pewet or the plover was the only sound
that broke<br>
the stillness, and far as the eye could reach, a dreary waste
extended.<br>
The air, too, was cold and chilly; it was one of those days
which, in our<br>
springs, seemed to cast a retrospective glance towards the winter
they have<br>
left behind them. The prospect was no cheering one; from heaven
above or<br>
earth below there came no sight nor sound of gladness. The rich
glow of the<br>
Peninsular landscape was still fresh in my memory,&mdash;the luxurious
verdure;<br>
the olive, the citron, and the vine; the fair valleys teeming
with<br>
abundance; the mountains terraced with their vineyards; the
blue<br>
transparent sky spreading o'er all; while the very air was rife
with the<br>
cheering song of birds that peopled every grove. What a contrast
was here!<br>
We travelled on for miles, but no village nor one human face did
we see.<br>
Far in the distance a thin wreath of smoke curled upward; but it
came from<br>
no hearth; it arose from one of those field-fires by which
spendthrift<br>
husbandry cultivates the ground. It was, indeed, sad; and yet, I
know not<br>
how, it spoke more home to my heart than all the brilliant
display and all<br>
the voluptuous splendor I had witnessed in London. By degrees
some traces<br>
of wood made their appearance, and as we descended the mountain
towards<br>
Cahir, the country assumed a more cultivated and cheerful
look,&mdash;patches of<br>
corn or of meadow-land stretched on either side, and the voice of
children<br>
and the lowing of oxen mingled with the cawing of the rooks, as
in dense<br>
clouds they followed the ploughman's track. The changed features
of the<br>
prospect resembled the alternate phases of temperament of the
dweller on<br>
the soil,&mdash;the gloomy determination; the smiling carelessness;
the dark<br>
spirit of boding; the reckless jollity; the almost savage
ferocity of<br>
purpose, followed by a child-like docility and a womanly
softness; the<br>
grave, the gay, the resolute, the fickle; the firm, the yielding,
the<br>
unsparing, and the tender-hearted,&mdash;blending their contrarieties
into one<br>
nature, of whose capabilities one cannot predicate the bounds,
but to whom,<br>
by some luckless fatality of fortune, the great rewards of life
have been<br>
generally withheld until one begins to feel that the curse of
Swift was<br>
less the sarcasm wrung from indignant failures than the cold and
stern<br>
prophecy of the moralist.</p>

<p>But how have I fallen into this strain! Let me rather turn my
eyes forward<br>
towards my home. How shall I find all there? Have his altered
fortunes<br>
damped the warm ardor of my poor uncle's heart? Is his smile
sicklied over<br>
by sorrow; or shall I hear his merry laugh and his cheerful voice
as in<br>
days of yore? How I longed to take my place beside that hearth,
and in the<br>
same oak-chair where I have sat telling the bold adventures of a
fox-chase<br>
or some long day upon the moors, speak of the scenes of my
campaigning<br>
life, and make known to him those gallant fellows by whose side I
have<br>
charged in battle, or sat in the bivouac! How will he glory in
the<br>
soldier-like spirit and daring energy of Fred Power! How will he
chuckle<br>
over the blundering earnestness and Irish warmth of
O'Shaughnessy! How will<br>
he laugh at the quaint stories and quainter jests of Maurice
Quill! And how<br>
often will he wish once more to be young in hand as in heart to
mingle with<br>
such gay fellows, with no other care, no other sorrow, to depress
him, save<br>
the passing fortune of a soldier's life!</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLII.</p>

<p>THE RETURN.</p>

<p>A rude shock awoke me as I lay asleep in the corner of the
chaise; a shout<br>
followed, and the next moment the door was torn open, and I heard
the<br>
postilion's voice crying to me:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Spring out! Jump out quickly, sir!"</p>

<p>A whole battery of kicks upon the front panel drowned the rest
of his<br>
speech; but before I could obey his injunction, he was pitched
upon the<br>
road, the chaise rolled over and the pole snapped short in the
middle,<br>
while the two horses belabored the carriage and each other with
all their<br>
might. Managing, as well as I was able, to extricate myself, I
leaped out<br>
upon the road, and by the aid of a knife, and at the cost of some
bruises,<br>
succeeded in freeing the horses from their tackle. The postboy,
who had<br>
escaped without any serious injury, labored manfully to aid me,
blubbering<br>
the whole time upon the consequences his misfortune would bring
down upon<br>
his head.</p>

<p>"Bad luck to ye!" cried he, apostrophizing the off-horse, a
tall, raw-boned<br>
beast, with a Roman nose, a dipped back, and a tail ragged and
jagged like<br>
a hand-saw,&mdash;"bad luck to ye! there never was a good one of your
color!"</p>

<p>This, for the information of the "unjockeyed," I may add, was
a species of<br>
brindled gray.</p>

<p>"How did it happen, Patsey; how did it happen, my lad?"</p>

<p>"It was the heap o' stones they left in the road since last
autumn; and<br>
though I riz him at it fairly, he dragged the ould mare over it
and broke<br>
the pole. Oh, wirra, wirra!" cried he, wringing his hands in an
agony of<br>
grief, "sure there's neither luck nor grace to be had with ye
since the day<br>
ye drew the judge down to the last assizes!"</p>

<p>"Well, what's to be done?"</p>

<p>"Sorra a bit o' me knows; the shay's ruined intirely, and the
ould divil<br>
there knows he's conquered us. Look at him there, listening to
every word<br>
we're saying! You eternal thief, may be its ploughing you'd like
better!"</p>

<p>"Come, come," said I, "this will never get us forward. What
part of the<br>
country are we in?"</p>

<p>"We left Banagher about four miles behind us; that's Killimur
you see with<br>
the smoke there in the hollow."</p>

<p>Now, although I did not see Killimur (for the gray mist of the
morning<br>
prevented me recognizing any object a few hundred yards distant),
yet from<br>
the direction in which he pointed, and from the course of the
Shannon,<br>
which I could trace indistinctly, I obtained a pretty accurate
notion of<br>
where we were.</p>

<p>"Then we are not very far from Portumna?"</p>

<p>"Just a pleasant walk before your breakfast."</p>

<p>"And is there not a short cut to O'Malley Castle over that
mountain?"</p>

<p>"Faix, and so there is; and ye can be no stranger to these
parts if ye know<br>
that."</p>

<p>"I have travelled it before now. Just tell me, is the wooden
bridge<br>
standing over the little stream? It used to be carried away every
winter in<br>
my time."</p>

<p>"It's just the same now. You'll have to pass by the upper
ford; but it<br>
comes to the same, for that will bring you to the back gate of
the demesne,<br>
and one way is just as short as the other."</p>

<p>"I know it, I know it; so now, do you follow me with my
luggage to the<br>
castle, and I'll set out on foot."</p>

<p>So saying, I threw off my cloak, and prepared myself for a
sharp walk of<br>
some eight miles over the mountain. As I reached the little knoll
of land<br>
which, overlooking the Shannon, affords a view of several miles
in every<br>
direction, I stopped to gaze upon the scene where every object
around was<br>
familiar to me from infancy: the broad, majestic river, sweeping
in bold<br>
curves between the wild mountains of Connaught and the wooded
hills and<br>
cultivated slopes of the more fertile Munster, the tall chimneys
of many a<br>
house rose above the dense woods where in my boyhood I had spent
hours and<br>
days of happiness. One last look I turned towards the scene of my
late<br>
catastrophe ere I began to descend the mountain. The postboy,
with the<br>
happy fatalism of his country, and a firm trust in the future,
had<br>
established himself in the interior of the chaise, from which a
blue curl<br>
of smoke wreathed upward from his pipe; the horses grazed
contentedly by<br>
the roadside; and were I to judge from the evidence before me, I
should say<br>
that I was the only member of the party inconvenienced by the
accident. A<br>
thin sleeting of rain began to fall; the wind blew sharply in my
face, and<br>
the dark clouds, collecting in masses above, seemed to threaten a
storm.<br>
Without stopping for even a passing look at the many well-known
spots<br>
about, I pressed rapidly on. My old experience upon the moors had
taught<br>
me that sling trot in which jumping from hillock to hillock over
the<br>
boggy surface, you succeed in accomplishing your journey not only
with<br>
considerable speed, but perfectly dryshod.</p>

<p>By the lonely path which I travelled, it was unlikely I should
meet any<br>
one. It was rarely traversed except by the foot of the sportsman,
or some<br>
stray messenger from the castle to the town of Banagher. Its
solitude,<br>
however, was in no wise distasteful to me; my heart was full to
bursting.<br>
Each moment as I walked some new feature of my home presented
itself<br>
before me. Now it was all happiness and comfort; the scene of its
ancient<br>
hospitable board, its warm hearth, its happy faces, and its ready
welcome<br>
were all before me, and I increased my speed to the utmost, when
suddenly a<br>
sense of sad and sorrowing foreboding would draw around me, and
the image<br>
of my uncle's sick-bed, his worn features, his pallid look, his
broken<br>
voice would strike upon my heart, and all the changes that
poverty,<br>
desertion, and decay can bring to pass would fall upon my heart,
and weak<br>
and trembling I would stand for some moments unable to
proceed.</p>

<p>Oh, how many a reproachful thought came home to me at what I
scrupled<br>
not to call to myself the desertion of my home! Oh, how many a
prayer I<br>
uttered, in all the fervor of devotion, that my selfish
waywardness and<br>
my yearning for ambition might not bring upon me, in after-life,
years<br>
of unavailing regret! As I thought thus, I reached the brow of a
little<br>
mountain ridge, beneath which, at a distance of scarcely more
than a mile,<br>
the dark woods of O'Malley Castle stretched, before me. The house
itself<br>
was not visible, for it was situated in a valley beside the
river. But<br>
there lay the whole scene of my boyhood: there the little creek
where my<br>
boat was kept, and where I landed on the morning after my duel
with Bodkin;<br>
there stretched for many a mile the large, callow meadows, where
I trained<br>
my horses, and schooled them for the coming season; and far in
the<br>
distance, the brown and rugged peak of old Scariff was lost in
the clouds.<br>
The rain by this time had ceased, the wind had fallen, and an
almost<br>
unnatural stillness prevailed around; but yet the heavy masses of
vapor<br>
frowned ominously, and the leaden hue of land and water wore a
gloomy and<br>
depressing aspect. My impatience to get on increased every
moment, and<br>
descending the mountain at the top of my speed, I at length
reached the<br>
little oak paling that skirted the wood, opened the little
wicket, and<br>
entered the path. It was the self-same one I had trod in revery
and<br>
meditation the night before I left my home. I remember, too,
sitting down<br>
beside the little well which, enclosed in a frame of rock, ran
trickling<br>
across the path to be lost among the gnarled roots and fallen
leaves<br>
around. Yes, this was the very spot.</p>

<p>Overcome for the instant by my exertion and by my emotion, I
sat down upon<br>
the stone, and taking off my cap, bathed my heated and throbbing
temples in<br>
the cold spring, Refreshed at once, I was about to rise and press
onward,<br>
when suddenly my attention was caught by a sound which, faint
from<br>
distance, scarce struck upon my ear. I listened again; but all
was still<br>
and silent, the dull splash of the river as it broke upon the
reedy shore<br>
was the only sound I heard. Thinking it probably some mere
delusion of my<br>
heated imagination, I rose to push forward; but at the moment a
slight<br>
breeze stirred in the leaves around me, the light branches
rustled and bent<br>
beneath it, and a low moaning sound swelled upward, increasing
each instant<br>
as it came; like the distant roar of some mighty torrent it grew
louder as<br>
the wind bore it towards me, and now falling, now swelling, it
burst<br>
forth into one loud, prolonged cry of agony and grief. O God! it
was the<br>
death-wail! I fell upon my knees, my hands clasped in agony; the
sweat<br>
of misery dropped off my brow, and with a heart bleeding and
breaking I<br>
prayed&mdash;I know not what. Again the terrible cry smote upon my
ear, and I<br>
could mark the horrible cadences of the death-song, as the voices
of the<br>
mourners joined in chorus.</p>

<p>My suspense became too great to bear. I dashed madly forward,
one sound<br>
still ringing in my ears, one horrid image before my eyes. I
reached the<br>
garden wall; I cleared the little rivulet beside the
flower-garden; I<br>
traversed its beds (neglected and decayed); I gained the avenue,
taking<br>
no heed of the crowds before me,&mdash;some on foot, some on
horseback, others<br>
mounted upon the low country car, many seated in groups upon the
grass,<br>
their heads bowed upon their bosoms, silent and speechless. As I
neared the<br>
house the whole approach was crowded with carriages and horsemen.
At the<br>
foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and mournful
hearse,<br>
its plumes nodding in the breeze. With the speed of madness and
the<br>
recklessness of despair I tore my way through the thickly
standing groups<br>
upon the steps; I could not speak, I could not utter. Once more
the<br>
frightful cry swelled upward, and in its wild notes seemed to
paralyze me;<br>
for with my hands upon my temples, I stood motionless and still.
A heavy<br>
footfall as of persons marching in procession came nearer and
nearer, and<br>
as the sounds without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the
black pall<br>
of a coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and
an old man<br>
whose gray hair floated in the breeze, and across whose stern
features a<br>
struggle for self-mastery&mdash;a kind of spasmodic effort&mdash;was
playing, held<br>
out his hand to enforce silence. His eye, lack-lustre and dimmed
with age,<br>
roved over the assembled multitude, but there was no recognition
in his<br>
look until at last he turned it on me. A slight hectic flush
colored his<br>
pale cheek, his lip trembled, he essayed to speak, but could not.
I sprang<br>
towards him, but choked by agony, I could not utter; my look,
however,<br>
spoke what my tongue could not. He threw his arms around me, and
muttering<br>
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLIII.</p>

<p>HOME.</p>

<p>Many, many years have passed away since the time I am now
about to speak<br>
of, and yet I cannot revert, even for a moment, to the period
without a sad<br>
and depressing feeling at my heart. The wreck of fortune, the
thwarting of<br>
ambition, the failure in enterprise, great though they be, are
endurable<br>
evils. The never-dying hope that youth is blessed with will find
its<br>
resting-place still within the breast, and the baffled and beaten
will<br>
struggle on unconquered; but for the death of friends, for the
loss of<br>
those in whom our dearest affections were centred, there is no
solace,&mdash;the<br>
terrible "never" of the grave knows no remorse, and even memory,
that in<br>
our saddest hours can bring bright images and smiling faces
before us,<br>
calls up here only the departed shade of happiness, a passing
look at that<br>
Eden of our joys from which we are separated forever. And the
desolation of<br>
the heart is never perfect till it has felt the echoes of a last
farewell<br>
on earth reverberating within it.</p>

<p>Oh, with what tortures of self-reproach we think of all former
intercourse<br>
with him that is gone! How would we wish to live our lives once
more,<br>
correcting each passage of unkindness or neglect! How deeply do
we blame<br>
ourselves for occasions of benefit lost, and opportunities
unprofited by;<br>
and how unceasingly, through after-life, the memory of the
departed recurs<br>
to us! In all the ties which affection and kindred weave around
us, one<br>
vacant spot is there, unseen and unknown by others, which no
blandishments<br>
of love, no caresses of friendship can fill up; although the rank
grass<br>
and the tall weeds of the churchyard may close around the humble
tomb,<br>
the cemetery of the heart is holy and sacred, pure from all the
troubled<br>
thoughts and daily cares of the busy world. To that hallowed spot
do we<br>
retire as into our chamber, and when unrewarded efforts bring
discomfiture<br>
and misery to our minds, when friends are false, and cherished
hopes are<br>
blasted, we think on those who never ceased to love till they had
ceased to<br>
live; and in the lonely solitude of our affliction we call upon
those who<br>
hear not, and may never return.</p>

<p>Mine was a desolate hearth. I sat moodily down in the old oak
parlor, my<br>
heart bowed down with grief. The noiseless steps, the mourning
garments of<br>
the old servants; the unnatural silence of those walls within
which from<br>
my infancy the sounds of merriment and mirth had been familiar;
the large<br>
old-fashioned chair where he was wont to sit, now placed against
the<br>
wall,&mdash;all spoke of the sad past. Yet, when some footsteps would
draw near,<br>
and the door would open, I could not repress a thrill of hope
that he was<br>
coming; more than once I rushed to the window and looked out; I
could have<br>
sworn I heard his voice.</p>

<p>The old cob pony he used to ride was grazing peacefully before
the door;<br>
poor Carlo, his favorite spaniel, lay stretched upon the terrace,
turning<br>
ever and anon a look towards the window, and then, as if wearied
of<br>
watching for him who came not, he would utter a long, low,
wailing cry, and<br>
lie down again to sleep. The rich lawn, decked with field flowers
of many<br>
a hue, stretched away towards the river, upon whose calm surface
the<br>
white-sailed lugger scarce seemed to move; the sounds of a
well-known Irish<br>
air came, softened by distance, as some poor fisherman sat
mending his net<br>
upon the bank, and the laugh of children floated on the breeze.
Yes, they<br>
were happy.</p>

<p>Two months had elapsed since my return home; how passed by me
I know not; a<br>
lethargic stupor had settled upon me. Whole days long I sat at
the window,<br>
looking listlessly at the tranquil river, and watching the white
foam as,<br>
borne down from the rapids, it floated lazily along. The count
had left me<br>
soon, being called up to Dublin by some business, and I was
utterly alone.<br>
The different families about called frequently to ask after me,
and would,<br>
doubtless, have done all in their power to alleviate my sorrow,
and lighten<br>
the load of my affliction; but with a morbid fear, I avoided
every one, and<br>
rarely left the house except at night-fall, and then only to
stroll by some<br>
lonely and deserted path.</p>

<p>Life had lost its charm for me; my gratified ambition had
ended in the<br>
blackest disappointment, and all for which I had labored and
longed was<br>
only attained that I might feel it valueless.</p>

<p>Of my circumstances as to fortune I knew nothing, and cared
not more;<br>
poverty and riches could matter little now; all my day dreams
were<br>
dissipated now, and I only waited for Considine's return to leave
Ireland<br>
forever. I had made up my mind, if by any unexpected turn of fate
the war<br>
should cease in the Peninsula, to exchange into an Indian
regiment. The<br>
daily association with objects which recalled but one image to my
brain,<br>
and that ever accompanied by remorse of conscience, gave me not a
moment's<br>
peace. My every thought of happiness was mixed up with scenes
which now<br>
presented nothing but the evidences of blighted hope; to remain,
then,<br>
where I was, would be to sink into the heartless misanthropist,
and I<br>
resolved that with my sword I would carve out a soldier's fortune
and a<br>
soldier's grave.</p>

<p>Considine came at last. I was sitting alone, at my usual post
beside the<br>
window, when the chaise rattled up to the door; for an instant I
started to<br>
my legs; a vague sense of something like hope shot through me,
the whole<br>
might be a dream, and <i>he</i>&mdash;The next moment I became cold and
sick, a<br>
faintish giddiness obscured my sight, and though I felt his grasp
as he<br>
took my hand, I saw him not. An indistinct impression still
dwells upon my<br>
mind of his chiding me for my weakness in thus giving way; of his
calling<br>
upon me to assert my position, and discharge the duties of him
whose<br>
successor I now was. I heard him in silence; and when he
concluded, faintly<br>
pledging myself to obey him, I hurried to my room, and throwing
myself upon<br>
my bed burst into an agony of tears. Hitherto my pent up sorrow
had wasted<br>
me day by day; but the rock was now smote, and in that gush of
misery my<br>
heart found relief.</p>

<p>When I appeared the following morning, the count was struck
with my altered<br>
looks; a settled sorrow could not conceal the changes which time
and<br>
manhood had made upon me; and as from a kind of fear of showing
how deeply<br>
I grieved, I endeavored to conceal it, by degrees I was enabled
to converse<br>
calmly and dispassionately upon my fortunes.</p>

<p>"Poor Godfrey," said he, "appointed me his sole executor a few
days before<br>
it happened; he knew the time was drawing near, and strange
enough,<br>
Charley, though he heard of your return to England, he would not
let us<br>
write. The papers spoke of you as being at Carlton House almost
daily; your<br>
name appeared at every great festival; and while his heart warmed
at your<br>
brilliant success, he absolutely dreaded your coming home.
'Poor<br>
fellow,' he would say, 'what a change for him, to leave the
splendor<br>
and magnificence of his Prince's board for our meagre fare and
altered<br>
fortunes! And then,' he added, 'as for me&mdash;God forgive me!&mdash;I can
go now;<br>
but how should I bear to part with him if he comes back to me.'
And now,"<br>
said the count, when he had concluded a detailed history of my
dear uncle's<br>
last illness,&mdash;"and now, Charley, what are your plans?"</p>

<p>Briefly, and in a few words, I stated to him my intentions.
Without placing<br>
much stress upon the strongest of my reasons&mdash;my distaste to what
had once<br>
been home&mdash;I avowed my wish to join my regiment at once.</p>

<p>He heard me with evident impatience, and as I finished, seized
my arm<br>
in his strong grasp. "No, no, boy, none of this; your tone of
assumed<br>
composure cannot impose on Bill Considine. You must not return to
the<br>
Peninsula&mdash;at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be
strong at<br>
twenty, but it's not lasting; besides, Charley," here his voice
faltered<br>
slightly, "<i>his</i> wishes you'll not treat lightly. Read this."</p>

<p>As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from
his<br>
breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle's
hand, and<br>
dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Dear Bill,&mdash;Charley must never part with the old
house,<br>
    come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger's
heritage;<br>
    he must live among my old friends, and watch, protect<br>
    and comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him
now<br>
    do something for affection. We have none of us been over
good<br>
    to these poor people; one of the name must try and save
our<br>
    credit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I
shall<br>
    utter it.</p>

<p>    G. O'M.</p>

<p>I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over,
forgetful of<br>
all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed
that my<br>
silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called
out:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, what now?"</p>

<p>"I remain," said I, briefly.</p>

<p>He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I knew it, boy, I knew it. They told me you were spoiled by
flattery, and<br>
your head turned by fortune; they said that home and country
would weigh<br>
lightly in the balance against fame and glory; but I said no, I
knew you<br>
better. I told them indignantly that I had nursed you on my knee;
that I<br>
watched you from infancy to boyhood, from boy to man; that he of
whose<br>
stock you came had one feeling paramount to all, his love of his
own<br>
fatherland, and that you would not disgrace him. Besides,
Charley, there's<br>
not an humble hearth for many a long mile around us, where,
amidst the<br>
winter's blast, tempered not excluded, by frail walls and
poverty,&mdash;there's<br>
not one such but where poor Godfrey's name rises each night in
prayer, and<br>
blessings are invoked on him by those who never felt them
themselves."</p>

<p>"I'll not desert them."</p>

<p>"I know you'll not, boy, I know you'll not. Now for the
means."</p>

<p>Here he entered into a long and complicated exposure of my
dear uncle's<br>
many difficulties, by which it appeared that, in order to leave
the estate<br>
free of debt to me, he had for years past undergone severe
privations.<br>
These, however,&mdash;such is the misfortune of an unguided
effort,&mdash;had but<br>
ill succeeded, and there was scarcely a farm on the property
without its<br>
mortgage. Upon the house and demesne a bond for three thousand
pounds still<br>
remained; and to pay off this, Considine advised my selling a
portion of<br>
the property.</p>

<p>"It's old Blake lent the money; and only a week before your
uncle died,<br>
he served a notice for repayment. I never told Godfrey; it was no
use. It<br>
could only embitter his last few hours; and, besides, we had six
months to<br>
think of it. The half of that time has now elapsed, however; we
must see to<br>
this."</p>

<p>"And did Blake really make this demand, knowing my poor
uncle's<br>
difficulties?"</p>

<p>"Why, I half think he did not; for Godfrey was too fine a
fellow ever to<br>
acknowledge anything of the sort. He had twelve sheep killed for
the poor<br>
in Scariff, at a time when not a servant of the house tasted meat
for<br>
months; ay, and our own table, too, none of the most abundant, I
assure<br>
you."</p>

<p>What a picture was this, and how forcibly did it remind me of
what I had<br>
witnessed in times past. Thus meditating, we returned to the
house; and<br>
Considine, whose activity never slumbered, sat down to con over
the<br>
rent-roll with old Maguire the steward.</p>

<p>When I joined the count in the evening, I found him surrounded
by maps,<br>
rent-rolls, surveys, and leases. He had been poring over these
various<br>
documents, to ascertain from which portion of the property we
could best<br>
recruit our failing finances. To judge from the embarrassed look
and manner<br>
with which he met me, the matter was one of no small difficulty.
The<br>
encumbrances upon the estate had been incurred with an unsparing
hand; and<br>
except where some irreclaimable tract of bog or mountain rendered
a loan<br>
impracticable, each portion of the property had its share of
debt.</p>

<p>"You can't sell Killantry, for Basset has above six thousand
pounds on it<br>
already. To be sure, there's the Priest's Meadows,&mdash;fine land and
in good<br>
heart; but Malony was an old tenant of the family, and I cannot
recommend<br>
your turning him over to a stranger. The widow M'Bride's farm is
perhaps<br>
the best, after all, and it would certainly bring the sum we
want; still,<br>
poor Mary was your nurse, Charley, and it would break her heart
to do it."</p>

<p>Thus, wherever we turned, some obstacle presented itself, if
not from<br>
moneyed causes, at least from those ties and associations which,
in an<br>
attached and faithful tenantry, are sure to grow up between them
and the<br>
owner of the soil.</p>

<p>Feeling how all-important these things were&mdash;endeavoring as I
was to fulfil<br>
the will and work out the intentions of my uncle&mdash;I saw at once
that to<br>
sell any portion of the property must separate me, to a certain
extent,<br>
from those who long looked up to our house, and who, in the
feudalism of<br>
the west, could ill withdraw their allegiance from their own
chief to swear<br>
fealty to a stranger. The richer tenants were those whose
industry and<br>
habits rendered them objects of worth and attachment; to the
poorer ones,<br>
to whose improvidence and whose follies (if you will) their
poverty was<br>
owing, I was bound by those ties which the ancient habit of my
house had<br>
contracted for centuries. The bond of benefit conferred can be
stronger<br>
than the debt of gratitude itself. What was I then to do? My
income would<br>
certainly permit of my paying the interest upon my several
mortgages, and<br>
still retaining wherewithal to live; the payment of Blake's bond
was my<br>
only difficulty, and small as it was, it was still a
difficulty.</p>

<p>"I have it, Charley!" said Considine; "I've found out the way
of doing it.<br>
Blake will have no objection, I'm sure, to take the widow's farm
in payment<br>
of his debt, giving you a power of redemption within five years.
In that<br>
time, what with economy, some management, perhaps," added he,
smiling<br>
slightly,&mdash;"perhaps a wife with money may relieve all your
embarrassments<br>
at once. Well, well, I know you are not thinking of that just
now; but<br>
come, what say you to my plan?"</p>

<p>"I know not well what to say. It seems to be the best; but
still I have my<br>
misgivings."</p>

<p>"Of course you have, my boy; nor could I love you if you'd
part with an old<br>
and faithful follower without them. But, after all, she is only a
hostage<br>
to the enemy; we'll win her back, Charley."</p>

<p>"If you think so&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I do. I know it."</p>

<p>"Well, then, be it so; only one thing I bargain,&mdash;she must
herself consent<br>
to this change of masters. It will seem to her a harsh measure
that the<br>
child she had nursed and fondled in her arms should live to
disunite her<br>
from those her oldest attachments upon earth. We must take care,
sir, that<br>
Blake cannot dispossess her; this would be too hard."</p>

<p>"No, no; that we'll guard against. And now, Charley, with
prudence and<br>
caution, we'll clear off every encumbrance, and O'Malley Castle
shall yet<br>
be what it was in days of yore. Ay, boy, with the descendant of
the old<br>
house for its master, and not that general&mdash;how do you call
him?&mdash;that came<br>
down here to contest the county, who with his offer of thirty
thousand<br>
pounds thought to uproot the oldest family of the west. Did I
ever show you<br>
the letter we wrote him?"</p>

<p>"No, sir," replied I, trembling with agitation as I spoke;
"you merely<br>
alluded to it in one of yours."</p>

<p>"Look here, lad!" said he, drawing it from the recesses of a
black leather<br>
pocket-book. "I took a copy of it; read that."</p>

<p>The document was dated, "O'Malley Castle, December 9th." It
ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Sir,&mdash;I have this moment learned from my agent, that you,
or<br>
    some one empowered by you for the purpose, made an offer of
several<br>
    thousand pounds to buy up the different mortgages upon my
property,<br>
    with a subsequent intention of becoming its possessor. Now,
sir, I<br>
    beg to tell you, that if your ungentlemanlike and underhand
plot<br>
    had succeeded, you dared not darken with your shadow the
door-sill<br>
    of the house you purchased. Neither your gold nor your
flattery&mdash;and<br>
    I hear you are rich in both&mdash;could wipe out from the
minds<br>
    and hearts of my poor tenantry the kindness of centuries. Be
advised,<br>
    then, sir; withdraw your offer; let a Galway gentleman
settle<br>
    his own difficulties his own way; his troubles and cares are
quite<br>
    sufficient, without your adding to them. There can be but
one<br>
    mode in which your interference with him could be deemed
acceptable:<br>
    need I tell you, sir, who are a soldier, how that is? As
I<br>
    know your official duties are important, and as my
nephew&mdash;who<br>
    feels with me perfectly in this business&mdash;is abroad, I can
only say<br>
    that failing health and a broken frame shall not prevent my
undertaking<br>
    a journey to England, should my doing so meet your wishes<br>
    on this occasion. I am, sir,</p>

<p>    Your obedient servant,              GODFREY O'MALLEY.</p>

<p>"This letter," continued Considine, "I enclosed in an
envelope, with the<br>
following few lines of my own:"&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Count Considine presents his compliments to
Lieutenant-General<br>
    Dashwood; and feeling that as the friend of Mr. Godfrey
O'Malley,<br>
    the mild course pursued by that gentleman may possibly be
attributed<br>
    to his suggestion, he begs to assure General Dashwood that
the reverse<br>
    was the case, and that he strenuously counselled the
propriety<br>
    of laying a horsewhip upon the general's shoulders, as a
preliminary<br>
    step in the transaction.</p>

<p>    "Count Considine's address is No. 16 Kildare Street."</p>

<p>"Great God!" said I, "is this possible?"</p>

<p>"Well may you say so, my boy: for&mdash;would you believe
it?&mdash;after all that,<br>
he writes a long blundering apology, protesting I know not what
about<br>
motives of former friendship, and terminating with a civil hint
that we<br>
have done with him forever. And of my paragraph he takes no
notice; and<br>
thus ends the whole affair."</p>

<p>"And with it my last hope also!" muttered I to myself.</p>

<p>That Sir George Dashwood's intentions had been misconstrued
and mistaken I<br>
knew perfectly well; that nothing but the accumulated evils of
poverty and<br>
sickness could have induced my poor uncle to write such a letter
I was<br>
well aware; but now the mischief was accomplished, the evil was
done, and<br>
nothing remained but to bear with patience and submission, and to
endeavor<br>
to forget what thus became irremediable.</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood made no allusion to me, sir, in his
reply?" inquired<br>
I, catching at anything like a hope.</p>

<p>"Your name never occurs in his letter. But you look pale, boy;
all these<br>
discussions come too early upon you; besides, you stay too much
at home,<br>
and take no exercise."</p>

<p>So saying, Considine bustled off towards the stables to look
after some<br>
young horses that had just been taken up; and I walked out alone
to ponder<br>
over what I had heard, and meditate on my plans for the
future.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLIV.</p>

<p>AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.</p>

<p>As I wandered on, the irritation of my spirit gradually
subsided. It was,<br>
to be sure, distressing to think over the light in which my
uncle's letter<br>
had placed me before Sir George Dashwood, had even my reputation
only with<br>
him been at stake; but with my attachment to his daughter, it
was<br>
almost maddening. And yet there was nothing to be done; to
disavow my<br>
participation would be to throw discredit upon my uncle. Thus
were my hopes<br>
blighted; and thus, at that season when life was opening upon me,
did I<br>
feel careless and indifferent to everything. Had my military
career still<br>
remained to me, that at least would have suggested scenes
sufficient to<br>
distract me from the past; but now my days must be spent where
every spot<br>
teemed with memories of bygone happiness and joys never to come
back again.</p>

<p>My mind was, however, made up; and without speaking a word to
Considine, I<br>
turned homeward, and sat down at my writing-table. In a few brief
lines I<br>
informed my army agent of my intention of leaving the service,
and desired<br>
that he would sell out for me at once. Fearing lest my resolution
might not<br>
be proof against the advice and solicitation of my friends, I
cautioned him<br>
against giving my address, or any clew by which letters might
reach me.</p>

<p>This done, I addressed a short note to Mr. Blake, requesting
to know the<br>
name of his solicitor, in whose hands the bond was placed, and
announcing<br>
my intention of immediate repayment.</p>

<p>Trifling as these details were in themselves, I cannot help
recording how<br>
completely they changed the whole current of my thoughts. A new
train of<br>
interests began to spring up within me; and where so lately the
clang of<br>
the battle, the ardor of the march, the careless ease of the
bivouac, had<br>
engrossed every feeling, now more humble and homely thoughts
succeeded; and<br>
as my personal ambition had lost its stimulant, I turned with
pleasure to<br>
those of whose fate and fortunes I was in some sort the guardian.
There may<br>
be many a land where the verdure blooms more in fragrance and in
richness,<br>
where the clime breathes softer, and a brighter sky lights up
the<br>
landscape; but there is none&mdash;I have travelled through many a
one&mdash;where<br>
more touching and heart-bound associations are blended with the
features<br>
of the soil than in Ireland, and cold must be the spirit, and
barren the<br>
affections of him who can dwell amidst its mountains and its
valleys, its<br>
tranquil lakes, its wooded fens, without feeling their humanizing
influence<br>
upon him. Thus gradually new impressions and new duties
succeeded; and ere<br>
four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my daily life healed
up the<br>
wounds of my suffering, and in the calm current of my present
existence, a<br>
sense of content, if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and
I ceased<br>
to long for the clash of arms and the loud blast of the
trumpet.</p>

<p>Unlike all my former habits, I completely abandoned the sports
of the<br>
field. He who had participated in them with me was no longer
there; and the<br>
very sight of the tackle itself suggested sad and depressing
thoughts.</p>

<p>My horses I took but little pleasure in. To gratify the good
and kind<br>
people about, I would walk through the stables, and make some
passing<br>
remark, as if to show some interest; but I felt it not. No; it
was only by<br>
the total change of all the ordinary channels of my ideas that I
could bear<br>
up; and now my days were passed in the fields, either listlessly
strolling<br>
along, or in watching the laborers as they worked. Of my
neighbors I saw<br>
nothing; returning their cards, when they called upon me, was the
extent of<br>
our intercourse; and I had no desire for any further. As
Considine had left<br>
me to visit some friends in the south, I was quite alone, and for
the first<br>
time in my life, felt how soothing can be such solitude. In each
happy<br>
face, in every grateful look around me, I felt that I was
fulfilling my<br>
uncle's last behest; and the sense of duty, so strong when it
falls upon<br>
the heart accompanied by the sense of power, made my days pass
rapidly<br>
away.</p>

<p>It was towards the close of autumn, when I one morning
received a letter<br>
from London, informing me that my troop had been sold, and the
purchase<br>
money&mdash;above four thousand pounds&mdash;lodged to my credit at my
banker's.</p>

<p>As Mr. Blake had merely answered my former note by a civil
message that the<br>
matter in question was by no means pressing, I lost not a moment,
when<br>
this news reached me, to despatch Mike to Gurt-na-Morra with a
few lines,<br>
expressing my anxious desire to finish the transaction, and
begging of Mr.<br>
Blake to appoint a day for the purpose.</p>

<p>To this application Mr. Blake's reply was, that he would do
himself the<br>
honor of waiting upon me the following day, when the arrangements
I desired<br>
could be agreed upon. Now this was exactly what I wished, if
possible,<br>
to avoid. Of all my neighbors, he was the one I predetermined to
have no<br>
intercourse with; I had not forgotten my last evening at his
house, nor had<br>
I forgiven his conduct to my uncle. However, there was nothing
for it but<br>
submission; the interview need not be a long, and it should be a
last one.<br>
Thus resolving, I waited in patience for the morrow.</p>

<p>I was seated at my breakfast the next morning, conning between
whiles the<br>
columns of the last paper, and feeding my spaniel, who sat upon a
large<br>
chair beside me, when the door opened, and the servant announced,
"Mr.<br>
Blake;" and the instant after that gentleman bustled in holding
out both<br>
his hands with all evidences of most friendly warmth, and calling
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Charley O'Malley, my lad! I'm delighted to see you at
last!"</p>

<p>Now, although the distance from the door to the table at which
I sat<br>
was not many paces, yet it was quite sufficient to chill down all
my<br>
respectable relative's ardor before he approached: his rapid pace
became<br>
gradually a shuffle, a slide, and finally a dead stop; his
extended arms<br>
were reduced to one hand, barely advanced beyond his waistcoat;
his voice,<br>
losing the easy confidence of its former tone, got husky and dry,
and broke<br>
into a cough; and all these changes were indebted to the mere
fact of<br>
my reception of him consisting in a cold and distant bow, as I
told the<br>
servant to place a chair and leave the room.</p>

<p>Without any preliminary whatever, I opened the subject of our
negotiation,<br>
expressed my regret that it should have waited so long, and my
desire to<br>
complete it.</p>

<p>Whether it was that the firm and resolute tone I assumed had
its effect at<br>
once, or that disappointed at the mode in which I received his
advances he<br>
wished to conclude our interview as soon as need be, I know not;
but he<br>
speedily withdrew from a capacious pocket a document in
parchment, which,<br>
having spread at large upon the table, and having leisurely put
on his<br>
spectacles, he began to hum over its contents to himself in an
undertone.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, here it is," said he. "'Deed of conveyance between
Godfrey<br>
O'Malley, of O'Malley Castle, Esq., on the one part'&mdash;perhaps
you'd like<br>
your solicitor to examine it,&mdash;'and Blake, of Gurt'&mdash;because
there is no<br>
hurry, Captain O'Malley&mdash;'on the other.' In fact, after all, it
is a mere<br>
matter of form between relatives," said he, as I declined the
intervention<br>
of a lawyer. "I'm not in want of the money&mdash;'all the lands and
tenements<br>
adjoining, in trust, for the payment of the said three
thousand'&mdash;thank<br>
God, Captain, the sum is a trifle that does not inconvenience me!
The boys<br>
are provided for; and the girls&mdash;the pickpockets, as I call them,
ha,<br>
ha, ha!&mdash;not ill off neither;&mdash;'with rights of turbary on the
said<br>
premises'&mdash;who are most anxious to have the pleasure of seeing
you. Indeed,<br>
I could scarcely keep Jane from coming over to-day. 'Sure he's my
cousin,'<br>
says she; 'and what harm would it be if I went to see him?'
Wild,<br>
good-natured girls, Captain! And your old friend Matthew&mdash;you
haven't<br>
forgot Matthew?&mdash;has been keeping three coveys of partridge for
you<br>
this fortnight. 'Charley,' says he,&mdash;they call you Charley
still,<br>
Captain,&mdash;'shall have them, and no one else.' And poor Mary&mdash;she
was<br>
a child when you were here&mdash;Mary is working a sash for you. But
I'm<br>
forgetting&mdash;I know you have so much business on your hands&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Pray, Mr. Blake, be seated. I know nothing of any more
importance than the<br>
matter before us. If you will permit me to give you a check for
this money.<br>
The papers, I'm sure, are perfectly correct."</p>

<p>"If I only thought it did not inconvenience you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nothing of the kind, I assure you. Shall I say at sight, or
in ten days<br>
hence?"</p>

<p>"Whenever you please, Captain. But it's sorry I am to come
troubling you<br>
about such things, when I know you are thinking of other matters.
And, as<br>
I said before, the money does not signify to me; the times, thank
God, are<br>
good, and I've never been very improvident."</p>

<p>"I think you'll find that correct."</p>

<p>"Oh, to be sure it is! Well, well; I'm going away without
saying half what<br>
I intended."</p>

<p>"Pray do not hurry yourself. I have not asked have you
breakfasted, for I<br>
remember Galway habits too well for that. But if I might offer
you a glass<br>
of sherry and water after your ride?"</p>

<p>"Will you think me a beast if I say yes, Captain? Time was
when I didn't<br>
care for a canter of ten or fifteen miles in the morning no more
than<br>
yourself; and that's no small boast; God forgive me, but I never
see that<br>
clover-field where you pounded the Englishman, without swearing
there never<br>
was a leap made before or since. Is this Mickey, Captain? Faith,
and it's<br>
a fine, brown, hearty-looking chap you're grown, Mickey. That's
mighty<br>
pleasant sherry, but where would there be good wine if it wasn't
here? Oh,<br>
I remember now what it was I wanted. Peter,&mdash;my son Peter, a slip
of a boy,<br>
he's only sixteen,&mdash;well, d'you see, he's downright deranged
about the<br>
army: he used to see your name in the papers every day, and that
terrible<br>
business at&mdash;what's the name of the place?&mdash;where you rode on the
chap's<br>
back up the breach."</p>

<p>"Ciudad Rodrigo, perhaps," said I, scarcely able to repress a
laugh.</p>

<p>"Well, sir, since that he'll hear of nothing but going into
the army; ay,<br>
and into the dragoons too. Now, Captain, isn't it mighty
expensive in the<br>
dragoons?"</p>

<p>"Why, no, not particularly so,&mdash;at least in the regiment I
served with."</p>

<p>"I promised him I'd ask you; the boy's mad, that's the fact. I
wish,<br>
Captain, you'd just reason with him a little; he'll mind what you
say,<br>
there's no fear of that. And you see, though I'd like to do
what's fair,<br>
I'm not going to cut off the girls for the sake of the boys; with
the<br>
blessing of Providence, they'll never be able to reproach me for
that. What<br>
I say is this: treat <i>me</i> well, and I'll treat you the same.
Marry the man<br>
my choice would pick out for you, and it's not a matter of a
thousand or<br>
two I'll care for. There was Bodkin&mdash;you remember him?" said he,
with a<br>
grin; "he proposed for Mary, but since the quarrel with you, she
could<br>
never bear the sight of him, and Alley wouldn't come down to
dinner if he<br>
was in the house. Mary's greatly altered; I wish you heard her
sing 'I'd<br>
mourn the hopes that leave me.' Queer girl she is; she was little
more<br>
than a child when you were here, and she remembers you just as if
it was<br>
yesterday."</p>

<p>While Mr. Blake ran on at this rate, now dilating upon my own
manifold<br>
virtues and accomplishments, now expatiating upon the more
congenial<br>
theme,&mdash;the fascinations of his fair daughters, and the various
merits of<br>
his sons,&mdash;I could not help feeling how changed our relative
position was<br>
since our last meeting; the tone of cool and vulgar patronage he
then<br>
assumed towards the unformed country lad was now converted into
an air of<br>
fawning and deferential submission, still more distasteful.</p>

<p>Young as I was, however, I had already seen a good deal of the
world; my<br>
soldiering had at least taught me something of men, and I had far
less<br>
difficulty in deciphering the intentions and objects of my worthy
relative,<br>
than I should have had in the enigmatical mazes of the parchment
bond of<br>
which he was the bearer. After all, to how very narrow an extent
in life<br>
are we fashioned by our own estimate of ourselves! My changed
condition<br>
affected me but little until I saw how it affected others; that
the<br>
position I occupied should seem better now that life had lost the
great<br>
stimulus of ambition, was somewhat strange; and that flattery
should pay<br>
its homage to the mourning coat which it would have refused to my
soldier's<br>
garb, somewhat surprised me. Still my bettered fortunes shone
only brightly<br>
by reflected light; for in my own heart I was sad, spiritless,
and<br>
oppressed.</p>

<p>Feeling somewhat ashamed at the coldness with which I treated
a man so much<br>
my elder, I gradually assumed towards Mr. Blake a manner less
reserved. He<br>
quickly availed himself of the change, and launched out into an
eloquent<br>
<i>expos&eacute;</i> of my advantages and capabilities; the only
immediate effect of<br>
which was to convince me that my property and my prospects must
have been<br>
very accurately conned over and considered by that worthy
gentleman before<br>
he could speak of the one or the other with such perfect
knowledge.</p>

<p>"When you get rid of these little encumbrances, your rent-roll
will be<br>
close on four thousand a year. There's Bassett, sure, by only
reducing his<br>
interest from ten to five per cent, will give you a clear eight
hundred per<br>
annum; let him refuse, and I'll advance the money. And, besides,
look at<br>
Freney's farm; there's two hundred acres let for one third of the
value,<br>
and you must look to these tilings; for, you see, Captain, we'll
want you<br>
to go into Parliament; you can't help coming forward at the next
election,<br>
and by the great gun of Athlone, we'll return you."</p>

<p>Here Mr. Blake swallowed a full bumper of sherry, and getting
up a little<br>
false enthusiasm for the moment, grasped me by both hands and
shook me<br>
violently; this done, like a skilful general, who, having fired
the last<br>
shot of his artillery, takes care to secure his retreat, he
retired towards<br>
the door, where his hat and coat were lying.</p>

<p>"I've a hundred apologies to make for encroaching upon your
time; but, upon<br>
my soul, Captain, you are so agreeable, and the hours have passed
away so<br>
pleasantly&mdash;May I never, if it is not one o'clock!&mdash;but you must
forgive<br>
me."</p>

<p>My sense of justice, which showed me that the agreeability had
all been on<br>
Mr. Blake's side, prevented me from acknowledging this compliment
as it<br>
deserved; so I merely bowed stiffly, without speaking. By this
time he had<br>
succeeded in putting on his great-coat, but still, by some
mischance or<br>
other, the moment of his leaving-taking was deferred; one time he
buttoned<br>
it awry, and had to undo it all again; then, when it was properly
adjusted,<br>
he discovered that his pocket-handkerchief was not available,
being left in<br>
the inner coat-pocket; to this succeeded a doubt as to the safety
of the<br>
check, which instituted another search, and it was full ten
minutes before<br>
he was completely caparisoned and ready for the road.</p>

<p>"Good-by, Captain, good-by!" said he warmly, yet warily, not
knowing at<br>
what precise temperature the metal of my heart was fusible. At a
mild heat<br>
I had been evidently unsinged, and the white glow of his flattery
seemed<br>
only to harden me. The interview was now over, and as I thought
sufficient<br>
had been done to convince my friend that the terms of distant
acquaintance<br>
were to be the limits of our future intercourse, I assumed a
little show of<br>
friendliness, and shook his hand warmly.</p>

<p>"Good-by, Mr. Blake; pray present my respectful compliments to
your<br>
friends. Allow me to ring for your horse; you are not going to
have a<br>
shower, I hope."</p>

<p>"No, no, Captain, only a passing cloud," said he, warming up
perceptibly<br>
under the influence of my advances, "nothing more. Why, what is
it I'm<br>
forgetting now! Oh, I have it! May be I'm too bold; but sure an
old friend<br>
and relation may take a liberty sometimes. It was just a little
request<br>
of Mrs. Blake, as I was leaving the house." He stopped here as if
to take<br>
soundings, and perceiving no change in my countenance, continued:
"It was<br>
just to beg, that, in a kind and friendly way, you'd come over
and eat your<br>
dinner with us on Sunday; nobody but the family, not a soul&mdash;Mrs.
Blake and<br>
the girls; a boiled leg of mutton; Matthew; a fresh trout, if we
can catch<br>
one! Plain and homely, but a hearty welcome, and a bottle of old
claret,<br>
may be, too&mdash;ah! ah! ah!"</p>

<p>Before the cadence of Mr. Blake's laugh had died away, I
politely but<br>
resolutely declined the proffered invitation, and by way of
setting the<br>
question at rest forever, gave him to understand that, from
impaired health<br>
and other causes, I had resolved upon strictly confining myself
to the<br>
limits of my own house and grounds, at least for the present.</p>

<p>Mr. Blake then saluted me for the last time, and left the
room. As he<br>
mounted his hackney, I could not help overhearing an abortive
effort he<br>
made to draw Mike into something like conversation; but it proved
an utter<br>
failure, and it was evident he deemed the man as incorrigible as
the<br>
master.</p>

<p>"A very fine young man the captain is&mdash;remarkable!&mdash;and it's
proud I am to<br>
have him for a nephew!"</p>

<p>So saying, he cantered down the avenue, while Mickey, as he
looked after<br>
him, muttered between his teeth, "And faix, it's prouder you'd be
av he was<br>
your son-in-law!"</p>

<p>Mike's soliloquy seemed to show me, in a new light, the
meaning of my<br>
relative's manner. It was for the first time in my life that such
a thought<br>
had occurred to me, and it was not without a sense of shame that
I now<br>
admitted it.</p>

<p>If there be something which elevates and exalts us in our
esteem, tinging<br>
our hearts with heroism and our souls with pride, in the love
and<br>
attachment of some fair and beautiful girl, there is something
equally<br>
humiliating in being the object of cold and speculative
calculation to a<br>
match-making family: your character studied; your pursuits
watched; your<br>
tastes conned over; your very temperament inquired into;
surrounded<br>
by snares; environed by practised attentions; one eye fixed upon
the<br>
registered testament of your relative, the other riveted upon
your own<br>
caprices; and then those thousand little cares and kindnesses
which come so<br>
pleasurably upon the heart when the offspring of true affection,
perverted<br>
as they are by base views and sordid interest, are so many shocks
to the<br>
feeling and understanding. Like the Eastern sirocco, which seems
to breathe<br>
of freshness and of health, and yet bears but pestilence and
death upon its<br>
breezes,&mdash;so these calculated and well-considered traits of
affection only<br>
render callous and harden the heart which had responded warmly,
openly, and<br>
abundantly to the true outpourings of affection. At how many a
previously<br>
happy hearth has the seed of this fatal passion planted its
discord! How<br>
many a fair and lovely girl, with beauty and attractions
sufficient to<br>
win all that her heart could wish of fondness and devotion, has,
by this<br>
pernicious passion, become a cold, heartless, worldly coquette,
weighing<br>
men's characters by the adventitious circumstances of their birth
and<br>
fortune, and scrutinizing the eligibility of a match with the
practised<br>
acumen with which a notary investigates the solvency of a
creditor. How do<br>
the traits of beauty, gesture, voice, and manner become converted
into the<br>
common-place and distasteful trickery of the world! The very
hospitality of<br>
the house becomes suspect, their friendship is but fictitious;
those rare<br>
and goodly gifts of fondness and sisterly affection which grow up
in<br>
happier circumstances, are here but rivalry, envy, and
ill-conceived<br>
hatred. The very accomplishments which cultivate and adorn life,
that light<br>
but graceful frieze which girds the temple of homely happiness,
are here<br>
but the meditated and well-considered occasions of display. All
the bright<br>
features of womanhood, all the freshness of youth, and all its
fascinations<br>
are but like those richly-colored and beautiful fruits, seductive
to the<br>
eye and fair to look upon, but which within contain nothing but a
core of<br>
rottenness and decay.</p>

<p>No, no; unblessed by all which makes a hearth a home, I may
travel on my<br>
weary way through life; but such a one as this I will not make
the partner<br>
of my sorrows and my joys, come what will of it!</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLV.</p>

<p>A SURPRISE.</p>

<p>From the hour of Mr. Blake's departure, my life was no longer
molested. My<br>
declaration, which had evidently, under his auspices, been made
the subject<br>
of conversation through the country, was at least so far
successful, as<br>
it permitted me to spend my time in the way I liked best, and
without the<br>
necessity of maintaining the show of intercourse, when in reality
I kept<br>
up none, with the neighborhood. While thus, therefore, my life
passed on<br>
equably and tranquilly, many mouths glided over, and I found
myself already<br>
a year at home, without it appearing more than a few weeks.
Nothing seems<br>
so short in retrospect as monotony; the number, the variety, the
interest<br>
of the events which occupy us, making our hours pass glibly and
flowingly,<br>
will still suggest to the mind the impressions of a longer period
than<br>
when the daily routine of our occupations assumes a character of
continued<br>
uniformity. It seems to be the <i>amende</i> made by hours of
weariness and<br>
tedium, that, in looking back upon them, they appear to have
passed rapidly<br>
over. Not that my life, at the period I speak of, was devoid of
interest;<br>
on the contrary, devoting myself with zeal and earnestness to the
new<br>
duties of my station, I made myself thoroughly acquainted with
the<br>
condition of my property, the interest of my tenantry, their
prospects,<br>
their hopes, their objects. Investigating them as only he can who
is<br>
the owner of the soil, I endeavored to remedy the ancient vices
of the<br>
land,&mdash;the habits of careless, reckless waste, of indifference
for the<br>
morrow; and by instilling a feature of prudent foresight into
that<br>
boundless confidence in the future upon which every Irishman of
every<br>
rank lives and trusts, I succeeded at last in so far ameliorating
their<br>
situation, that a walk through my property, instead of
presenting&mdash;as it<br>
at first did&mdash;a crowd of eager and anxious supplicants,
entreating for<br>
abatements in rent, succor for their sick, and sometimes even
food itself,<br>
showed me now a happy and industrious people, confident in
themselves, and<br>
firmly relying on their own resources.</p>

<p>Another spring was now opening, and a feeling of calm and
tranquil<br>
happiness, the result of my successful management of my estate,
made my<br>
days pass pleasantly along. I was sitting at a late breakfast in
my little<br>
library; the open window afforded a far and wide prospect of the
country,<br>
blooming in all the promise of the season, while the drops of the
passing<br>
shower still lingered upon the grass, and were sparkling like
jewels under<br>
the bright sunshine. Masses of white and billowy cloud moved
swiftly<br>
through the air, coloring the broad river with many a shadow as
they<br>
passed. The birds sang merrily, the trees shook their leaves in
concert,<br>
and there was that sense of movement in everything on earth and
sky which<br>
gives to spring its character of lightness and exhilaration. The
youth of<br>
the year, like the youth of our own existence, is beautiful in
the restless<br>
activity which marks it. The tender flower that seems to open as
we look;<br>
the grass that springs before our eyes,&mdash;all speak of promise.
The changing<br>
phases of the sky, like the smiles and tears of infancy, excite
without<br>
weariness, and while they engage our sympathies, they fatigue not
our<br>
compassion.</p>

<p>Partly lost in thought as I looked upon the fair and varied
scene before<br>
me, now turning to the pages of the book upon the
breakfast-table, the<br>
hours of the morning passed quickly over, and it was already
beyond noon. I<br>
was startled from my revery by sounds which I could scarcely
trust my<br>
ears to believe real. I listened again, and thought I could
detect them<br>
distinctly. It seemed as though some one were rapidly running
over the keys<br>
of a pianoforte, essaying with the voice to follow the notes, and
sometimes<br>
striking two or three bold and successive chords; then a merry
laugh would<br>
follow, and drown all other sounds. "What can it be?" thought I.
"There is,<br>
to be sure, a pianoforte in the large drawing-room; but then, who
would<br>
venture upon such a liberty as this? Besides, who is capable of
it? There,<br>
it can be no inexperienced performer gave that shake; my worthy
housekeeper<br>
never accomplished that!" So saying, I jumped from the
breakfast-table,<br>
and set off in the direction of the sound. A small drawing-room
and the<br>
billiard-room lay between me and the large drawing-room; and as I
traversed<br>
them, the music grew gradually louder. Conjecturing that, whoever
it might<br>
be, the performance would cease on my entrance, I listened for a
few<br>
moments before opening the door. Nothing could be more singular,
nothing<br>
more strange, than the effect of those unaccustomed sounds in
that silent<br>
and deserted place. The character of the music, too, contributed
not<br>
a little to this; rapidly passing from grave to gay, from the
melting<br>
softness of some plaintive air to the reckless hurry and
confusion of an<br>
Irish jig, the player seemed, as it were, to run wild through all
the<br>
floating fancies of his memory; now breaking suddenly off in the
saddest<br>
cadence of a song, the notes would change into some quaint,
old-fashioned<br>
crone, in which the singer seemed so much at home, and gave the
queer<br>
drollery of the words that expression of archness so eminently
the<br>
character of certain Irish airs. "But what the deuce is this?"
said I, as,<br>
rattling over the keys with a flowing but brilliant finger,
she,&mdash;for<br>
it was unquestionably a woman,&mdash;with a clear and sweet voice,
broken by<br>
laughter, began to sing the words of Mr. Bodkin's song, "The Man
for<br>
Galway." When she had finished the last verse, her hand strayed,
as it<br>
were, carelessly across the instrument, while she herself gave
way to a<br>
free burst of merriment; and then, suddenly resuming the air, she
chanted<br>
forth the following words, with a spirit and effect I can convey
no idea<br>
of:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "To live at home,<br>
    And never roam;<br>
    To pass his days in sighing;<br>
    To wear sad looks,<br>
    Read stupid books,<br>
    And look half dead or dying;<br>
    Not show his face,<br>
    Nor join the chase,<br>
    But dwell a hermit always:<br>
    Oh, Charley, dear!<br>
    To me 'tis clear,<br>
    You're not the man for Galway!"</p>

<p>"You're not the man for Galway!" repeated she once more, while
she closed<br>
the piano with a loud bang.</p>

<p>"And why not, my dear, why not the man for Galway?" said I,
as, bursting<br>
open the door, I sprang into the room.</p>

<p>"Oh, it's you, is it?&mdash;at last! So I've unearthed you, have
I?"</p>

<p>With these words she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter;
leaving me,<br>
who intended to be the party giving the surprise, amazed,
confused, and<br>
speechless, in the middle of the floor.</p>

<a name="0362"></a>
<img alt="0362.jpg (178K)" src="0362.jpg" height="733" width="789">

<p>[BABY BLAKE.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>That my reader may sympathize a little in my distresses, let
me present him<br>
with the <i>tableau</i> before me. Seated upon the piano-stool was a
young-lady<br>
of at most eighteen years: her face, had it not been for its
expression of<br>
exuberant drollery and malicious fun, would have been downright
beautiful;<br>
her eyes, of the deepest blue, and shaded by long lashes, instead
of<br>
indulging the character of pensive and thoughtful beauty for
which Nature<br>
destined them, sparkled with a most animated brightness; her
nose,<br>
which, rather short, was still beautifully proportioned, gave,
with<br>
her well-curled upper lip, a look of sauciness to the features
quite<br>
bewitching; her hair&mdash;that brilliant auburn we see in a <i>Carlo
Dolci</i>&mdash;fell<br>
in wild and massive curls upon her shoulders. Her costume was a
dark-green<br>
riding-habit, not of the newest in its fashion, and displaying
more than<br>
one rent in its careless folds; her hat, whip, and gloves lay on
the floor<br>
beside her, and her whole attitude and bearing indicated the most
perfect<br>
ease and carelessness.</p>

<p>"So you are caught&mdash;taken alive!" said she, as she pressed her
hands upon<br>
her sides in a fresh burst of laughter.</p>

<p>"By Jove! this is a surprise indeed!" said I. "And, pray, into
whose fair<br>
hands have I fallen a captive?" recovering myself a little, and
assuming a<br>
half air of gallantry.</p>

<p>"So you don't know me, don't you?"</p>

<p>"Upon my life I do not!"</p>

<p>"How good! Why, I'm Baby Blake."</p>

<p>"Baby Blake?" said I, thinking that a rather strange
appellation for one<br>
whose well-developed proportions betokened nothing of
infancy,&mdash;"Baby<br>
Blake?"</p>

<p>"To be sure; your cousin Baby."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said I, springing forward. "Let me embrace my
relative."<br>
Accepting my proffered salutation with the most exemplary
coolness, she<br>
said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Get a chair, now, and let's have a talk together."</p>

<p>"Why the devil do they call you Baby?" said I, still puzzled
by this<br>
palpable misnomer.</p>

<p>"Because I am the youngest, and I was always the baby,"
replied she,<br>
adjusting her ringlets with a most rural coquetry. "Now tell me
something.<br>
Why do you live shut up here like a madman, and not come near us
at<br>
Gurt-na-Morra?"</p>

<p>"Oh, that's a long story, Baby. But, since we are asking
questions, how did<br>
you get in here?"</p>

<p>"Just through the window, my dear; and I've torn my habit, as
you see."</p>

<p>So saying, she exhibited a rent of about two feet long,
thrusting through<br>
it a very pretty foot and ankle at the same time.</p>

<p>"As my inhospitable customs have cost you a habit, you must
let me make you<br>
a present of one."</p>

<p>"No, will you though? That's a good fellow. Lord! I told them
I knew you<br>
weren't a miser; that you were only odd, that's all."</p>

<p>"And how did you come over, Baby?"</p>

<p>"Just cantered over with little Paddy Byrne. I made him take
all the walls<br>
and ditches we met, and they're scraping the mud off him ever
since. I'm<br>
glad I made you laugh, Charley; they say you are so sad. Dear me,
how<br>
thirsty I am! Have you any beer?"</p>

<p>"To be sure, Baby. But wouldn't you like some luncheon?"</p>

<p>"Of all things. Well, this is fun!" said she, as taking my
arm, I led her<br>
from the drawing-room. "They don't know where I'm gone,&mdash;not one
of them;<br>
and I've a great mind not to tell them, if you wouldn't
blab."</p>

<p>"Would it be quite proper?"</p>

<p>"Proper!" cried she, imitating my voice. "I like that! as if I
was going to<br>
run away with you! Dear me, what a pretty house, and what nice
pictures!<br>
Who is the old fellow up there in the armor?"</p>

<p>"That's Sir Hildebrand O'Malley," said I, with some pride in
recognizing an<br>
ancestor of the thirteenth century.</p>

<p>"And the other old fright with the wig, and his hands stuck in
his<br>
pockets?"</p>

<p>"My grandfather, Baby."</p>

<p>"Lord, how ugly he is! Why, Charley, he hasn't the look of
you. One would<br>
think, too, he was angry at us. Ay, old gentleman, you don't like
to see me<br>
leaning on Cousin Charley's arm! That must be the luncheon; I'm
sure I hear<br>
knives and forks rattling there."</p>

<p>The old butler's astonishment was not inferior to my own a few
minutes<br>
before, when I entered the dining-room with my fair cousin upon
my arm.<br>
As I drew a chair towards the table, a thought struck me that
possibly<br>
it might only be a due attention to my fair guest if I invited
the<br>
housekeeper, Mrs. Magra, to favor us with her presence; and
accordingly, in<br>
an undertone, so as not to be overheard by old Simon, I
said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Perhaps, Baby, you'd like to have Mrs. Magra to keep us
company?"</p>

<p>"Who's she?" was the brief answer.</p>

<p>"The housekeeper; a very respectable old matron."</p>

<p>"Is she funny?"</p>

<p>"Funny! not a bit."</p>

<p>"Oh, then, never mind her. What made you think of her?"</p>

<p>"Why, I thought, perhaps you'd think&mdash;That is people might
say&mdash;In fact I<br>
was doing a little bit proper on your account."</p>

<p>"Oh, that was it, was it? Thank you for nothing, my dear; Baby
Blake can<br>
take care of herself. And now just help me to that wing there. Do
you know,<br>
Cousin Charley, I think you're an old quiz, and not half as good
a fellow<br>
as you used to be?"</p>

<p>"Come, come, Baby, don't be in such a hurry to pronounce upon
me. Let us<br>
take a glass of wine. Fill Miss Blake's glass, Simon."</p>

<p>"Well, you may be better when one comes to know you. I detest
sherry. No,<br>
never mind, I'll take it, as it's here. Charley, I'll not
compliment you<br>
upon your ham; they don't know how to save them here. I'll give
you such<br>
a receipt when you come over to see us. But will you come? That's
the<br>
question."</p>

<p>"How can you ask me! Don't you think I'll return your
visit?"</p>

<p>"Oh, hang your ceremony! Come and see us, like a good-natured
fellow that<br>
knew us since we played together and quarrelled over our toys on
the grass.<br>
Is that your sword up there? Did you hear that noise? That was
thunder:<br>
there it comes. Look at that!"</p>

<p>As she spoke, a darkness like night overspread the landscape;
the waves of<br>
the river became greatly agitated, and the rain, descending in
torrents,<br>
beat with tremendous force against the windows; clap after clap
of thunder<br>
followed; the lightning flashed fearfully through the gloom; and
the wind,<br>
growing every moment stronger, drove the rain with redoubled
violence<br>
against the glass. For a while we amused ourselves with watching
the<br>
effects of the storm without: the poor laborers flying from their
work; the<br>
dripping figures seeking shelter beneath the trees; the barques;
the very<br>
loaded carts themselves,&mdash;all interested Miss Baby, whose eye
roved from<br>
the shore to the Shannon, recognizing with a practised eye every
house upon<br>
its banks, and every barque that rocked and pitched beneath the
gale.</p>

<p>"Well, this is pleasant to look out at," said she, at length,
and after the<br>
storm had lasted for above an hour, without evincing any show of
abatement;<br>
"but what's to become of <i>me?</i>"</p>

<p>Now that was the very question I had been asking myself for
the last twenty<br>
minutes without ever being able to find the answer.</p>

<p>"Eh, Charley, what's to become of me?"</p>

<p>"Oh, never fear; one thing's quite certain, you cannot leave
this in such<br>
weather. The river is certainly impassable by this time at the
ford, and to<br>
go by the road is out of the question; it is fully twelve miles.
I have it,<br>
Baby; you, as I've said before, can't leave this, but I can. Now,
I'll go<br>
over to Gurt-na-Morra, and return in the morning to bring you
back; it will<br>
be fine by that time."</p>

<p>"Well, I like your notion. You'll leave me all alone here to
drink tea, I<br>
suppose, with your friend Mrs. Magra. A pleasant evening I'd have
of it;<br>
not a bit&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, Baby, don't be cross; I only meant this arrangement
really for your<br>
sake. I needn't tell you how very much I'd prefer doing the
honors of my<br>
poor house in person."</p>

<p>"Oh, I see what you mean,&mdash;more propers. Well, well, I've a
great deal to<br>
learn; but look, I think its growing lighter."</p>

<p>"No, far from it; it's only that gray mass along the horizon
that always<br>
bodes continual rain."</p>

<p>As the prospect without had little cheering to look upon, we
sat down<br>
beside the fire and chatted away, forgetting very soon in a
hundred mutual<br>
recollections and inquiries, the rain and the wind, the thunder
and the<br>
hurricane. Now and then, as some louder crash would resound above
our<br>
heads, for a moment we would turn to the window, and comment upon
the<br>
dreadful weather; but the next, we had forgotten all about it,
and were<br>
deep in our confabulations.</p>

<p>As for my fair cousin, who at first was full of contrivances
to pass<br>
the time,&mdash;such as the piano, a game at backgammon, chicken
hazard,<br>
battledoor,&mdash;she at last became mightily interested in some of
my<br>
soldiering adventures, and it was six o'clock ere we again
thought that<br>
some final measure must be adopted for restoring Baby to her
friends, or at<br>
least, guarding against the consequences her simple and guileless
nature<br>
might have involved her in.</p>

<p>Mike was called into the conference, and at his suggestion, it
was decided<br>
that we should have out the phaeton, and that I should myself
drive<br>
Miss Blake home; a plan which offered no other difficulties than
this<br>
one,&mdash;namely, that of above thirty horses in my stables, I had
not a single<br>
pair which had ever been harnessed.</p>

<p>This, so far from proving the obstacle I deemed it, seemed, on
the<br>
contrary, to overwhelm Baby with delight.</p>

<p>"Let's have them. Come, Charley, this will be rare fun; we
couldn't have a<br>
team of four, could we?"</p>

<p>"Six, if you like it, my dear coz&mdash;only who's to hold them?
They're young<br>
thorough-breds,&mdash;most of them never backed; some not bitted. In
fact, I<br>
know nothing of my stable. I say, Mike, is there anything fit to
take out?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; there's Miss Wildespin, she's in training, to be
sure; but we<br>
can't help that; and the brown colt they call, 'Billy the
Bolter,'&mdash;they're<br>
the likeliest we have; without your honor would take the two
chestnuts we<br>
took up last week; they're raal devils to go; and if the tackle
will hold<br>
them, they'll bring you to Mr. Blake's door in forty
minutes."</p>

<p>"I vote for the chestnuts," said Baby, slapping her boot with
her<br>
horsewhip.</p>

<p>"I move an amendment in favor of Miss Wildespin," said I,
doubtfully.</p>

<p>"He'll never do for Galway," sang Baby, laying her whip on my
shoulder with<br>
no tender hand; "yet you used to cross the country in good style
when you<br>
were here before."</p>

<p>"And might do so again, Baby."</p>

<p>"Ah, no; that vile dragoon seat, with your long stirrup, and
your heel<br>
dropped, and your elbow this way, and your head that! How could
you ever<br>
screw your horse up to his fence, lifting him along as you came
up through<br>
the heavy ground, and with a stroke of your hand sending him pop
over, with<br>
his hind-legs well under him?" Here she burst into a fit of
laughter at my<br>
look of amazement, as with voice, gesture, and look she actually
dramatized<br>
the scene she described.</p>

<p>By the time that I had costumed my fair friend in my dragoon
cloak and a<br>
foraging cap, with a gold band around it, which was the extent of
muffling<br>
my establishment could muster, a distant noise without apprised
us that the<br>
phaeton was approaching. Certainly, the mode in which that
equipage came<br>
up to the door might have inspired sentiments of fear in any
heart less<br>
steeled against danger than my fair cousin's. The two blood
chestnuts (for<br>
it was those Mike harnessed, having a groom's dislike to take a
racer out<br>
of training) were surrounded by about twenty people: some at
their heads;<br>
some patting them on the flanks; some spoking the wheels; and a
few, the<br>
more cautious of the party, standing at a respectable distance
and offering<br>
advice. The mode of progression was simply a spring, a plunge, a
rear,<br>
a lounge, and a kick; and considering it was the first time they
ever<br>
performed together, nothing could be more uniform than their
display.<br>
Sometimes the pole would be seen to point straight upward, like a
lightning<br>
conductor, while the infuriated animals appeared sparring with
their<br>
fore-legs at an imaginary enemy. Sometimes, like the pictures in
a<br>
school-book on mythology, they would seem in the act of diving,
while<br>
with their hind-legs they dashed the splash-board into fragments
behind<br>
them,&mdash;their eyes flashing fire, their nostrils distended, their
flanks<br>
heaving, and every limb trembling with passion and
excitement.</p>

<p>"That's what I call a rare turn-out," said Baby, who enjoyed
the proceeding<br>
amazingly.</p>

<p>"Yes; but remember," said I, "we're not to have all these
running footmen<br>
the whole way."</p>

<p>"I like that near-sider with the white fetlock."</p>

<p>"You're right, Miss," said Mike, who entered at the moment,
and felt quite<br>
gratified at the criticism,&mdash;"you're right, Miss; it's himself
can do it."</p>

<p>"Come, Baby, are you ready?"</p>

<p>"All right, sir," said she, touching her cap knowingly with
her forefinger.</p>

<p>"Will the tackle hold, Mike?" said I.</p>

<p>"We'll take this with us, at any rate," pointing, as he spoke,
to a<br>
considerable coil of rope, a hammer, and a basket of nails, he
carried on<br>
his arm. "It's the break harness we have, and it ought to be
strong enough;<br>
but sure if the thunder comes on again, they'd smash a chain
cable."</p>

<p>"Now, Charley," cried Baby, "keep their heads straight; for
when they go<br>
that way, they mean going."</p>

<p>"Well, Baby, let's start; but pray remember one thing,&mdash;if I'm
not as<br>
agreeable on the journey as I ought to be, if I don't say as many
pretty<br>
things to my pretty coz, it's because these confounded beasts
will give me<br>
as much as I can do."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, look after the cattle, and take another time for
squeezing my<br>
hand. I say, Charley, you'd like to smoke, now, wouldn't you? If
so, don't<br>
mind me."</p>

<p>"A thousand thanks for thinking of it; but I'll not commit
such a trespass<br>
on good breeding."</p>

<p>When we reached the door, the prospect looked dark and dismal
enough. The<br>
rain had almost ceased, but masses of black clouds were hurrying
across<br>
the sky, and the low rumbling noise of a gathering storm crept
along the<br>
ground. Our panting equipage, with its two mounted grooms
behind,&mdash;for to<br>
provide against all accident, Mike ordered two such to follow
us,&mdash;stood<br>
in waiting. Miss Blake's horse, held by the smallest imaginable
bit of<br>
boyhood, bringing up the rear.</p>

<p>"Look at Paddy Byrne's face," said Baby, directing my
attention to the<br>
little individual in question.</p>

<p>Now, small as the aforesaid face was, it contrived, within its
limits, to<br>
exhibit an expression of unqualified fear. I had no time,
however, to give<br>
a second look, when I jumped into the phaeton and seized the
reins. Mike<br>
sprang up behind at a look from me, and without speaking a word,
the<br>
stablemen and helpers flew right and left. The chestnuts, seeing
all free<br>
before them, made one tremendous plunge, carrying the
fore-carriage clear<br>
off the ground, and straining every nut, bolt, screw, and strap
about us<br>
with the effort.</p>

<p>"They're off now," cried Mickey.</p>

<p>"Yes, they are off now," said Baby. "Keep them going."</p>

<p>Nothing could be easier to follow than this advice; and in
fact so little<br>
merit had I in obeying it, that I never spoke a word. Down the
avenue we<br>
went, at the speed of lightning, the stones and the water from
the late<br>
rain flying and splashing about us. In one series of plunges,
agreeably<br>
diversified by a strong bang upon the splash-board, we reached
the gate.<br>
Before I had time to utter a prayer for our safety, we were
through and<br>
fairly upon the high road.</p>

<p>"Musha, but the master's mad!" cried the old dame of the
gate-lodge; "he<br>
wasn't out of this gate for a year and a half, and look
now&mdash;"</p>

<p>The rest was lost in the clear ringing laugh of Baby, who
clapped her hands<br>
in ecstasy and delight.</p>

<p>"What a spanking pair they are! I suppose you wouldn't let me
get my hand<br>
on them?" said she, making a gesture as if to take the reins.</p>

<p>"Heaven forbid, my dear!" said I; "they've nearly pulled my
wrists off<br>
already."</p>

<p>Our road, like many in the west of Ireland, lay through a
level tract of<br>
bog; deep ditches, half filled with water, on either side of us,
but,<br>
fortunately, neither hill nor valley for several miles.</p>

<p>"There's the mail," said Baby, pointing to a dark speck at a
long distance<br>
off.</p>

<p>Ere many minutes elapsed, our stretching gallop, for such had
our pace<br>
sobered into, brought us up with it, and as we flew by, at top
speed, Baby<br>
jumped to her feet, and turning a waggish look at our beaten
rivals, burst<br>
out into a fit of triumphant laughter.</p>

<p>Mike was correct as to time; in some few seconds less than
forty minutes we<br>
turned into the avenue of Gurt-na-Morra. Tearing along like the
very moment<br>
of their starting, the hot and fiery animals galloped up the
approach, and<br>
at length came to a stop in a deep ploughed field, into which,
fortunately<br>
for us, Mr. Blake, animated less by the picturesque than the
profitable,<br>
had converted his green lawn. This check, however, was less owing
to my<br>
agency than to that of my servants; for dismounting in haste,
they flew to<br>
the horses' heads, and with ready tact, and before I had helped
my cousin<br>
to the ground, succeeded in unharnessing them from the carriage,
and led<br>
them, blown and panting, covered with foam, and splashed with
mud, into the<br>
space before the door.</p>

<p>By this time we were joined by the whole Blake family, who
poured forth in<br>
astonishment at our strange and sudden appearance. Explanation on
my part<br>
was unnecessary, for Baby, with a volubility quite her own, gave
the whole<br>
recital in less than three minutes. From the moment of her advent
to her<br>
departure, they had it all; and while she mingled her ridicule at
my<br>
surprise, her praise of my luncheon, her jests at my prudence,
the whole<br>
family joined heartily in her mirth, while they welcomed, with
most<br>
unequivocal warmth, my first visit to Gurt-na-Morra.</p>

<p>I confess it was with no slight gratification I remarked that
Baby's visit<br>
was as much a matter of surprise to them as to me. Believing her
to have<br>
gone to visit at Portumna Castle, they felt no uneasiness at her
absence;<br>
so that, in her descent upon me, she was really only guided by
her own<br>
wilful fancy, and that total absence of all consciousness of
wrong which<br>
makes a truly innocent girl the hardiest of all God's creatures.
I was<br>
reassured by this feeling, and satisfied that, whatever the
intentions of<br>
the elder members of the Blake family, Baby was, at least, no
participator<br>
in their plots or sharer in their intrigues.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVI.</p>

<p>NEW VIEWS.</p>

<p>When I found myself the next morning at home, I could not help
ruminating<br>
over the strange adventures of the preceding day, and felt a kind
of<br>
self-reproach at the frigid manner in which I had hitherto
treated all the<br>
Blake advances, contrasting so ill for me with the unaffected
warmth and<br>
kind good-nature of their reception. Never alluding, even by
accident, to<br>
my late estrangement; never, by a chance speech, indicating that
they<br>
felt any soreness for the past,&mdash;they talked away about the
gossip of<br>
the country: its feuds, its dinners, its assizes, its balls,
its<br>
garrisons,&mdash;all the varied subjects of country life were gayly
and<br>
laughingly discussed; and when, as I entered my own silent and
deserted<br>
home, and contrasted its look of melancholy and gloom with the
gay and<br>
merry scene I so lately parted from, when my echoing steps
reverberated<br>
along the flagged hall,&mdash;I thought of the happy family picture I
left<br>
behind me, and could not help avowing to myself that the goods of
fortune<br>
I possessed were but ill dispensed, when, in the midst of every
means and<br>
appliance for comfort and happiness, I lived a solitary man,
companionless<br>
and alone.</p>

<p>I arose from breakfast a hundred times,&mdash;now walking
impatiently towards<br>
the window, now strolling into the drawing-room. Around, on every
side, lay<br>
scattered the prints and drawings, as Baby had thrown them
carelessly<br>
upon the floor; her handkerchief was also there. I took it up; I
know not<br>
why,&mdash;some lurking leaven of old romance perhaps suggested
it,&mdash;but I hoped<br>
it might prove of delicate texture, and bespeaking that lady-like
coquetry<br>
which so pleasantly associates with the sex in our minds. Alas,
no! Nothing<br>
could be more palpably the opposite: torn, and with a knot&mdash;some
hint to<br>
memory&mdash;upon one corner, it was no aid to my careering fancy. And
yet&mdash;and<br>
yet, what a handsome girl she is; how finely, how delicately
formed that<br>
Greek outline of forehead and brow; how transparently soft that
downy pink<br>
upon her cheek! With what varied expression those eyes can
beam!&mdash;ay, that<br>
they can: but, confound it, there's this fault, their very
archness, their<br>
sly malice, will be interpreted by the ill-judging world to any
but the<br>
real motive. "How like a flirt!" will one say. "How impertinent!
How<br>
ill-bred!" The conventional stare of cold, patched, and painted
beauty,<br>
upon whose unblushing cheek no stray tinge of modesty has
wandered, will be<br>
tolerated, even admired; while the artless beamings of the soul
upon the<br>
face of rural loveliness will be condemned without appeal.</p>

<p>Such a girl may a man marry who destines his days to the wild
west; but woe<br>
unto him!&mdash;woe unto him, should he migrate among the more
civilized and<br>
less charitable <i>coteries</i> of our neighbors!</p>

<p>"Ah, here are the papers, and I was forgetting. Let me
see&mdash;'Bayonne'&mdash;ay,<br>
'march of the troops&mdash;Sixth Corps.' What can that be without? I
say, Mike,<br>
who is cantering along the avenue?"</p>

<p>"It's me, sir. I'm training the brown filly for Miss Mary, as
your honor<br>
bid me last night."</p>

<p>"Ah, very true. Does she go quietly?"</p>

<p>"Like a lamb, sir; barrin' she does give a kick now and then
at the sheet,<br>
when it bangs against her legs."</p>

<p>"Am I to go over with the books now, sir?" said a wild-looking
shockhead<br>
appearing within the door.</p>

<p>"Yes, take them over, with my compliments; and say I hope Miss
Mary Blake<br>
has caught no cold."</p>

<p>"You were speaking about a habit and hat, sir?" said Mrs.
Magra, curtsying<br>
as she entered.</p>

<p>"Yes, Mrs. Magra; I want your advice. Oh, tell Barnes I really
cannot be<br>
bored about those eternal turnips every day of my life. And,
Mike, I wish<br>
you'd make them look over the four-horse harness. I want to try
those<br>
grays; they tell me they'll run well together. Well, Freney,
more<br>
complaints, I hope? Nothing but trespasses! I don't care, so
you'd not<br>
worry me, if they eat up every blade of clover in the grounds;
I'm sick<br>
of being bored this way. Did you say that we'd eight couple of
good<br>
dogs?&mdash;quite enough to begin with. Tell Jones to ride into
Banagher and<br>
look after that box; Buckmaster sent it from London two months
ago, and it<br>
has been lying there ever since. And, Mrs. Magra, pray let the
windows be<br>
opened, and the house well aired; that drawing-room would be all
the better<br>
for new papering."</p>

<p>These few and broken directions may serve to show my
readers&mdash;what<br>
certainly they failed to convince myself of&mdash;that a new chapter
of my life<br>
had opened before me; and that, in proportion to the length of
time<br>
my feelings had found neither vent nor outlet, they now rushed
madly,<br>
tempestuously into their new channels, suffering no impediment to
arrest,<br>
no obstacle to oppose their current.</p>

<p>Nothing can be conceived more opposite to my late, than my
present habits<br>
now became. The house, the grounds, the gardens, all seemed to
participate<br>
in the new influence which beamed upon myself; the stir and
bustle of<br>
active life was everywhere perceptible; and amidst numerous
preparations<br>
for the moors and the hunting-field, for pleasure parties upon
the river,<br>
and fishing excursions up the mountains, my days were spent. The
Blakes,<br>
without even for a moment pressing their attentions upon me,
permitted me<br>
to go and come among them unquestioned and unasked. When, nearly
every<br>
morning, I appeared in the breakfast-room, I felt exactly like a
member of<br>
the family; the hundred little discrepancies of thought and habit
which<br>
struck me forcibly at first, looked daily less apparent; the
careless<br>
inattentions of my fair cousins as to dress, their free-and-easy
boisterous<br>
manner, their very accents, which fell so harshly on my ear,
gradually made<br>
less and less impression, until at last, when a raw English
Ensign, just<br>
arrived in the neighborhood, remarked to me in confidence, "What
devilish<br>
fine girls they were, if they were not so confoundedly Irish!" I
could not<br>
help wondering what the fellow meant, and attributed the
observation more<br>
to his ignorance than to its truth.</p>

<p>Papa and Mamma Blake, like prudent generals, so long as they
saw the forces<br>
of the enemy daily wasting before them; so long as they could
with impunity<br>
carry on the war at his expense,&mdash;resolved to risk nothing by a
pitched<br>
battle. Unlike the Dalrymples, they could leave all to time.</p>

<p>Oh, tell me not of dark eyes swimming in their own ethereal
essence;<br>
tell me not of pouting lips, of glossy ringlets, of taper
fingers, and<br>
well-rounded insteps; speak not to me of soft voices, whose
seductive<br>
sounds ring sweetly in our hearts; preach not of those thousand
womanly<br>
graces so dear to every man, and doubly to him who lives apart
from all<br>
their influences and their fascinations; neither dwell upon
congenial<br>
temperament, similarity of taste, of disposition, and of thought;
these are<br>
not the great risks a man runs in life. Of all the temptations,
strong as<br>
these may be, there is one greater than them all, and that is,
propinquity!</p>

<p>Show me the man who has ever stood this test; show me the man,
deserving<br>
the name of such, who has become daily and hourly exposed to the
breaching<br>
artillery of flashing eyes, of soft voices, of winning smiles,
and kind<br>
speeches, and who hasn't felt, and that too soon too, a breach
within<br>
the rampart of his heart. He may, it is true,&mdash;nay, he will, in
many<br>
cases,&mdash;make a bold and vigorous defence; sometimes will he
re-intrench<br>
himself within the stockades of his prudence; but, alas! it is
only to<br>
defer the moment when he must lay down his arms. He may, like a
wise man<br>
who sees his fate inevitable, make a virtue of necessity, and
surrender at<br>
discretion; or, like a crafty foe, seeing his doom before him,
under the<br>
cover of the night he may make a sortie from the garrison, and
run for his<br>
life. Ignominious as such a course must be, it is often the only
one left.</p>

<p>But to come back. Love, like the small-pox, is most dangerous
when you take<br>
it in the natural way. Those made matches, which Heaven is
supposed to<br>
have a hand in, when placing an unmarried gentleman's property in
the<br>
neighborhood of an unmarried lady's, which destine two people for
each<br>
other in life, because their well-judging friends have agreed,
"They'll do<br>
very well; they were made for each other,"&mdash;these are the mild
cases of the<br>
malady. This process of friendly vaccination takes out the poison
of the<br>
disease, substituting a more harmless and less exciting
affection; but the<br>
really dangerous instances are those from contact, that same
propinquity,<br>
that confounded tendency every man yields to, to fall into a
railroad of<br>
habit; that is the risk, that is the danger. What a bore it is to
find that<br>
the absence of one person, with whom you're in no wise in love,
will spoil<br>
your morning's canter, or your rowing party upon the river! How
much put<br>
out are you, when she, to whom you always gave your arm in to
dinner,<br>
does not make her appearance in the drawing-room; and your tea,
too, some<br>
careless one, indifferent to your taste, puts a lump of sugar too
little,<br>
or cream too much, while she&mdash;But no matter; habit has done for
you what<br>
no direct influence of beauty could do, and a slave to your own
selfish<br>
indulgences, and the cultivation of that ease you prize so
highly, you fall<br>
over head and ears in love.</p>

<p>Now, you are not, my good reader, by any means to suppose that
this was my<br>
case. No, no; I was too much what the world terms the "old
soldier" for<br>
that. To continue my illustration: like the fortress that has
been often<br>
besieged, the sentry upon the walls keeps more vigilant watch;
his ear<br>
detects the far-off clank of the dread artillery; he marks each
parallel;<br>
he notes down every breaching battery; and if he be captured, at
least it<br>
is in fair fight.</p>

<p>Such were some of my reflections as I rode slowly home one
evening from<br>
Gurt-na-Morra. Many a time, latterly, had I contrasted my own
lonely and<br>
deserted hearth with the smiling looks, the happy faces, and the
merry<br>
voices I had left behind me; and many a time did I ask myself,
"Am I never<br>
to partake of a happiness like this?" How many a man is seduced
into<br>
matrimony from this very feeling! How many a man whose hours have
passed<br>
fleetingly at the pleasant tea-table, or by the warm hearth of
some old<br>
country-house, going forth into the cold and cheerless night,
reaches his<br>
far-off home only to find it dark and gloomy, joyless and
companionless?<br>
How often has the hard-visaged look of his old butler, as, with
sleepy eyes<br>
and yawning face, he hands a bed-room candle, suggested thoughts
of married<br>
happiness? Of the perils of propinquity I have already spoken;
the risks of<br>
contrast are also great. Have you never, in strolling through
some fragrant<br>
and rich conservatory, fixed your eye upon a fair and lovely
flower, whose<br>
blossoming beauty seems to give all the lustre and all the
incense of<br>
the scene around? And how have you thought it would adorn and
grace the<br>
precincts of your home, diffusing fragrance on every side. Alas,
the<br>
experiment is not always successful. Much of the charm and many
of the<br>
fascinations which delight you are the result of association of
time and of<br>
place. The lovely voice, whose tones have spoken to your heart,
may, like<br>
some instrument, be delightful in the harmony of the orchestra,
but, after<br>
all, prove a very middling performer in a duet.</p>

<p>I say not this to deter men from matrimony, but to warn them
from a<br>
miscalculation which may mar their happiness. Flirtation is a
very fine<br>
thing, but it's only a state of transition after all. The tadpole
existence<br>
of the lover would be great fun, if one was never to become a
frog under<br>
the hands of the parson. I say all this dispassionately and
advisedly. Like<br>
the poet of my country, for many years of my life,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "My only books were woman's looks,"</p>

<p>and certainly I subscribe to a circulating library.</p>

<p>All this long digression may perhaps bring the reader to where
it brought<br>
me,&mdash;the very palpable conviction, that, though not in love with
my cousin<br>
Baby, I could not tell when I might eventually become so.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVII.</p>

<p>A RECOGNITION.</p>

<p>The most pleasing part about retrospect is the memory of our
bygone hopes.<br>
The past, however happy, however blissful, few would wish to live
over<br>
again; but who is there that does not long for, does not pine
after the<br>
day-dream which gilded the future, which looked ever forward to
the time to<br>
come as to a realization of all that was dear to us, lightening
our present<br>
cares, soothing our passing sorrows by that one thought?</p>

<p>Life is marked out in periods in which, like stages in a
journey, we rest<br>
and repose ourselves, casting a look, now back upon the road we
have been<br>
travelling, now throwing a keener glance towards the path left
us. It is at<br>
such spots as these remembrance comes full upon us, and that we
feel how<br>
little our intentions have swayed our career or influenced our
actions;<br>
the aspirations, the resolves of youth, are either looked upon as
puerile<br>
follies, or a most distant day settled on for their realization.
The<br>
principles we fondly looked to, like our guide-stars, are dimly
visible,<br>
not seen; the friends we cherished are changed and gone; the
scenes<br>
themselves seem no longer the sunshine and the shade we loved;
and, in<br>
fact, we are living in a new world, where our own altered
condition gives<br>
the type to all around us; the only link that binds us to the
past being<br>
that same memory that like a sad curfew tolls the twilight of our
fairest<br>
dreams and most cherished wishes.</p>

<p>That these glimpses of the bygone season of our youth should
be but fitful<br>
and passing&mdash;tinging, not coloring the landscape of our life&mdash;we
should be<br>
engaged in all the active bustle and turmoil of the world,
surrounded by<br>
objects of hope, love, and ambition, stemming the strong tide in
whose<br>
fountain is fortune.</p>

<p>He, however, who lives apart, a dreary and a passionless
existence, will<br>
find that in the past, more than in the future, his thoughts have
found<br>
their resting-place; memory usurps the place of hope, and he
travels<br>
through life like one walking onward; his eyes still turning
towards some<br>
loved forsaken spot, teeming with all the associations of his
happiest<br>
hours, and preserving, even in distance, the outline that he
loved.</p>

<p>Distance in time, as in space, smooths down all the
inequalities of<br>
surface; and as the cragged and rugged mountain, darkened by
cliff and<br>
precipice, shows to the far-off traveller but some blue and misty
mass,<br>
so the long-lost-sight-of hours lose all the cares and griefs
that tinged<br>
them, and to our mental eye, are but objects of uniform
loveliness and<br>
beauty; and if we do not think of</p>

<p>    "The smiles, the tears,<br>
    Of boyhood's years,"</p>

<p>it is because, like April showers, they but checker the spring
of our<br>
existence.</p>

<p>For myself, baffled in hope at a period when most men but
begin to feel it,<br>
I thought myself much older than I really was; the
disappointments of the<br>
world, like the storms of the ocean, impart a false sense of
experience to<br>
the young heart, as he sails forth upon his voyage; and it is an
easy error<br>
to mistake trials for time.</p>

<p>The goods of fortune by which I was surrounded, took nothing
from the<br>
bitterness of my retrospect; on the contrary, I could not help
feeling that<br>
every luxury of my life was bought by my surrender of that career
which had<br>
elated me in my own esteem, and which, setting a high and noble
ambition<br>
before me, taught me to be a man.</p>

<p>To be happy, one must not only fulfil the duties and exactions
of his<br>
station, but the station itself must answer to his views and
aspirations<br>
in life. Now, mine did not sustain this condition: all that my
life had<br>
of promise was connected with the memory of her who never could
share my<br>
fortunes; of her for whom I had earned praise and honor; becoming
ambitious<br>
as the road to her affection, only to learn after, that my hopes
were but a<br>
dream, and my paradise a wilderness.</p>

<p>While thus the inglorious current of my life ran on, I was not
indifferent<br>
to the mighty events the great continent of Europe was
witnessing. The<br>
successes of the Peninsular campaign; the triumphant entry of
the<br>
British into France; the downfall of Napoleon; the restoration of
the<br>
Bourbons,&mdash;followed each other with the rapidity of the most
common-place<br>
occurrences; and in the few short years in which I had sprung
from boyhood<br>
to man's estate, the whole condition of the world was altered.
Kings<br>
deposed; great armies disbanded; rightful sovereigns restored to
their<br>
dominions; banished and exiled men returned to their country,
invested with<br>
rank and riches; and peace, in the fullest tide of its blessings,
poured<br>
down upon the earth devastated and blood-stained.</p>

<p>Years passed on; and between the careless abandonment to the
mere amusement<br>
of the hour, and the darker meditation upon the past, time
slipped away.<br>
From my old friends and brother officers I heard but rarely.
Power, who at<br>
first wrote frequently, grew gradually less and less
communicative. Webber,<br>
who had gone to Paris at the peace, had written but one letter;
while, from<br>
the rest, a few straggling lines were all I received. In truth be
it told,<br>
my own negligence and inability to reply cost me this apparent
neglect.</p>

<p>It was a fine evening in May, when, rigging up a sprit-sail, I
jumped into<br>
my yawl, and dropped easily down the river. The light wind gently
curled<br>
the crested water, the trees waved gently and shook their
branches in the<br>
breeze, and my little barque, bending slightly beneath, rustled
on her<br>
foamy track with that joyous bounding motion so inspiriting to
one's<br>
heart. The clouds were flying swiftly past, tinging with their
shadows the<br>
mountains beneath; the Munster shore, glowing with a rich
sunlight, showed<br>
every sheep-cot and every hedge-row clearly out, while the deep
shadow of<br>
tall Scariff darkened the silent river where Holy Island, with
its ruined<br>
churches and melancholy tower, was reflected in the still
water.</p>

<p>It was a thoroughly Irish landscape: the changeful sky; the
fast-flitting<br>
shadows; the brilliant sunlight; the plenteous fields; the broad
and<br>
swelling stream; the dark mountain, from whose brown crest a
wreath of thin<br>
blue smoke was rising,&mdash;were all there smiling yet sadly, like
her own<br>
sons, across whose lowering brow some fitful flash of fancy ever
playing<br>
dallies like sunbeams on a darkening stream, nor marks the depth
that lies<br>
below.</p>

<p>I sat musing over the strange harmony of Nature with the
temperament of<br>
man, every phase of his passionate existence seeming to have its
type in<br>
things inanimate, when a loud cheer from the land aroused me, and
the<br>
words, "Charley! Cousin Charley!" came wafted over the water to
where<br>
I lay. For some time I could but distinguish the faint outline of
some<br>
figures on the shore; but as I came nearer, I recognized my fair
cousin<br>
Baby, who, with a younger brother of some eight or nine years
old, was<br>
taking an evening walk.</p>

<p>"Do you know, Charley," said she, "the boys have gone over to
the castle to<br>
look for you; we want you particularly this evening."</p>

<p>"Indeed, Cousin Baby! Well, I fear you must make my
excuses."</p>

<p>"Then, once for all, I will not. I know this is one of your
sulky moods,<br>
and I tell you frankly I'll not put up with them any more."</p>

<p>"No, no, Baby, not so; out of spirits if you will, but not out
of temper."</p>

<p>"The distinction is much too fine for me, if there be any. But
there now,<br>
do be a good fellow; come up with us&mdash;come up with me!"</p>

<p>As she said this she placed her arm within mine. I thought,
too,&mdash;perhaps<br>
it was but a thought,&mdash;she pressed me gently. I know she blushed
and turned<br>
away her head to hide it.</p>

<p>"I don't pretend to be proof to your entreaty, Cousin Baby,"
said I, with<br>
half-affected gallantry, putting her fingers to my lips.</p>

<p>"There, how can you be so foolish; look at William yonder; I
am sure he<br>
must have seen you!" But William, God bless him! was
bird's-nesting or<br>
butterfly-hunting or daisy-picking or something of that kind.</p>

<p>O ye young brothers, who, sufficiently old to be deemed
companions and<br>
<i>chaperons</i>, but yet young enough to be regarded as having
neither eyes nor<br>
ears, what mischief have ye to answer for; what a long reckoning
of tender<br>
speeches, of soft looks, of pressed hands, lies at your door!
What an<br>
incentive to flirtation is the wily imp who turns ever and anon
from his<br>
careless gambols to throw his laughter-loving eyes upon you,
calling up the<br>
mantling blush to both your cheeks! He seems to chronicle the
hours of your<br>
dalliance, making your secrets known unto each other. We have
gone through<br>
our share of flirtation in this life: match-making mothers,
prying aunts,<br>
choleric uncles, benevolent and open-hearted fathers, we
understand to the<br>
life, and care no more for such man-traps than a Melton man, well
mounted<br>
on his strong-boned thorough-bred, does for a four-barred
ox-fence that<br>
lies before him. Like him, we take them flying; never relaxing
the slapping<br>
stride of our loose gallop, we go straight ahead, never turning
aside,<br>
except for a laugh at those who flounder in the swamps we sneer
at. But we<br>
confess honestly, we fear the little, brother, the small urchin
who, with<br>
nankeen trousers and three rows of buttons, performs the part of
Cupid. He<br>
strikes real terror into our heart; he it is who, with a cunning
wink or<br>
sly smile, seems to confirm the soft nonsense we are weaving; by
some<br>
slight gesture he seems to check off the long reckoning of our
attentions,<br>
bringing us every moment nearer to the time when the score must
be settled<br>
and the debt paid. He it is who, by a memory delightfully
oblivious of<br>
his task and his table-book, is tenacious to the life of what you
said<br>
to Fanny; how you put your head under Lucy's bonnet; he can
imitate to<br>
perfection the way you kneeled upon the grass; and the wretch has
learned<br>
to smack his lips like a <i>gourmand</i>, that he, may convey another
stage of<br>
your proceeding.</p>

<p>Oh, for infant schools for everything under the age of ten!
Oh, for<br>
factories for the children of the rich! The age of prying
curiosity is from<br>
four-and-a-half to nine, and Fonch&eacute; himself might get a
lesson in <i>police</i><br>
from an urchin in his alphabet.</p>

<p>I contrived soon, however, to forget the presence of even the
little<br>
brother. The night was falling; Baby appeared getting fatigued
with her<br>
walk, for she leaned somewhat more heavily upon my arm, and I&mdash;I
cannot<br>
tell wherefore&mdash;fell into that train of thinking aloud, which
somehow, upon<br>
a summer's eve, with a fair girl beside one, is the very nearest
thing to<br>
love-making.</p>

<p>"There, Charley, don't now&mdash;ah, don't! Do let go my hand; they
are coming<br>
down the avenue."</p>

<p>I had scarcely time to obey the injunction, when Mr. Blake
called out:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, indeed! Charley, this is really fortunate; we have got
a friend to<br>
take tea with us, and wanted you to meet him."</p>

<p>Muttering an internal prayer for something not exactly the
welfare of the<br>
aforesaid friend, whom I judged to be some Galway squire, I
professed aloud<br>
the pleasure I felt in having come in so opportunely.</p>

<p>"He wishes particularly to make your acquaintance."</p>

<p>"So much the worse," thought I to myself; "it rarely happens
that this<br>
feeling is mutual."</p>

<p>Evidently provoked at the little curiosity I exhibited, Blake
added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"He's on his way to Fermoy with a detachment."</p>

<p>"Indeed! what regiment, pray?"</p>

<p>"The 28th Foot."</p>

<p>"Ah, I don't know them."</p>

<p>By this time we reached the steps of the hall-door, and just
as we did so,<br>
the door opened suddenly, and a tall figure in uniform presented
himself.<br>
With one spring he seized my hand and nearly wrung it off.</p>

<p>"Why what," said I, "can this be? Is it really&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sparks," said he,&mdash;"your old friend Sparks, my boy; I've
changed into the<br>
infantry, and here I am. Heard by chance you were in the
neighborhood; met<br>
Mr. Blake, your friend here, at the inn, and accepted his
invitation to<br>
meet you."</p>

<p>Poor Sparks, albeit the difference in his costume, was the
same as ever.<br>
Having left the Fourteenth soon after I quitted them, he knew but
little of<br>
their fortunes; and he himself had been on recruiting stations
nearly the<br>
whole time since we had met before.</p>

<p>While we each continued to extol the good fortune of the
other,&mdash;he mine as<br>
being no longer in the service, and I his for still being so,&mdash;we
learned<br>
the various changes which had happened to each of us during our
separation.<br>
Although his destination was ultimately Fermoy, Portumua was
ordered to<br>
be his present quarter; and I felt delighted to have once more an
old<br>
companion within reach, to chat over former days of campaigning
and nights<br>
of merriment in the Peninsula.</p>

<p>Sparks soon became a constant visitor and guest at
Gurt-na-Morra; his good<br>
temper, his easy habits, his simplicity of character, rapidly
enabled him<br>
to fall into all their ways; and although evidently not what Baby
would<br>
call "the man for Galway," he endeavored with all his might to
please every<br>
one, and certainly succeeded to a considerable extent.</p>

<p>Baby alone seemed to take pleasure in tormenting the poor sub.
Long before<br>
she met with him having heard much from me of his exploits
abroad, she was<br>
continually bringing up some anecdote of his unhappy loves or
mis-placed<br>
passions; which he evidently smarted under the more, from the
circumstance<br>
that he appeared rather inclined to like my fair cousin.</p>

<p>As she continued this for some time, I remarked that Sparks,
who at<br>
first was all gayety and high spirits, grew gradually more
depressed and<br>
dispirited. I became convinced that the poor fellow was in love;
very<br>
little management on my part was necessary to obtain his
confession; and<br>
accordingly, the same evening the thought first struck me, as we
were<br>
riding slowly home towards O'Malley Castle, I touched at first
generally<br>
upon the merits of the Blakes, their hospitality, etc., then
diverged to<br>
the accomplishments and perfections of the girls, and lastly,
Baby herself,<br>
in all form, came up for sentence.</p>

<p>"Ah, yes!" said Sparks, with a deep sigh, "it is quite as you
say; she is a<br>
lovely girl; and that liveliness in her character, that
elasticity in her<br>
temperament, chastened down as it might be, by the feeling of
respect for<br>
the man she loved! I say, Charley, is it a very long attachment
of yours?"</p>

<p>"A long attachment of mine! Why, my dear Sparks, you can't
suppose that<br>
there is anything between us! I pledge you my word most
faithfully."</p>

<p>"Oh, no, don't tell me that; what good can there be in
mystifying me?"</p>

<p>"I have no such intention, believe me. My cousin Baby, however
I like and<br>
admire her, has no other place in my affection than a very
charming girl<br>
who has lightened a great many dreary and tiresome hours, and
made my<br>
banishment from the world less irksome than I should have found
it without<br>
her."</p>

<p>"And you are really not in love?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it!"</p>

<p>"Nor going to marry her either?"</p>

<p>"Not the least notion of it!&mdash;a fact. Baby and I are excellent
friends, for<br>
the very reason that we were never lovers; we have had no <i>petits
jeux</i><br>
of fallings out and makings up; no hide-and-seek trials of
affected<br>
indifference and real disappointments; no secrets, no griefs, nor
grudges;<br>
neither quarrels nor keepsakes. In fact, we are capital cousins;
quizzing<br>
every one for our own amusement; riding, walking, boating
together; in<br>
fact, doing and thinking of everything save sighs and
declarations; always<br>
happy to meet, and never broken-hearted when we parted. And I can
only add,<br>
as a proof of my sincerity, that if you feel as I suspect you do
from your<br>
questions, I'll be your ambassador to the court of Gurt-na-Morra
with<br>
sincere pleasure."</p>

<p>"Will you really? Will you, indeed, Charley, do this for me?
Will you<br>
strengthen my wishes by your aid, and give me all your influence
with the<br>
family?"</p>

<p>I could scarcely help smiling at poor Sparks's eagerness, or
the<br>
unwarrantable value he put upon my alliance, in a case where his
own<br>
unassisted efforts did not threaten much failure.</p>

<p>"I repeat it, Sparks, I'll make a proposal for you in all
form, aided and<br>
abetted by everything recommendatory and laudatory I can think
of; I'll<br>
talk of you as a Peninsular of no small note and promise; and
observe rigid<br>
silence about your Welsh flirtation and your Spanish
elopement."</p>

<p>"You'll not blab about the Dalrymples, I hope?"</p>

<p>"Trust me; I only hope you will be always equally discreet:
but now&mdash;when<br>
shall it be? Should you like to consider the matter more?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, nothing of the kind; let it be to-morrow, at once, if
I am to<br>
fail; even that&mdash;anything's better than suspense."</p>

<p>"Well, then, to-morrow be it," said I.</p>

<p>So I wished him a good-night, and a stout heart to hear his
fortune withal.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVIII.</p>

<p>A MISTAKE.</p>

<p>I ordered my horses at an early hour; and long before
Sparks&mdash;lover that<br>
he was&mdash;had opened his eyes to the light, was already on my way
towards<br>
Gurt-na-Morra. Several miles slipped away before I well
determined how I<br>
should open my negotiations: whether to papa Blake, in the first
instance,<br>
or to madame, to whose peculiar province these secrets of the
home<br>
department belonged; or why not at once to Baby?&mdash;because, after
all, with<br>
her it rested finally to accept or refuse. To address myself to
the heads<br>
of the department seemed the more formal course; and as I was
acting<br>
entirely as an "envoy extraordinary," I deemed this the fitting
mode of<br>
proceeding.</p>

<p>It was exactly eight o'clock as I drove up to the door. Mr.
Blake was<br>
standing at the open window of the breakfast-room, sniffing the
fresh air<br>
of the morning. The Blake mother was busily engaged with the
economy of the<br>
tea-table; a very simple style of morning costume, and a nightcap
with a<br>
flounce like a petticoat, marking her unaffected toilet. Above
stairs, more<br>
than one head <i>en papillate</i> took a furtive peep between the
curtains; and<br>
the butler of the family, in corduroys and a fur cap, was weeding
turnips<br>
in the lawn before the door.</p>

<p>Mrs. Blake had barely time to take a hurried departure, when
her husband<br>
came out upon the steps to bid me welcome. There is no
physiognomist like<br>
your father of a family, or your mother with marriageable
daughters.<br>
Lavater was nothing to them, in reading the secret springs of
action, the<br>
hidden sources of all character. Had there been a good
respectable bump<br>
allotted by Spurzheim to "honorable intentions," the matter had
been<br>
all fair and easy,&mdash;the very first salute of the gentleman would
have<br>
pronounced upon his views. But, alas! no such guide is
forthcoming; and the<br>
science, as it now exists, is enveloped in doubt and difficulty.
The gay,<br>
laughing temperament of some, the dark and serious composure of
others; the<br>
cautious and reserved, the open and the candid, the witty, the
sententious,<br>
the clever, the dull, the prudent, the reckless,&mdash;in a word,
every variety<br>
which the innumerable hues of character imprint upon the human
face divine<br>
are their study. Their convictions are the slow and patient
fruits of<br>
intense observation and great logical accuracy. Carefully noting
down<br>
every lineament and feature,&mdash;their change, their action, and
their<br>
development,&mdash;they track a lurking motive with the scent of a
bloodhound,<br>
and run down a growing passion with an unrelenting speed. I have
been<br>
in the witness-box, exposed to the licensed badgering and
privileged<br>
impertinence of a lawyer, winked, leered, frowned, and sneered at
with all<br>
the long-practised tact of a <i>nisi prius</i> torturer; I have stood
before the<br>
cold, fish-like, but searching eye of a prefect of police, as he
compared<br>
my passport with my person, and thought he could detect a
discrepancy in<br>
both,&mdash;but I never felt the same sense of total exposure as when
glanced at<br>
by the half-cautious, half-prying look of a worthy father or
mother, in a<br>
family where there are daughters to marry, and "nobody coming to
woo."</p>

<p>"You're early, Charley," said Mr. Blake, with an affected
mixture of<br>
carelessness and warmth. "You have not had breakfast?"</p>

<p>"No, sir. I have come to claim a part of yours; and if I
mistake not, you<br>
seem a little later than usual."</p>

<p>"Not more than a few minutes. The girls will be down
presently; they're<br>
early risers, Charley; good habits are just as easy as bad ones;
and, the<br>
Lord be praised! my girls were never brought up with any
other."</p>

<p>"I am well aware of it, sir; and indeed, if I may be permitted
to take<br>
advantage of the <i>apropos</i>, it was on the subject of one of your
daughters<br>
that I wished to speak to you this morning, and which brought me
over at<br>
this uncivilized hour, hoping to find you alone."</p>

<p>Mr. Blake's look for a moment was one of triumphant
satisfaction; it was<br>
but a glance, however, and repressed the very instant after, as
he said,<br>
with a well got-up indifference,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Just step with me into the study, and we're sure not to be
interrupted."</p>

<p>Now, although I have little time or space for such dallying, I
cannot help<br>
dwelling for a moment upon the aspect of what Mr. Blake dignified
with the<br>
name of his study. It was a small apartment with one window, the
panes of<br>
which, independent of all aid from a curtain, tempered the
daylight through<br>
the medium of cobwebs, dust, and the ill-trained branches of some
wall-tree<br>
without.</p>

<p>Three oak chairs and a small table were the only articles of
furniture,<br>
while around, on all sides, lay the <i>disjecta membra</i> of Mr.
Blake's<br>
hunting, fishing, shooting, and coursing equipments,&mdash;old
top-boots,<br>
driving whips, odd spurs, a racing saddle, a blunderbuss, the
helmet of the<br>
Galway Light Horse, a salmon net, a large map of the county with
a marginal<br>
index to several mortgages marked with a cross, a stable lantern,
the<br>
rudder of a boat, and several other articles representative of
his daily<br>
associations; but not one book, save an odd volume of Watty
Cox's<br>
Magazine, whose pages seemed as much the receptacle of brown
hackles for<br>
trout-fishing as the resource of literary leisure.</p>

<p>"Here we'll be quite cosey, and to ourselves," said Mr. Blake,
as, placing<br>
a chair for me, he sat down himself, with the air of a man
resolved to<br>
assist, by advice and counsel, the dilemma of some dear
friend.</p>

<p>After a few preliminary observations, which, like a breathing
canter before<br>
a race, serves to get your courage up, and settle you well in
your seat,<br>
I opened my negotiation by some very broad and sweeping truisms
about the<br>
misfortunes of a bachelor existence, the discomforts of his
position,<br>
his want of home and happiness, the necessity for his one day
thinking<br>
seriously about marriage; it being in a measure almost as
inevitable<br>
a termination of the free-and-easy career of his single life
as<br>
transportation for seven years is to that of a poacher. "You
cannot go on,<br>
sir," said I, "trespassing forever upon your neighbors'
preserves; you must<br>
be apprehended sooner or later; therefore, I think, the better
way is to<br>
take out a license."</p>

<p>Never was a small sally of wit more thoroughly successful. Mr.
Blake<br>
laughed till he cried, and when he had done, wiped his eyes with
a snuffy<br>
handkerchief, and cried till he laughed again. As, somehow, I
could not<br>
conceal from myself a suspicion as to the sincerity of my
friend's mirth,<br>
I merely consoled myself with the French adage, that "he laughs
best who<br>
laughs last;" and went on:&mdash;</p>

<p>"It will not be deemed surprising, sir, that a man should come
to the<br>
discovery I have just mentioned much more rapidly by having
enjoyed the<br>
pleasure of intimacy with your family; not only by the example of
perfect<br>
domestic happiness presented to him, but by the prospect held out
that<br>
a heritage of the fair gifts which adorn and grace a married life
may<br>
reasonably be looked for among the daughters of those themselves
the<br>
realization of conjugal felicity."</p>

<p>Here was a canter, with a vengeance; and as I felt blown, I
slackened my<br>
pace, coughed, and resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mary Blake, sir, is, then, the object of my present
communication; she<br>
it is who has made an existence that seemed fair and pleasurable
before,<br>
appear blank and unprofitable without her. I have, therefore, to
come at<br>
once to the point, visited you this morning, formally to ask her
hand in<br>
marriage; her fortune, I may observe at once, is perfectly
immaterial, a<br>
matter of no consequence [so Mr. Blake thought also]; a
competence fully<br>
equal to every reasonable notion of expenditure&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There, there; don't, don't!" said Mr. Blake, wiping his eyes,
with a sob<br>
like a hiccough,&mdash;"don't speak of money! I know what you would
say, a<br>
handsome settlement,&mdash;a well-secured jointure, and all that. Yes,
yes, I<br>
feel it all."</p>

<p>"Why, yes, sir, I believe I may add that everything in this
respect will<br>
answer your expectations."</p>

<p>"Of course; to be sure. My poor dear Baby! How to do without
her, that's<br>
the rub! You don't know, O'Malley, what that girl is to me&mdash;you
can't know<br>
it; you'll feel it one day though&mdash;that you will!"</p>

<p>"The devil I shall!" said I to myself. "The great point is,
after all, to<br>
learn the young lady's disposition in the matter&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ah, Charley, none of this with me, you sly dog! You think I
don't know<br>
you. Why, I've been watching,&mdash;that is, I have seen&mdash;no, I mean
I've<br>
heard&mdash;They&mdash;they,&mdash;people will talk, you know."</p>

<p>"Very true, sir. But, as I was going to remark&mdash;"</p>

<p>Just at this moment the door opened, and Miss Baby herself,
looking most<br>
annoyingly handsome, put in her head.</p>

<p>"Papa, we're waiting breakfast. Ah, Charley, how d'ye do?"</p>

<p>"Come in, Baby," said Mr. Blake; "you haven't given me my kiss
this<br>
morning."</p>

<p>The lovely girl threw her arms around his neck, while her
bright and<br>
flowing locks fell richly upon his shoulder. I turned rather
sulkily away;<br>
the thing always provokes me. There is as much cold, selfish
cruelty in<br>
such <i>coram publico</i> endearments, as in the luscious display of
rich rounds<br>
and sirloins in a chop-house to the eyes of the starved and
penniless<br>
wretch without, who, with dripping rags and watering lip, eats
imaginary<br>
slices, while the pains of hunger are torturing him!</p>

<p>"There's Tim!" said Mr. Blake, suddenly. "Tim Cronin!&mdash;Tim!"
shouted he<br>
to, as it seemed to me, an imaginary individual outside; while,
in the<br>
eagerness of pursuit, he rushed out of the study, banging the
door as he<br>
went, and leaving Baby and myself to our mutual edification.</p>

<p>I should have preferred it being otherwise; but as the Fates
willed it<br>
thus, I took Baby's hand, and led her to the window. Now, there
is one<br>
feature of my countrymen which, having recognized strongly in
myself, I<br>
would fain proclaim; and writing as I do&mdash;however little people
may suspect<br>
me&mdash;solely for the sake of a moral, would gladly warn the
unsuspecting<br>
against. I mean, a very decided tendency to become the consoler,
the<br>
confidant of young ladies; seeking out opportunities of assuaging
their<br>
sorrow, reconciling their afflictions, breaking eventful passages
to<br>
their ears; not from any inherent pleasure in the tragic phases
of<br>
the intercourse, but for the semi-tenderness of manner, that
harmless<br>
hand-squeezing, that innocent waist-pressing, without which
consolation is<br>
but like salmon without lobster,&mdash;a thing maimed, wanting, and
imperfect.</p>

<p>Now, whether this with me was a natural gift, or merely a "way
we have in<br>
the army," as the song says, I shall not pretend to say; but I
venture<br>
to affirm that few men could excel me in the practice I speak of
some<br>
five-and-twenty years ago. Fair reader, do pray, if I have the
happiness<br>
of being known to you, deduct them from my age before you
subtract from my<br>
merits.</p>

<p>"Well, Baby, dear, I have just been speaking about you to
papa. Yes,<br>
dear&mdash;don't look so incredulous&mdash;even of your own sweet self.
Well, do you<br>
know, I almost prefer your hair worn that way; those same silky
masses look<br>
better falling thus heavily&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There, now, Charley! ah, don't!"</p>

<p>"Well, Baby, as I was saying, before you stopped me, I have
been asking<br>
your papa a very important question, and he has referred me to
you for the<br>
answer. And now will you tell me, in all frankness and honesty,
your mind<br>
on the matter?"</p>

<p>She grew deadly pale as I spoke these words, then suddenly
flushed up<br>
again, but said not a word. I could perceive, however, from her
heaving<br>
chest and restless manner, that no common agitation was stirring
her bosom.<br>
It was cruelty to be silent, so I continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"One who loves you well, Baby, dear, has asked his own heart
the question,<br>
and learned that without you he has no chance of happiness; that
your<br>
bright eyes are to him bluer than the deep sky above him; that
your soft<br>
voice, your winning smile&mdash;and what a smile it is!&mdash;have taught
him that he<br>
loves, nay, adores you! Then, dearest&mdash;what pretty fingers those
are! Ah,<br>
what is this? Whence came that emerald? I never saw that ring
before,<br>
Baby!"</p>

<p>"Oh, that," said she, blushing deeply,&mdash;"that is a ring the
foolish<br>
creature Sparks gave me a couple of days ago; but I don't like
it&mdash;I don't<br>
intend to keep it."</p>

<p>So saying, she endeavored to draw it from her finger, but in
vain.</p>

<p>"But why, Baby, why take it off? Is it to give him the
pleasure of putting<br>
it on again? There, don't look angry; we must not fall out,
surely."</p>

<p>"No, Charley, if you are not vexed with me&mdash;if you are
not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No, no, my dear Baby; nothing of the kind. Sparks was quite
right in not<br>
trusting his entire fortune to my diplomacy; but at least, he
ought to have<br>
told me that he had opened the negotiation. Now, the question
simply is:<br>
Do you love him? or rather, because that shortens matters: Will
you accept<br>
him?"</p>

<p>"Love who?"</p>

<p>"Love whom? Why Sparks, to be sure!"</p>

<p>A flash of indignant surprise passed across her features, now
pale as<br>
marble; her lips were slightly parted, her large full eyes were
fixed<br>
upon me steadfastly, and her hand, which I had held in mine, she
suddenly<br>
withdrew from my grasp.</p>

<p>"And so&mdash;and so it is of Mr. Sparks's cause you are so
ardently the<br>
advocate?" she said at length, after a pause of most awkward
duration.</p>

<p>"Why, of course, my dear cousin. It was at his suit and
solicitation I<br>
called on your father; it was he himself who entreated me to take
this<br>
step; it was he&mdash;"</p>

<p>But before I could conclude, she burst into a torrent of tears
and rushed<br>
from the room.</p>

<p>Here was a situation! What the deuce was the matter? Did she,
or did she<br>
not, care for him? Was her pride or her delicacy hurt at my being
made the<br>
means of the communication to her father? What had Sparks done or
said to<br>
put himself and me in such a devil of a predicament? Could she
care for any<br>
one else?</p>

<p>"Well, Charley!" cried Mr. Blake, as he entered, rubbing his
hands in a<br>
perfect paroxysm of good temper,&mdash;"well, Charley, has love-making
driven<br>
breakfast out of your head?"</p>

<p>"Why, faith, sir, I greatly fear I have blundered my mission
sadly. My<br>
cousin Mary does not appear so perfectly satisfied; her
manner&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Don't tell me such nonsense. The girl's manner! Why, man, I
thought you<br>
were too old a soldier to be taken in that way."</p>

<p>"Well, then, sir, the best thing, under the circumstances, is
to send over<br>
Sparks himself. Your consent, I may tell him, is already
obtained."</p>

<p>"Yes, my boy; and my daughter's is equally sure. But I don't
see what we<br>
want with Sparks at all. Among old friends and relatives as we
are, there<br>
is, I think, no need of a stranger."</p>

<p>"A stranger! Very true, sir, he is a stranger; but when that
stranger is<br>
about to become your son-in-law&mdash;"</p>

<p>"About to become what?" said Mr. Blake, rubbing his
spectacles, and placing<br>
them leisurely on his nose to regard me,&mdash;"to become what?"</p>

<p>"Your son-in-law. I hope I have been sufficiently explicit,
sir, in making<br>
known Mr. Sparks's wishes to you."</p>

<p>"Mr. Sparks! Why damn me, sir&mdash;that is&mdash;I beg pardon for
the<br>
warmth&mdash;you&mdash;you never mentioned his name to-day till now. You
led me to<br>
suppose that&mdash;in fact, you told me most clearly&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here, from the united effects of rage and a struggle for
concealment, Mr.<br>
Blake was unable to proceed, and walked the room with a
melodramatic stamp<br>
perfectly awful.</p>

<p>"Really, sir," said I at last, "while I deeply regret any
misconception or<br>
mistake I have been the cause of, I must, in justice to myself,
say that<br>
I am perfectly unconscious of having misled you. I came here this
morning<br>
with a proposition for the hand of your daughter in behalf
of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yourself, sir. Yes, yourself. I'll be&mdash;no! I'll not swear;
but&mdash;but just<br>
answer me, if you ever mentioned one word of Mr. Sparks, if you
ever<br>
alluded to him till the last few minutes?"</p>

<p>I was perfectly astounded. It might be, alas, it was exactly
as he stated!<br>
In my unlucky effort at extreme delicacy, I became only so very
mysterious<br>
that I left the matter open for them to suppose that it might be
the Khan<br>
of Tartary was in love with Baby.</p>

<p>There was but one course now open. I most humbly apologized
for my blunder;<br>
repeated by every expression I could summon up, my sorrow for
what had<br>
happened; and was beginning a renewal of negotiation "in re
Sparks," when,<br>
overcome by his passion, Mr. Blake could hear no more, but
snatched up his<br>
hat and left the room.</p>

<p>Had it not been for Baby's share in the transaction I should
have laughed<br>
outright. As it was, I felt anything but mirthful; and the only
clear and<br>
collected idea in my mind was to hurry home with all speed, and
fasten a<br>
quarrel on Sparks, the innocent cause of the whole mishap. Why
this thought<br>
struck me let physiologists decide.</p>

<p>A few moments' reflection satisfied me that under present
circumstances,<br>
it would be particularly awkward to meet with any others of the
family.<br>
Ardently desiring to secure my retreat, I succeeded, after some
little<br>
time, in opening the window-sash; consoling myself for any injury
I was<br>
about to inflict upon Mr. Blake's young plantation in my descent,
by the<br>
thought of the service I was rendering him while admitting a
little fresh<br>
air into his sanctum.</p>

<p>For my patriotism's sake I will not record my sensations as I
took my way<br>
through the shrubbery towards the stable. Men are ever so prone
to revenge<br>
their faults and their follies upon such inoffensive agencies as
time and<br>
place, wind or weather, that I was quite convinced that to any
other but<br>
Galway ears my <i>expos&eacute;</i> would have been perfectly clear
and intelligible;<br>
and that in no other country under heaven would a man be expected
to marry<br>
a young lady from a blunder in his grammar.</p>

<p>"Baby may be quite right," thought I; "but one thing is
assuredly true,&mdash;if<br>
I'll never do for Galway, Galway will never do for me. No, hang
it! I have<br>
endured enough for above two years. I have lived in banishment,
away from<br>
society, supposing that, at least, if I isolated myself from the
pleasures<br>
of the world I was exempt from its annoyances." But no; in the
seclusion of<br>
my remote abode troubles found their entrance as easily as
elsewhere, so<br>
that I determined at once to leave home; wherefor, I knew not. If
life had<br>
few charms, it had still fewer ties for me. If I was not bound by
the bonds<br>
of kindred, I was untrammelled by their restraints.</p>

<p>The resolution once taken, I burned to put it into effect; and
so<br>
impatiently did I press forward as to call forth more than one
remonstrance<br>
on the part of Mike at the pace we were proceeding. As I neared
home, the<br>
shrill but stirring sounds of drum and fife met me; and shortly
after a<br>
crowd of country people filled the road. Supposing it some mere
recruiting<br>
party, I was endeavoring to press on, when the sounds of a full
military<br>
band, in the exhilarating measure of a quick-step, convinced me
of my<br>
error; and as I drew to one side of the road, the advanced guard
of an<br>
infantry regiment came forward. The men's faces were flushed,
their<br>
uniforms dusty and travel-stained, their knapsacks strapped
firmly on, and<br>
their gait the steady tramp of the march. Saluting the subaltern,
I asked<br>
if anything of consequence had occurred in the south that the
troops were<br>
so suddenly under orders. The officer stared at me for a moment
or two<br>
without speaking, and while a slight smile half-curled his lip,
answered:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Apparently, sir, you seem very indifferent to military news,
otherwise you<br>
can scarcely be ignorant of the cause of our route."</p>

<p>"On the contrary," said I, "I am, though a young man, an old
soldier, and<br>
feel most anxious about everything connected with the
service."</p>

<p>"Then it is very strange, sir, you should not have heard the
news.<br>
Bonaparte has returned from Elba, has arrived at Paris, been
received with<br>
the most overwhelming enthusiasm, and at this moment the
preparations for<br>
war are resounding from Venice to the Vistula. All our forces,
disposable,<br>
are on the march for embarkation. Lord Wellington has taken the
command,<br>
and already, I may say, the campaign has begun."</p>

<p>The tone of enthusiasm in which the young officer spoke, the
astounding<br>
intelligence itself, contrasting with the apathetic indolence of
my own<br>
life, made me blush deeply, as I, muttered some miserable apology
for my<br>
ignorance.</p>

<p>"And you are now <i>en route?</i>"</p>

<p>"For Fermoy; from which we march to Cove for embarkation. The
first<br>
battalion of our regiment sailed for the West Indies a week
since, but a<br>
frigate has been sent after them to bring them back; and we hope
all to<br>
meet in the Netherlands before the month is over. But I must beg
your<br>
pardon for saying adieu. Good-by, sir."</p>

<p>"Good-by, sir; good-by," said I, as still standing in the
road, I was so<br>
overwhelmed with surprise that I could scarcely credit my
senses.</p>

<p>A little farther on, I came up with the main body of the
regiment, from<br>
whom I learned the corroboration of the news, and also the
additional<br>
intelligence that Sparks had been ordered off with his detachment
early in<br>
the morning, a veteran battalion being sent into garrison in the
various<br>
towns of the south and west.</p>

<p>"Do you happen to know a Mr. O'Malley, sir?" said the major,
coming up with<br>
a note in his hand.</p>

<p>"I beg to present him to you," said I, bowing.</p>

<p>"Well, sir, Sparks gave me this note, which he wrote with a
pencil as we<br>
crossed each other on the road this morning. He told me you were
an old<br>
Fourteenth man. But your regiment is in India, I believe; at
least Power<br>
said they were under orders when we met him."</p>

<p>"Fred Power! Are you acquainted with him? Where is he now,
pray?"</p>

<p>"Fred is on the staff with General Vandeleur, and is now in
Belgium."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said I, every moment increasing my surprise at some
new piece of<br>
intelligence. "And the Eighty-eighth?" said I, recurring to my
old friends<br>
in that regiment.</p>

<p>"Oh, the Eighty-eighth are at Gibraltar, or somewhere in the
Mediterranean;<br>
at least, I know they are not near enough to open the present
campaign<br>
with us. But if you'd like to hear any more news, you must come
over to<br>
Borrisokane; we stop there to-night."</p>

<p>"Then I'll certainly do so."</p>

<p>"Come at six then, and dine with us."</p>

<p>"Agreed," said I; "and now, good-morning."</p>

<p>So saying, I once more drove on; my head full of all that I
had been<br>
hearing, and my heart bursting with eagerness to join the gallant
fellows<br>
now bound for the campaign.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLIX.</p>

<p>BRUSSELS.</p>

<p>I must not protract a tale already far too long, by the
recital of my<br>
acquaintance with the gallant Twenty-sixth. It is sufficient that
I should<br>
say that, having given Mike orders to follow me to Cove, I joined
the<br>
regiment on their march, and accompanied them to Cork. Every hour
of<br>
each day brought us in news of moment and importance; and amidst
all the<br>
stirring preparations for the war, the account of the splendid
spectacle<br>
of the <i>Champ de Mai</i> burst upon astonished Europe, and the
intelligence<br>
spread far and near that the enthusiasm of France never rose
higher in<br>
favor of the Emperor. And while the whole world prepared for the
deadly<br>
combat, Napoleon surpassed even himself, by the magnificent
conceptions for<br>
the coming conflict, and the stupendous nature of those plans by
which he<br>
resolved on resisting combined and united Europe.</p>

<p>While our admiration and wonder of the mighty spirit that
ruled the<br>
destinies of the continent rose high, so did our own ardent and
burning<br>
desire for the day when the open field of fight should place us
once more<br>
in front of each other.</p>

<p>Every hard-fought engagement of the Spanish war was thought of
and talked<br>
over; from Talavera to Toulouse, all was remembered. And while
among the<br>
old Peninsulars the military ardor was so universally displayed,
among the<br>
regiments who had not shared the glories of Spain and Portugal,
an equal,<br>
perhaps a greater, impulse was created for the approaching
campaign.</p>

<p>When we arrived at Cork, the scene of bustle and excitement
exceeded<br>
anything I ever witnessed. Troops were mustering in every
quarter;<br>
regiments arriving and embarking; fresh bodies of men pouring in;
drills,<br>
parades, and inspections going forward; arms, ammunition, and
military<br>
stores distributing; and amidst all, a spirit of burning
enthusiasm<br>
animated every rank for the approaching glory of the newly-arisen
war.</p>

<p>While thus each was full of his own hopes and expectations, I
alone felt<br>
depressed and downhearted. My military caste was lost to me
forever, my<br>
regiment many, many a mile from the scene of the coming strife;
though<br>
young, I felt like one already old and bygone. The last-joined
ensign<br>
seemed, in his glowing aspiration, a better soldier than I, as,
sad and<br>
dispirited, I wandered through the busy crowds, surveying with
curious eye<br>
each gallant horseman as he rode proudly past. What was wealth
and fortune<br>
to me? What had they ever been, compared with all they cost
me?&mdash;the<br>
abandonment of the career I loved, the path in life I sought and
panted<br>
for. Day after day I lingered on, watching with beating heart
each<br>
detachment as they left the shore; and when their parting cheer
rang high<br>
above the breeze, turned sadly back to mourn over a life that had
failed in<br>
its promise, and an existence now shorn of its enjoyment.</p>

<p>It was on the evening of the 3d of June that I was slowly
wending my way<br>
back towards my hotel. Latterly I had refused all invitations to
dine<br>
at the mess. And by a strange spirit of contradiction, while I
avoided<br>
society, could yet not tear myself away from the spot where
every<br>
remembrance of my past life was daily embittered by the scenes
around me.<br>
But so it was; the movement of the troops, their reviews, their
arrivals,<br>
and departures, possessed the most thrilling interest for me.
While I could<br>
not endure to hear the mention of the high hopes and glorious
vows each<br>
brave fellow muttered.</p>

<p>It was, as I remember, on the evening of the 3d of June, I
entered my hotel<br>
lower in spirits even than usual. The bugles of the gallant
Seventy-first,<br>
as they dropped down with the tide, played a well-known march I
had heard<br>
the night before Talavera. All my bold and hardy days came
rushing madly to<br>
my mind; and my present life seemed no longer endurable. The last
army<br>
list and the newspaper lay on my table, and I turned to read the
latest<br>
promotions with that feeling of bitterness by which an unhappy
man loves to<br>
tamper with his misery.</p>

<p>Almost the first paragraph I threw my eyes upon ran
thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    OSTEND, May 24.</p>

<p>    The "Vixen" sloop-of-war, which arrived at our port this
morning,<br>
    brought among several other officers of inferior note<br>
    Lieutenant-General Sir George Dashwood, appointed as<br>
    Assistant-Adjutant-General<br>
    on the staff of his Grace the Duke of Wellington. The
gallant<br>
    general was accompanied by his lovely and accomplished
daughter,<br>
    and his military secretary and aide-de-camp, Major
Hammersley,<br>
    of the 2d Life Guards. They partook of a hurried
<i>d&eacute;jeun&eacute;</i><br>
    with the Burgomaster, and left immediately after for
Brussels.</p>

<p>Twice I read this over, while a burning, hot sensation settled
upon my<br>
throat and temples. "So Hammersley still persists; he still
hopes. And<br>
what then?&mdash;what can it be to me?&mdash;my prospects have long since
faded and<br>
vanished! Doubtless, ere this, I am as much forgotten as though
we had<br>
never met,&mdash;would that we never had!" I threw up the window-sash;
a light<br>
breeze was gently stirring, and as it fanned my hot and bursting
head, I<br>
felt cooled and relieved. Some soldiers were talking beneath the
window and<br>
among them I recognized Mike's voice.</p>

<p>"And so you sail at daybreak, Sergeant?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Mister Free; we have our orders to be on board before
the flood-tide.<br>
The 'Thunderer' drops down the harbor to-night, and we are merely
here to<br>
collect our stragglers."</p>

<p>"Faix, it's little I thought I'd ever envy a sodger any more;
but someway,<br>
I wish I was going with you."</p>

<p>"Nothing easier, Mike," said another, laughing.</p>

<p>"Oh, true for you, but that's not the way I'd like to do it.
If my master,<br>
now, would just get over his low spirits, and spake a word to the
Duke of<br>
York, devil a doubt but he'd give him his commission back again,
and then<br>
one might go in comfort."</p>

<p>"Your master likes his feather pillow better than a mossy
stone under his<br>
head, I'm thinking; and he ain't far wrong either."</p>

<p>"You're out there, Neighbor. It's himself cares as little for
hardship as<br>
any one of you; and sure it's not becoming me to say it, but the
best blood<br>
and the best bred was always the last to give in for either cold
or hunger,<br>
ay, or even complain of it."</p>

<p>Mike's few words shot upon me a new and a sudden
conviction,&mdash;what was to<br>
prevent my joining once more? Obvious as such a thought now was,
yet never<br>
until this moment did it present itself so palpably. So
habituated does<br>
the mind become to a certain train of reasoning, framing its
convictions<br>
according to one preconceived plan, and making every fact and<br>
every circumstance concur in strengthening what often may be but
a<br>
prejudice,&mdash;that the absence of the old Fourteenth in India, the
sale of<br>
my commission, the want of rank in the service, all seemed to
present an<br>
insurmountable barrier to my re-entering the army. A few chance
words now<br>
changed all this, and I saw that as a volunteer at least, the
path of glory<br>
was still open, and the thought was no sooner conceived, than the
resolve<br>
to execute it. While, therefore, I walked hurriedly up and down,
devising,<br>
planning, plotting, and contriving, each instant I would stop to
ask myself<br>
how it happened I had not determined upon this before.</p>

<p>As I summoned Mike before me, I could not repress a feeling of
false shame,<br>
as I remembered how suddenly so natural a resolve must seem to
have<br>
been adopted; and it was with somewhat of hesitation that I
opened the<br>
conversation.</p>

<p>"And so, sir, you are going after all,&mdash;long life to you? But
I never<br>
doubted it. Sure, you wouldn't be your father's son, and not join
divarsion<br>
when there was any going on."</p>

<p>The poor fellow's eyes brightened up, his look gladdened, and
before he<br>
reached the foot of the stairs, I heard his loud cheer of delight
that once<br>
more we were off to the wars.</p>

<p>The packet sailed for Liverpool the next morning. By it we
took our<br>
passage, and on the third morning I found myself in the
waiting-room at<br>
the Horse Guards, expecting the moment of his Royal Highness's
arrival; my<br>
determination being to serve as a volunteer in any regiment the
duke might<br>
suggest, until such time as a prospect presented itself of
entering the<br>
service as a subaltern.</p>

<p>The room was crowded by officers of every rank and arm in the
service. The<br>
old, gray-headed general of division; the tall, stout-looking
captain of<br>
infantry; the thin and boyish figure of the newly-gazetted
cornet,&mdash;were<br>
all there; every accent, every look that marked each trait of
national<br>
distinction in the empire, had its representative. The reserved
and distant<br>
Scotchman; the gay, laughing, exuberant Patlander; the dark-eyed,
and<br>
dark-browed North Briton,&mdash;collected in groups, talked eagerly
together;<br>
while every instant, as some new arrival would enter, all eyes
would turn<br>
to the spot, in eager expectation of the duke's coming. At last
the clash<br>
of arms, as the guard turned out, apprised us of his approach,
and we<br>
had scarcely time to stand up and stop the buzz of voices, when
the door<br>
opened, and an aide-de-camp proclaimed in a full tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"His Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief!"</p>

<p>Bowing courteously on every side, he advanced through the
crowd, turning<br>
his rapid and piercing look here and there through the room,
while with<br>
that tact, the essential gift of his family, he recognized each
person by<br>
his name, directing from one to the other some passing
observation.</p>

<p>"Ah, Sir George Cockburn, how d' ye do?&mdash;your son's
appointment is made<br>
out. Major Conyers, that application shall be looked to. Forbes,
you must<br>
explain that I cannot possibly put men in the regiment of their
choice; the<br>
service is the first thing. Lord L&mdash;&mdash;, your memorial is before
the Prince<br>
Regent; the cavalry command will, I believe, however, include
your name."</p>

<p>While he spoke thus, he approached the place where I was
standing, when,<br>
suddenly checking himself, he looked at me for a moment somewhat
sternly.<br>
"Why not in uniform, sir?"</p>

<p>"Your Royal Highness, I am not in the army."</p>

<p>"Not in the army&mdash;not in the army? And why, may I beg to know,
have<br>
you&mdash;But I'm speaking to <i>Captain</i> O'Malley, if I mistake
not?"</p>

<p>"I held that rank, sir, once; but family necessities compelled
me to sell<br>
out. I have now no commission in the service, but am come to
beseech your<br>
Royal Highness's permission to serve as a volunteer."</p>

<p>"As a volunteer, eh&mdash;a volunteer? Come, that's right, I like
that; but<br>
still, we want such fellows as you,&mdash;the man of Ciudad Rodrigo.
Yes, my<br>
Lord L&mdash;&mdash;, this is one of the stormers; fought his way through
the trench<br>
among the first; must not be neglected. Hold yourself in
readiness,<br>
Captain&mdash;hang it, I was forgetting; Mr. O'Malley, I mean&mdash;hold
yourself<br>
in readiness for a staff appointment. Smithson, take a note of
this."<br>
So saying, he moved on; and I found myself in the street, with a
heart<br>
bounding with delight, and a step proud as an emperor's.</p>

<p>With such rapidity the events of my life now followed one upon
the other,<br>
that I could take no note of time as it passed. On the fourth day
after<br>
my conversation with the duke I found myself in Brussels. As yet
I heard<br>
nothing of the appointment, nor was I gazetted to any regiment or
any<br>
situation on the staff. It was strange enough, too, I met but few
of my old<br>
associates, and not one of those with whom I had been most
intimate in my<br>
Peninsular career; but it so chanced that very many of the
regiments who<br>
most distinguished themselves in the Spanish campaigns, at the
peace of<br>
1814 were sent on foreign service. My old friend Power was, I
learned,<br>
quartered at Courtrai; and as I was perfectly at liberty to
dispose of my<br>
movements at present, I resolved to visit him there.</p>

<p>It was a beautiful evening on the 12th of June. I had been
inquiring<br>
concerning post-horses for my journey, and was returning slowly
through<br>
the park. The hour was late&mdash;near midnight&mdash;but a pale moonlight,
a calm,<br>
unruffled air, and stronger inducements still, the song of the
nightingales<br>
that abound in this place, prevailed on many of the loungers to
prolong<br>
their stay; and so from many a shady walk and tangled arbor, the
clank of<br>
a sabre would strike upon the ear, or the low, soft voice of
woman would<br>
mingle her dulcet sound with the deep tones of her companion. I
wandered<br>
on, thoughtful and alone; my mind pre-occupied so completely with
the<br>
mighty events passing before me, I totally forgot my own humble
career, and<br>
the circumstances of my fortune. As I turned into an alley which
leads from<br>
the Great Walk towards the Palace of the Prince of Orange, I
found my path<br>
obstructed by three persons who were walking slowly along in
front of me.<br>
I was, as I have mentioned, deeply absorbed in thought, so that I
found<br>
myself close behind them before I was aware of their presence.
Two of the<br>
party were in uniform, and by their plumes, upon which a passing
ray of<br>
moonlight flickered, I could detect they were general officers;
the<br>
third was a lady. Unable to pass them, and unwilling to turn
back, I<br>
was unavoidably compelled to follow, and however unwilling, to
overhear<br>
somewhat of their conversation.</p>

<p>"You mistake, George, you mistake! Depend upon it, this will
be no<br>
lengthened campaign; victory will soon decide for one side or the
other.<br>
If Napoleon beats the Prussians one day, and beat us the next,
the German<br>
States will rally to his standard, and the old confederation of
the Rhine<br>
will spring up once more in all the plenitude of its power. The
<i>Champ de<br>
Mai</i> has shown the enthusiasm of France for their Emperor. Louis
XVIII fled<br>
from his capital, with few to follow, and none to say, 'God bless
him!' The<br>
warlike spirit of the nation is roused again; the interval of
peace, too<br>
short to teach habits of patient and enduring industry, is yet
sufficient<br>
to whet the appetite for carnage; and nothing was wanting, save
the<br>
presence of Napoleon alone, to restore all the brilliant
delusions and<br>
intoxicating splendors of the empire."</p>

<p>"I confess," said the other, "I take a very different view
from yours in<br>
this matter; to me, it seems that France is as tired of battles
as of the<br>
Bourbons&mdash;"</p>

<p>I heard no more; for though the speaker continued, a misty
confusion passed<br>
across my mind. The tones of his voice, well-remembered as they
were by me,<br>
left me unable to think; and as I stood motionless on the spot, I
muttered<br>
half aloud, "Sir George Dashwood." It was he, indeed; and she who
leaned<br>
upon his arm could be no other than Lucy herself. I know not how
it was;<br>
for many a long month I had schooled my heart, and taught myself
to believe<br>
that time had dulled the deep impression she had made upon me,
and that,<br>
were we to meet again, it would be with more sorrow on my part
for my<br>
broken dream of happiness than of attachment and affection for
her who<br>
inspired it; but now, scarcely was I near her&mdash;I had not gazed
upon her<br>
looks, I had not even heard her voice&mdash;and yet, in all their
ancient force,<br>
came back the early passages of my love; and as her footfall
sounded gently<br>
upon the ground, my heart beat scarce less audibly. Alas, I could
no<br>
longer disguise from myself the avowal that she it was, and she
only, who<br>
implanted in my heart the thirst for distinction; and the moment
was ever<br>
present to my mind in which, as she threw her arms around her
father's<br>
neck, she muttered, "Oh, why not a soldier!"</p>

<p>As I thus reflected, an officer in full dress passed me
hurriedly,<br>
and taking off his hat as he came up with the party before me,
bowed<br>
obsequiously.</p>

<p>"My Lord &mdash;&mdash;, I believe, and Sir George Dashwood?" They
replied by a<br>
bow. "Sir Thomas Picton wishes to speak with you both for a
moment; he is<br>
standing beside the 'Basin.' If you will permit&mdash;" said he,
looking towards<br>
Lucy.</p>

<p>"Thank you, sir," said Sir George; "if you will have the
goodness to<br>
accompany us, my daughter will wait our coming here. Sit down,
Lucy, we<br>
shall not be long away."</p>

<p>The next moment she was alone. The last echoes of their
retiring footsteps<br>
had died away in the grassy walk, and in the calm and death-like
stillness<br>
I could hear every rustle of her silk dress. The moonlight fell
in<br>
fitful, straggling gleams between the leafy branches, and showed
me her<br>
countenance, pale as marble. Her eyes were upturned slightly; her
brown<br>
hair, divided upon her fair forehead, sparkled with a wreath of
brilliants,<br>
which heightened the lustrous effect of her calm beauty; and now
I could<br>
perceive her dress bespoke that she had been at some of the
splendid<br>
entertainments which followed day after day in the busy
capital.</p>

<p>Thus I stood within a few paces of <i>her</i>, to be near to whom,
a few hours<br>
before, I would willingly have given all I possessed in the
world; and yet<br>
now a barrier, far more insurmountable than time and space,
intervened<br>
between us; still it seemed as though fortune had presented this
incident<br>
as a last farewell between us. Why should I not take advantage of
it? Why<br>
should I not seize the only opportunity that might ever occur of
rescuing<br>
myself from the apparent load of ingratitude which weighed on my
memory?<br>
I felt in the cold despair of my heart that I could have no hold
upon her<br>
affection; but a pride, scarce less strong that the attachment
that gave<br>
rise to it, urged me to speak. By one violent effort I summoned
up my<br>
courage; and while I resolved to limit the few words I should say
merely<br>
to my vindication, I prepared to advance. Just at this instant,
however, a<br>
shadow crossed the path; a rustling sound was heard among the
branches, and<br>
the tall figure of a man in a dragoon cloak stood before me. Lucy
turned<br>
suddenly at the sound; but scarcely had her eyes been bent in
the<br>
direction, when, throwing off his cloak, he sprang forward and
dropped at<br>
her feet. All my feeling of shame at the part I was performing
was now<br>
succeeded by a sense of savage and revengeful hatred. It was
enough that<br>
I should be brought to look upon her whom I had lost forever
without the<br>
added bitterness of witnessing her preference for a rival. The
whirlwind<br>
passion of my brain stunned and stupefied me. Unconsciously I
drew my sword<br>
from my scabbard, and it was only as the pale light fell upon the
keen<br>
blade that the thought flashed across me, "What could I mean to
do?"</p>

<p>"No, Hammersley,"&mdash;it was he indeed,&mdash;said she, "it is unkind,
it is<br>
unfair, nay, it is unmanly to press me thus; I would not pain
you, were<br>
it not that, in sparing you now, I should entail deeper injury
upon you<br>
hereafter. Ask me to be your sister, your friend; ask me to feel
proudly<br>
in your triumphs, to glory in your success; all this I do feel;
but, oh! I<br>
beseech you, as you value your happiness, as you prize mine, ask
me no more<br>
than this."</p>

<p>There was a pause of some seconds; and at length, the low
tones of a man's<br>
voice, broken and uncertain in their utterance, said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I know it&mdash;I feel it&mdash;my heart never bade me hope&mdash;and
now&mdash;'tis over."</p>

<p>He stood up as he spoke, and while he threw the light folds of
his mantle<br>
round him, a gleam of light fell upon his features. They were
pale as<br>
death; two dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes, and his
bloodless lip<br>
looked still more ghastly, from the dark mustache that drooped
above it.</p>

<p>"Farewell!" said he, slowly, as he crossed his arms sadly upon
his breast;<br>
"I will not pain you more."</p>

<p>"Oh, go not thus from me!" said she, as her voice became
tremulous with<br>
emotion; "do not add to the sorrow that weighs upon my heart! I
cannot,<br>
indeed I cannot, be other than I am; and I do but hate myself to
think that<br>
I cannot give my love where I have given all my esteem. If
time&mdash;" But<br>
before she could continue further, the noise of approaching
footsteps was<br>
heard, and the voice of Sir George, as he came near. Hammersley
disappeared<br>
at once, and Lucy, with rapid steps, advanced to meet her father,
while I<br>
remained riveted upon the spot. What a torrent of emotions then
rushed upon<br>
my heart! What hopes, long dead or dying, sprang up to life
again! What<br>
visions of long-abandoned happiness flitted before me! Could it
be<br>
then&mdash;dare I trust myself to think it&mdash;that Lucy cared for me?
The thought<br>
was maddening! With a bounding sense of ecstasy, I dashed across
the park,<br>
resolving, at all hazards, to risk everything upon the chance,
and wait<br>
the next morning upon Sir George Dashwood. As I thought thus, I
reached my<br>
hotel, where I found Mike in waiting with a letter. As I walked
towards the<br>
lamp in the <i>porte cochere</i>, my eyes fell upon the address. It
was General<br>
Dashwood's hand; I tore it open, and read as follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Dear Sir,&mdash;Circumstances into which you will excuse me
entering,<br>
    having placed an insurmountable barrier to our former terms
of<br>
    intimacy, you will, I trust, excuse me declining the honor of
any<br>
    nearer acquaintance, and also forgive the liberty I take in
informing<br>
    you of it, which step, however unpleasant to my feelings,
will save<br>
    us both the great pain of meeting.</p>

<p>    I have only this moment heard of your arrival in Brussels,
and<br>
    take thus the earliest opportunity of communicating with
you.<br>
    With every assurance of my respect for you personally, and
an<br>
    earnest desire to serve you in your military career, I beg to
remain,</p>

<p>    Very faithfully yours,</p>

<p>    GEORGE DASHWOOD</p>

<p>"Another note, sir," said Mike, as he thrust into my
unconscious hands a<br>
letter he had just received from an orderly.</p>

<p>Stunned, half stupefied, I broke the seal. The contents were
but three<br>
lines:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Sir,&mdash;I have the honor to inform you that Sir Thomas
Picton has<br>
    appointed you an extra aide-de-camp on his personal staff.
You will,<br>
    therefore, present yourself to-morrow morning at the
Adjutant-General's<br>
    office, to receive your appointment and instructions.<br>
    I have the honor to be, etc.,</p>

<p>    G. FITZROY.</p>

<p>Crushing the two letters in my fevered hand, I retired to my
room, and<br>
threw myself, dressed as I was, upon my bed. Sleep, that seems to
visit us<br>
in the saddest as in the happiest times of our existence, came
over me,<br>
and I did not wake until the bugles of the Ninety-fifth were
sounding the<br>
reveille through the park, and the brightest beams of the morning
sun were<br>
peering through the window.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER L.</p>

<p>AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley," said a voice, as my door opened, and an
officer in undress<br>
entered,&mdash;"Mr. O'Malley, I believe you received your appointment
last night<br>
on General Picton's staff?"</p>

<p>I bowed in reply, as he resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Sir Thomas desires you will proceed to Courtrai with these
despatches in<br>
all haste. I don't know if you are well mounted, but I recommend
you, in<br>
any case, not to spare your cattle."</p>

<p>So saying, he wished me a good-morning, and left me, in a
state of no small<br>
doubt and difficulty, to my own reflections. What the deuce was I
to do?<br>
I had no horse; I knew not where to find one. What uniform should
I wear?<br>
For, although appointed on the staff, I was not gazetted to any
regiment<br>
that I knew of, and hitherto had been wearing an undress frock
and a<br>
foraging cap; for I could not bring myself to appear as a
civilian among<br>
so many military acquaintances. No time was, however, to be lost;
so I<br>
proceeded to put on my old Fourteenth uniform, wondering whether
my costume<br>
might not cost me a reprimand in the very outset of my career.
Meanwhile<br>
I despatched Mike to see after a horse, caring little for the
time, the<br>
merits, or the price of the animal provided he served my present
purpose.</p>

<p>In less than twenty minutes my worthy follower appeared
beneath my window,<br>
surrounded by a considerable mob, who seemed to take no small
interest in<br>
the proceedings.</p>

<p>"What the deuce is the matter?" cried I, as I opened the sash
and looked<br>
out.</p>

<p>"Mighty little's the matter, your honor; it's the savages,
here,<br>
that's admiring my horsemanship," said Mike, as he belabored a
tall,<br>
scraggy-looking mule with a stick which bore an uncommon
resemblance to a<br>
broom-handle.</p>

<p>"What do you mean to do with that beast?" said I. "You surely
don't expect<br>
me to ride a mule to Courtrai?"</p>

<p>"Faith, and if you don't, you are likely to walk the journey;
for there<br>
isn't a horse to be had for love or money in the town; but I am
told that<br>
Mr. Marsden is coming up to-morrow with plenty, so that you may
as well<br>
take the journey out of the soft horns as spoil a better; and if
he only<br>
makes as good use of his fore-legs as he does of his hind ones,
he'll think<br>
little of the road."</p>

<a name="0410"></a>
<img alt="0410.jpg (191K)" src="0410.jpg" height="656" width="808">

<p>[MICKEY ASTONISHES THE NATIVES.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>A vicious lash out behind served in a moment to corroborate
Mike's<br>
assertion, and to scatter the crowd on every side.</p>

<p>However indisposed to exhibit myself with such a turn-out, my
time did not<br>
admit of any delay; and so, arming myself with my despatches, and
having<br>
procured the necessary information as to the road, I set out from
the Belle<br>
Vue, amidst an ill-suppressed titter of merriment from the mob,
which<br>
nothing but fear of Mike and his broomstick prevented becoming a
regular<br>
shout of laughter.</p>

<p>It was near night-fall as, tired and weary of the road, I
entered the<br>
little village of Halle. All was silent and noiseless in the
deserted<br>
streets; nor a lamp threw its glare upon the pavement, nor even a
solitary<br>
candle flickered through the casement. Unlike a town, garrisoned
by troops,<br>
neither sentry nor outpost was to be met with; nothing gave
evidence that<br>
the place was held by a large body of men; and I could not help
feeling<br>
struck, as the footsteps of my mule were echoed along the
causeway, with<br>
the silence almost of desolation around me. By the creaking of a
sign, as<br>
it swung mournfully to and fro, I was directed to the door of the
village<br>
inn, where, dismounting, I knocked for some moments, but without
success.<br>
At length, when I had made an uproar sufficient to alarm the
entire<br>
village, the casement above the door slowly opened, and a head
enveloped<br>
in a huge cotton nightcap&mdash;so, at least, it appeared to me from
the<br>
size&mdash;protruded itself. After muttering a curse in about the most
barbarous<br>
French I ever heard, he asked me what I wanted there; to which I
replied,<br>
most nationally, by asking in return, where the British dragoons
were<br>
quartered.</p>

<p>"They have left for Nivelle this morning, to join some
regiments of your<br>
own country."</p>

<p>"Ah! ah!" thought I, "he mistakes me for a Brunswicker;" to
which, by<br>
the uncertain light, my uniform gave me some resemblance. As it
was now<br>
impossible for me to proceed farther, I begged to ask where I
could procure<br>
accommodation for the night.</p>

<p>"At the burgomaster's. Turn to your left at the end of this
street, and<br>
you will soon find it. They have got some English officers there,
who, I<br>
believe in my soul, never sleep."</p>

<p>This was, at least, pleasant intelligence, and promised a
better<br>
termination to my journey than I had begun to hope for; so
wishing my<br>
friend a good-night, to which he willingly responded, I resumed
my way<br>
down the street. As he closed the window, once more leaving me to
my own<br>
reflections, I began to wonder within myself to what arm of the
service<br>
belonged these officers to whose convivial gifts he bore
testimony. As I<br>
turned the corner of the street, I soon discovered the
correctness of his<br>
information. A broad glare of light stretched across the entire
pavement<br>
from a large house with a clumsy stone portico before it. On
coming nearer,<br>
the sound of voices, the roar of laughter, the shouts of
merriment that<br>
issued forth, plainly bespoke that a jovial party were seated
within.<br>
The half-shutter which closed the lower part of the windows
prevented my<br>
obtaining a view of the proceedings; but having cautiously
approached the<br>
casement, I managed to creep on the window-sill and look into the
room.</p>

<a name="0412"></a>
<img alt="0412.jpg (154K)" src="0412.jpg" height="1043" width="672">

<p>[THE GENTLEMEN WHO NEVER SLEEP.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>There the scene was certainly a curious one. Around a large
table sat a<br>
party of some twenty persons, the singularity of whose appearance
may<br>
be conjectured when I mention that all those who appeared to be
British<br>
officers were dressed in the robes of the <i>&eacute;chevins</i> (or
aldermen) of the<br>
village; while some others, whose looks bespoke them as sturdy
Flemings,<br>
sported the cocked hats and cavalry helmets of their associates.
He who<br>
appeared the ruler of the feast sat with his back towards me, and
wore, in<br>
addition to the dress of burgomaster, a herald's tabard, which
gave him<br>
something the air of a grotesque screen at its potations. A huge
fire<br>
blazed upon the ample hearth, before which were spread several
staff<br>
uniforms, whose drabbled and soaked appearance denoted the reason
of the<br>
party's change of habiliments. Every imaginable species of
drinking-vessel<br>
figured upon the board, from the rich flagon of chased silver to
the humble<br>
<i>cruche</i> we see in a Teniers picture. As well as I could hear,
the language<br>
of the company seemed to be French, or, at least, such an
imitation of that<br>
language as served as a species of neutral territory for both
parties to<br>
meet in.</p>

<p>He of the tabard spoke louder than the others, and although,
from the<br>
execrable endeavors he made to express himself in French, his
natural voice<br>
was much altered, there was yet something in his accents which
seemed<br>
perfectly familiar to me.</p>

<p>"Mosheer l'Abbey," said he, placing his arm familiarly on the
shoulder of<br>
a portly personage, whose shaven crown strangely contrasted with
a pair<br>
of corked moustachios,&mdash;"Mosheer l'Abbey, nous sommes
fr&egrave;res, et moi,<br>
savez-vous, suis &eacute;v&egrave;que,&mdash;'pon my life it's true; I
might have been Bishop<br>
of Saragossa, if I only consented to leave the Twenty-third. Je
suis bong<br>
Catholique. Lord bless you, if you saw how I loved the nunneries
in Spain!<br>
J'ai tres jolly souvenirs of those nunneries; a goodly company of
little<br>
silver saints; and this waistcoat you see&mdash;mong gilet&mdash;was a
satin<br>
petticoat of our Lady of Loretto."</p>

<p>Need I say, that before this speech was concluded, I had
recognized in the<br>
speaker nobody but that inveterate old villain, Monsoon
himself.</p>

<p>"Permettez, votre Excellence," said a hale, jolly-looking
personage on his<br>
left, as he filled the major's goblet with obsequious
politeness.</p>

<p>"Bong engfong," replied Monsoon, tapping him familiarly on the
head.<br>
"Burgomaster, you are a trump; and when I get my promotion, I'll
make<br>
you prefect in a wine district. Pass the lush, and don't look
sleepy!<br>
'Drowsiness,' says Solomon, 'clothes a man in rags;' and no man
knew the<br>
world better than Solomon. Don't you be laughing, you raw boys.
Never mind<br>
them, Abbey; ils sont petits gar&ccedil;ongs&mdash;fags from Eton and
Harrow; better<br>
judges of mutton broth than sherry negus."</p>

<p>"I say, Major, you are forgetting this song you promised
us."</p>

<p>"Yes, yes," said several voices together; "the song, Major!
the song!"</p>

<p>"Time enough for that; we're doing very well as it is. Upon my
life,<br>
though, they hold a deal of wine. I thought we'd have had them
fit to<br>
bargain with before ten, and see, it's near midnight; and I must
have my<br>
forage accounts ready for the commissary-general by to-morrow
morning."</p>

<p>This speech having informed me the reason of the Major's
presence there,<br>
I resolved to wait no longer a mere spectator of their
proceedings; so<br>
dismounting from my position, I commenced a vigorous attack upon
the door.</p>

<p>It was some time before I was heard; but at length the door
was opened, and<br>
I was accosted by an Englishman, who, in a strange compound of
French and<br>
English, asked, "What the devil I meant by all that uproar?"
Determining<br>
to startle my old friend the major, I replied, that "I was
aide-de-camp to<br>
General Picton, and had come down on very unpleasant business."
By this<br>
time the noise of the party within had completely subsided, and
from a few<br>
whispered sentences, and their thickened breathing, I perceived
that they<br>
were listening.</p>

<p>"May I ask, sir," continued I, "if Major Monsoon is here?"</p>

<p>"Yes," stammered out the ensign, for such he was.</p>

<p>"Sorry for it, for his sake," said I; "but my orders are
peremptory."</p>

<p>A deep groan from within, and a muttered request to pass down
the sherry,<br>
nearly overcame my gravity; but I resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"If you will permit me, I will make the affair as short as
possible. The<br>
major, I presume, is here?"</p>

<p>So saying, I pushed forward into the room, where now a slight
scuffling<br>
noise and murmur of voices had succeeded silence. Brief as was
the<br>
interval of our colloquy, the scene within had, notwithstanding,
undergone<br>
considerable change. The English officers, hastily throwing off
their<br>
aldermanic robes, were busily arraying themselves in their
uniforms, while<br>
Monsoon himself, with a huge basin of water before him, was
endeavoring to<br>
wash the cork from his countenance in the corner of his
tabard.</p>

<p>"Very hard upon me, all this; upon my life, so it is! Picton
is always at<br>
me, just as if we had not been school-fellows. The service is
getting worse<br>
every day. Regardez-moi, Curey, mong face est propre? Eh? There,
thank you.<br>
Good fellow the Curey is, but takes a deal of fluid. Oh,
Burgomaster! I<br>
fear it is all up with me! No more fun, no more jollification, no
more<br>
plunder&mdash;and how I did do it. Nothing like watching one's little
chances!<br>
'The poor is hated even by his neighbor.' Oui, Curey, it is
Solomon says<br>
that, and they must have had a heavy poor-rate in his day to make
him say<br>
so. Another glass of sherry!"</p>

<p>By this time I approached the back of the chair, and slapping
him heartily<br>
on the shoulder, called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Major, old boy, how goes it?"</p>

<p>"Eh?&mdash;what&mdash;how!&mdash;who is this? It can't be&mdash;egad, sure it is,
though.<br>
Charley! Charley O'Malley, you scapegrace, where have you been?
When did<br>
you join?"</p>

<p>"A week ago, Major. I could resist it no longer. I did my best
to be a<br>
country gentleman, and behave respectably, but the old temptation
was too<br>
strong for me. Fred Power and yourself, Major, had ruined my
education; and<br>
here I am once more among you."</p>

<p>"And so Picton and the arrest and all that, was nothing but a
joke?" said<br>
the old fellow, rolling his wicked eyes with a most cunning
expression.</p>

<p>"Nothing more, Major, set your heart at rest."</p>

<p>"What a scamp you are," said he, with another grin. "Il est
mon fils&mdash;il<br>
est mon fils, Curey," presenting me, as he spoke, while the
burgomaster, in<br>
whose eyes the major seemed no inconsiderable personage, saluted
me with<br>
profound respect.</p>

<p>Turning at once towards this functionary, I explained that I
was the<br>
bearer of important despatches, and that my horse&mdash;I was ashamed
to say my<br>
mule&mdash;having fallen lame, I was unable to proceed.</p>

<p>"Can you procure me a remount, Monsieur?" said I, "for I must
hasten on to<br>
Courtrai."</p>

<p>"In half an hour you shall be provided, as well as with a
mounted guide for<br>
the road. Le fils de son Excellence," said he, with emphasis,
bowing to the<br>
major as he spoke; who, in his turn, repaid the courtesy with a
still lower<br>
obeisance.</p>

<p>"Sit down, Charley; here is a clean glass. I am delighted to
see you, my<br>
boy! They tell me you have got a capital estate and plenty of
ready. Lord,<br>
we so wanted you, as there's scarcely a fellow with sixpence
among us. Give<br>
me the lad that can do a bit of paper at three months, and always
be ready<br>
for a renewal. You haven't got a twenty-pound note?" This was
said <i>sotto<br>
voce</i>. "Never mind; ten will do. You can give me the remainder at
Brussels.<br>
Strange, is it not, I have not seen a bit of clean bank paper
like this for<br>
above a twelvemonth!" This was said as he thrust his hand into
his pocket,<br>
with one of those peculiar leers upon his countenance which,
unfortunately,<br>
betrayed more satisfaction at his success than gratitude for the
service.<br>
"You are looking fat&mdash;too fat, I think," said he, scrutinizing me
from head<br>
to foot; "but the life we are leading just now will soon take
that off. The<br>
slave-trade is luxurious indolence compared to it. Post haste to
Nivelle<br>
one day; down to Ghent the next; forty miles over a paved road in
a<br>
hand-gallop, and an aide-de-camp with a watch in his hand at the
end of it,<br>
to report if you are ten minutes too late. And there is
Wellington has his<br>
eye everywhere. There is not a truss of hay served to the
cavalry, nor a<br>
pair of shoes half-soled in the regiment, that he don't know of
it. I've<br>
got it over the knuckles already."</p>

<p>"How so, Major? How was that?"</p>

<p>"Why, he ordered me to picket two squadrons of the Seventh,
and a supper<br>
was waiting. I didn't like to leave my quarters, so I took up my
telescope<br>
and pitched upon a sweet little spot of ground on a hill; rather
difficult<br>
to get up, to be sure, but a beautiful view when you're on it.
'There is<br>
your ground, Captain,' said I, as I sent one of my people to mark
the spot.<br>
He did not like it much; however, he was obliged to go. And,
would you<br>
believe it?&mdash;so much for bad luck!&mdash;there turned out to be no
water within<br>
two miles of it&mdash;not a drop, Charley; and so, about eleven at
night, the<br>
two squadrons moved down into Grammont to wet their lips, and
what is<br>
worse, to report me to the commanding officer. And only think!
They put me<br>
under arrest because Providence did not make a river run up a
mountain!"</p>

<p>Just as the major finished speaking, the distant clatter of
horses' feet<br>
and the clank of cavalry was heard approaching. We all rushed
eagerly to<br>
the door; and scarcely had we done so, when a squadron of
dragoons came<br>
riding up the street at a fast trot.</p>

<p>"I say, good people," cried the officer, in French, "where
does the<br>
burgomaster live here?"</p>

<p>"Fred Power, 'pon my life!" shouted the major.</p>

<p>"Eh, Monsoon, that you? Give me a tumbler of wine, old boy;
you are sure to<br>
have some, and I am desperately blown."</p>

<p>"Get down, Fred, get down! We have an old friend here."</p>

<p>"Who the deuce d'ye mean?" said he, as throwing himself from
the saddle he<br>
strode into the room. "Charley O'Malley, by all that's
glorious!"</p>

<p>"Fred, my gallant fellow!" said I.</p>

<p>"It was but this morning, Charley, that I so wished for you
here. The<br>
French are advancing, my lad. They have crossed the frontier;
Zeithen's<br>
corps have been attacked and driven in; Blucher is falling back
upon Ligny;<br>
and the campaign is opened. But I must press forward. The
regiment is close<br>
behind me, and we are ordered to push for Brussels in all
haste."</p>

<p>"Then these despatches," said I, showing my packet, "'tis
unnecessary to<br>
proceed with?"</p>

<p>"Quite so. Get into the saddle and come back with us."</p>

<p>The burgomaster had kept his word with me; so mounted upon a
strong<br>
hackney, I set out with Power on the road to Brussels. I have had
occasion<br>
more than once to ask pardon of my reader for the prolixity of
my<br>
narrative, so I shall not trespass on him here by the detail of
our<br>
conversation as we jogged along. Of me and my adventures he
already knows<br>
enough&mdash;perhaps too much. My friend Power's career, abounding as
it did in<br>
striking incidents, and all the light and shadow of a soldier's
life,<br>
yet not bearing upon any of the characters I have presented to
your<br>
acquaintance, except in one instance,&mdash;of that only shall I
speak.</p>

<p>"And the senhora, Fred; how goes your fortune in that
quarter?"</p>

<p>"Gloriously, Charley! I am every day expecting the promotion
in my regiment<br>
which is to make her mine."</p>

<p>"You have heard from her lately, then?"</p>

<p>"Heard from her! Why, man, she is in Brussels."</p>

<p>"In Brussels?"</p>

<p>"To be sure. Don Emanuel is in high favor with the duke, and
is now<br>
commissary-general with the army; and the senhora is the <i>belle</i>
of the<br>
Rue Royale, or at least, it's a divided sovereignty between her
and Lucy<br>
Dashwood. And now, Charley, let me ask, what of her? There,
there, don't<br>
blush, man. There is quite enough moonlight to show how tender
you are in<br>
that quarter."</p>

<p>"Once for all, Fred, pray spare me on that subject. You have
been far too<br>
fortunate in your <i>affaire de coeur</i>, and I too much the reverse,
to permit<br>
much sympathy between us."</p>

<p>"Do you not visit, then; or is it a cut between you?" "I have
never met her<br>
since the night of the masquerade of the villa&mdash;at least, to
speak to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, I must confess, you seem to manage your own affairs
much worse than<br>
your friends'; not but that in so doing you are exhibiting a very
Irish<br>
feature of your character. In any case, you will come to the
ball? Inez<br>
will be delighted to see you; and I have got over all my
jealousy."</p>

<p>"What ball? I never heard of it."</p>

<p>"Never heard of it! Why, the Duchess of Richmond's, of course.
Pooh, pooh,<br>
man! Not invited?&mdash;of course you are invited; the staff are never
left out<br>
on such occasions. You will find your card at your hotel on your
return."</p>

<p>"In any case, Fred&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I shall insist upon your going. I have no <i>arri&egrave;re
pens&eacute;e</i> about a<br>
reconciliation with the Dashwoods, no subtle scheme, on my honor;
but<br>
simply I feel that you will never give yourself fair chances in
the world,<br>
by indulging your habit of shrinking from every embarrassment.
Don't be<br>
offended, boy. I know you have pluck enough to storm a battery; I
have seen<br>
you under fire before now. What avails your courage in the field,
if you<br>
have not presence of mind in the drawing-room? Besides,
everything else out<br>
of the question, it is a breach of etiquette towards your chief
to decline<br>
such an invitation."</p>

<p>"You think so?"</p>

<p>"Think so?&mdash;no; I am sure of it."</p>

<p>"Then, as to uniform, Fred?"</p>

<p>"Oh, as to that, easily managed. And now I think of it, they
have sent me<br>
an unattached uniform, which you can have; but remember, my boy,
if I put<br>
you in my coat, I don't want you to stand in my shoes. Don't
forget also<br>
that I am your debtor in horseflesh, and fortunately able to
repay you. I<br>
have got such a charger; your own favorite color, dark chestnut,
and<br>
except one white leg, not a spot about him; can carry sixteen
stone over a<br>
five-foot fence, and as steady as a rock under fire."</p>

<p>"But, Fred, how are you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, never mind me; I have six in my stable, and intend to
share with you.<br>
The fact is, I have been transferred from one staff to another
for the last<br>
six months, and four of my number are presents. Is Mike with you?
Ah, glad<br>
to hear it; you will never get on without that fellow. Besides,
it is a<br>
capital thing to have such a connecting link with one's
nationality. No<br>
fear of your ever forgetting Ireland with Mr. Free in your
company. You<br>
are not aware that we have been correspondents. A fact, I assure
you. Mike<br>
wrote me two letters; and such letters they were! The last was a
Jeremiad<br>
over your decline and fall, with a very ominous picture of a
certain Miss<br>
Baby Blake."</p>

<p>"Confound the rascal!"</p>

<p>"By Jove, though, Charley, you were coming it rather strong
with Baby. Inez<br>
saw the letter, and as well as she could decipher Mike's
hieroglyphics, saw<br>
there was something in it; but the name Baby puzzled her
immensely, and she<br>
set the whole thing down to your great love of children. I don't
think that<br>
Lucy quite agreed with her."</p>

<p>"Did she tell it to Miss Dashwood?" I inquired, with fear and
trembling.</p>

<p>"Oh, that she did; in fact, Inez never ceases talking of you
to Lucy. But<br>
come, lad, don't look so grave. Let's have another brush with the
enemy;<br>
capture a battery of their guns; carry off a French marshal or
two; get the<br>
Bath for your services, and be thanked in general orders,&mdash;and I
will wager<br>
all my <i>ch&acirc;teau en Espagne</i> that everything goes well."</p>

<p>Thus chatting away, sometimes over the past, of our former
friends and<br>
gay companions, of our days of storm and sunshine; sometimes
indulging in<br>
prospects for the future, we trotted along, and as the day was
breaking,<br>
mounted the ridge of low hills, from whence, at the distance of a
couple of<br>
leagues, the city of Brussels came into view.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LI.</p>

<p>THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND'S BALL.</p>

<p>Whether we regard the illustrious and distinguished personages
who thronged<br>
around, or we think of the portentous moment in which it was
given, the<br>
Duchess of Richmond's ball, on the night of the 15th of June,
1815, was not<br>
only one of the most memorable, but, in its interest, the most
exciting<br>
entertainment that the memory of any one now living can
compass.</p>

<p>There is always something of no common interest in seeing the
bronzed and<br>
war-worn soldier mixing in the crowd of light-hearted and
brilliant<br>
beauty. To watch the eye whose proud glance has flashed over the
mail-clad<br>
squadrons now bending meekly beneath the look of some timid girl;
to hear<br>
the voice that, high above the battle or the breeze, has shouted
the<br>
hoarse word "Charge!" now subdued into the low, soft murmur of
flattery or<br>
compliment. This, at any rate, is a picture full of its own
charm; but when<br>
we see these heroes of a hundred fights; when we look upon these
hardy<br>
veterans, upon whose worn brows the whitened locks of time are
telling,<br>
indulging themselves in the careless gayety of a moment, snatched
as it<br>
were from the arduous career of their existence, while the tramp
of the<br>
advancing enemy shakes the very soil they stand on, and where it
may be<br>
doubted whether each aide-de-camp who enters comes a new votary
of pleasure<br>
or the bearer of tidings that the troops of the foe are
advancing, and<br>
already the work of death has begun: this is, indeed, a scene to
make the<br>
heart throb, and the pulse beat high; this is a moment second in
its proud<br>
excitement only to the very crash and din of battle itself. And
into this<br>
entrancing whirlwind of passion and of pleasure, of brilliant
beauty<br>
and ennobled greatness, of all that is lovely in woman and all
that is<br>
chivalrous and heroic in man, I brought a heart which, young in
years, was<br>
yet tempered by disappointment; still, such was the fascination,
such the<br>
brilliancy of the spectacle, that scarcely had I entered, than I
felt a<br>
change come over me,&mdash;the old spirit of my boyish ardor, that
high-wrought<br>
enthusiasm to do something, to be something which men may speak
of, shot<br>
suddenly through me, and I felt my cheek tingle and my temples
throb, as<br>
name after name of starred and titled officers were announced, to
think<br>
that to me, also, the path of glorious enterprise was
opening.</p>

<p>"Come along, come along," said Power, catching me by the arm,
"you've not<br>
been presented to the duchess. I know her. I'll do it for you; or
perhaps<br>
it is better Sir Thomas Picton should. In any case, <i>filez</i> after
me, for<br>
the dark-eyed senhora is surely expecting us. There, do you see
that dark,<br>
intelligent-looking fellow leaning over the end of the sofa? That
is Alava.<br>
And there, you know who that is, that <i>beau ideal</i> of a hussar?
Look how<br>
jauntily he carries himself; see the careless but graceful sling
with which<br>
he edges through the crowd; and look! Mark his bow! Did you see
that,<br>
Charley? Did you catch the quick glance he shot yonder, and the
soft smile<br>
that showed his white teeth? Depend upon it, boy, some fair heart
is not<br>
the better nor the easier for that look."</p>

<p>"Who is it?" said I.</p>

<p>"Lord Uxbridge, to be sure; the handsomest fellow in the
service; and there<br>
goes Vandeleur, talking with Vivian; the other, to the left, is
Ponsonby."</p>

<p>"But stay, Fred, tell me who that is?" For a moment or two, I
had some<br>
difficulty in directing his attention to the quarter I desired.
The<br>
individual I pointed out was somewhat above the middle size; his
uniform of<br>
blue and gold, though singularly plain, had a look of richness
about it;<br>
besides that, among the orders which covered his breast, he wore
one star<br>
of great brilliancy and size. This, however, was his least
distinction; for<br>
although surrounded on every side by those who might be deemed
the very<br>
types and pictures of their <i>caste</i>, there was something in the
easy but<br>
upright carriage of his head, the intrepid character of his
features, the<br>
bold and vigorous flashing of his deep blue eye, that marked him
as no<br>
common man. He was talking with an old and prosy-looking
personage in<br>
civilian dress; and while I could detect an anxiety to get free
from<br>
a tiresome companion, there was an air of deferential, and even
kind<br>
attention in his manner, absolutely captivating.</p>

<p>"A thorough gentleman, Fred, whoever he be," said I.</p>

<p>"I should think so," replied Power, dryly; "and as our
countrymen would<br>
say, 'The Devil thank him for it!' That is the Prince of Orange;
but see,<br>
look at him now, his features have learned another fashion." And
true it<br>
was; with a smile of the most winning softness, and with a voice,
whose<br>
slightly foreign accent took nothing from its interest, I heard
him<br>
engaging a partner for a waltz.</p>

<p>There was a flutter of excitement in the circle as the lady
rose to take<br>
his arm, and a muttered sound of, "How very beautiful, quelle est
belle,<br>
c'est un ange!" on all sides. I leaned forward to catch a glance
as she<br>
passed; it was Lucy Dashwood. Beautiful beyond anything I had
ever seen<br>
her, her lovely features lit up with pleasure and with pride, she
looked in<br>
every way worthy to lean upon the arm of royalty. The graceful
majesty of<br>
her walk, the placid loveliness of her gentle smile, struck every
one<br>
as she passed on. As for me, totally forgetting all else, not
seeing or<br>
hearing aught around me, I followed her with my eye until she was
lost<br>
among the crowd, and then, with an impulse of which I was not
master,<br>
followed in her steps.</p>

<p>"This way, this way," said Power; "I see the senhora." So
saying, we<br>
entered a little boudoir, where a party was playing at cards.
Leaning on<br>
the back of a chair, Inez was endeavoring, with that mixture of
coquetry<br>
and half malice she possessed, to distract the attention of the
player. As<br>
Power came near, she scarcely turned her head to give him a kind
of saucy<br>
smile; while, seeing me, she held out her hand with friendly
warmth, and<br>
seemed quite happy to meet me.</p>

<p>"Do, pray, take her away; get her to dance, to eat ice, or
flirt with you,<br>
for Heaven's sake!" said the half-laughing voice of her victim.
"I have<br>
revoked twice, and misdealt four times since she has been here.
Believe me,<br>
I shall take it as the greatest favor, if you'll&mdash;"</p>

<p>As he got thus far he turned round towards me, and I perceived
it was Sir<br>
George Dashwood. The meeting was as awkward for him as for me;
and while a<br>
deep flush covered my face, he muttered some unintelligible
apology, and<br>
Inez burst into a fit of laughter at the ludicrous <i>contretemps</i>
of our<br>
situation.</p>

<p>"I will dance with you now, if you like," said she, "and that
will be<br>
punishing all three. Eh, Master Fred?"</p>

<p>So saying, she took my arm as I led her toward the
ball-room.</p>

<p>"And so you really are not friends with the Dashwoods? How
very provoking,<br>
and how foolish, too! But really, Chevalier, I must say you treat
ladies<br>
very ill. I don't forget your conduct to me. Dear me, I wish we
could move<br>
forward, there is some one pushing me dreadfully!"</p>

<p>"Get on, Ma'am, get on!" said a sharp, decided voice behind
me. I turned,<br>
half smiling, to see the speaker. It was the Duke of Wellington
himself,<br>
who, with his eye fixed upon some person at a distance, seemed to
care<br>
very little for any intervening obstruction. As I made way for
him to pass<br>
between us, he looked hardly at me, while he said in a short,
quick way,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Know your face very well: how d'ye do?" With this brief
recognition he<br>
passed on, leaving me to console Inez for her crushed sleeve, by
informing<br>
her who had done it.</p>

<p>The ball was now at its height. The waltzers whirled past in
the wild<br>
excitement of the dance. The inspiriting strains of the music,
the sounds<br>
of laughter, the din, the tumult, all made up that strange medley
which,<br>
reacting upon the minds of those who cause it, increases the
feeling<br>
of pleasurable abandonment, making the old feel young, and the
young<br>
intoxicated with delight.</p>

<p>As the senhora leaned upon me, fatigued with waltzing, I was
endeavoring to<br>
sustain a conversation with her; while my thoughts were wandering
with my<br>
eyes to where I had last seen Lucy Dashwood.</p>

<p>"It must be something of importance; I'm sure it is," said
she, at the<br>
conclusion of a speech of which I had not heard one word. "Look
at General<br>
Picton's face!"</p>

<p>"Very pretty, indeed," said I; "but the hair is unbecoming,"
replying to<br>
some previous observation she had made, and still lost in a
revery. A<br>
hearty burst of laughter was her answer as she gently shook my
arm,<br>
saying,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You really are too bad! You've never listened to one word
I've been<br>
telling you, but keep continually staring with your eyes here and
there,<br>
turning this way and looking that, and with a dull, vacant, and
unmeaning<br>
smile, answering at random, in the most provoking manner. There
now, pray<br>
pay attention, and tell me what that means." As she said this,
she pointed<br>
with her fan to where a dragoon officer, in splashed and
spattered uniform,<br>
was standing talking to some three or four general officers. "But
here<br>
comes the duke; it can't be anything of consequence."</p>

<p>At the same instant the Duke of Wellington passed with the
Duchess of<br>
Richmond on his arm.</p>

<p>"No, Duchess; nothing to alarm you. Did you say ice?"</p>

<p>"There, you heard that, I hope!" said Inez; "there is nothing
to alarm us."</p>

<p>"Go to General Picton at once; but don't let it be remarked,"
said an<br>
officer, in a whisper, as he passed close by me.</p>

<p>"Inez, I have the greatest curiosity to learn what that new
arrival has to<br>
say for himself; and if you will permit me, I'll leave you with
Lady Gordon<br>
for one moment&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Delighted, of all things. You are without exception, the
most<br>
tiresome&mdash;Good-by."</p>

<p>"Sans adieu," said I, as I hurried through the crowd towards
an open<br>
window, on the balcony outside of which Sir Thomas Picton was
standing.</p>

<p>"Ah, Mr. O'Malley, have you a pencil? There, that'll do. Ride
down to<br>
Etterbeeck with this order for Godwin. You have heard the news, I
suppose,<br>
that the French are in advance? The Seventy-ninth will muster in
the Grando<br>
Place. The Ninety-second and the Twenty-eighth along the Park and
the<br>
Boulevard. Napoleon left Fresnes this morning. The Prussians have
fallen<br>
back. Zeithen has been beaten. We march at once."</p>

<p>"To-morrow, sir?"</p>

<p>"No, sir, to-night. There, don't delay! But above all, let
everything be<br>
done quietly and noiselessly. The duke will remain here for an
hour longer<br>
to prevent suspicion. When you've executed your orders, come back
here."</p>

<p>I mounted the first horse I could find at the door, and
galloped with top<br>
speed over the heavy causeway to Etterbeeck. In two minutes the
drum beat<br>
to arms, and the men were mustering as I left. Thence I hastened
to the<br>
barracks of the Highland Brigade and the 28th Regiment; and
before half an<br>
hour, was back in the ball-room, where, from the din and tumult,
I guessed<br>
the scene of pleasure and dissipation continued unabated. As I
hurried up<br>
the staircase a throng of persons were coming down, and I was
obliged to<br>
step aside to let them pass.</p>

<p>"Ah, come here, pray," said Picton, who, with a lady cloaked
and hooded<br>
leaning upon his arm, was struggling to make way through the
crowd. "The<br>
very man!"</p>

<p>"Will you excuse me if I commit you to the care of my
aide-de-camp, who<br>
will see you to your carriage? The duke has just desired to see
me." This<br>
he said in a hurried and excited tone; and the same moment
beckoned to me<br>
to take the lady's arm.</p>

<p>It was with some difficulty I succeeded in reaching the spot,
and had only<br>
time to ask whose carriage I should call for, ere we arrived in
the hall.</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood's," said a low, soft voice, whose accents
sank into<br>
my very heart. Heaven! it was Lucy herself; it was her arm that
leaned on<br>
mine, her locks that fluttered beside me, her hand that hung so
near, and<br>
yet I could not speak. I tried one word; but a choking feeling in
my throat<br>
prevented utterance, and already we were upon the door-steps.</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood's carriage," shouted the footman, and the
announcement<br>
was repeated by the porter. The steps were hurried down; the
footman stood<br>
door in hand; and I led her forward, mute and trembling. Did she
know me? I<br>
assisted her as she stepped in; her hand touched mine: it was the
work of a<br>
second; to me it was the bliss of years. She leaned a little
forward; and<br>
as the servant put up the steps, said in her soft, sweet tone,
"Thank you,<br>
sir. Good-night."</p>

<p>I felt my shoulder touched by some one who, it appeared, was
standing close<br>
to me for some seconds; but so occupied was I in gazing at her
that I paid<br>
no attention to the circumstance. The carriage drove away and
disappeared<br>
in the thick darkness of a starless night. I turned to re-enter
the house,<br>
and as I did so, the night lamp of the hall fell upon the
features of<br>
the man beside me, and showed me the pale and corpse-like face of
Fred<br>
Hammersley. His eye was bent upon me with an expression of fierce
and fiery<br>
passion, in which the sadness of long-suffering also mingled. His
bloodless<br>
lips parted, moved as though speaking, while yet no sound issued;
and his<br>
nostril, dilating and contracting by turns, seemed to denote some
deep and<br>
hidden emotion that worked within him.</p>

<p>"Hammersley," said I, holding out my hand towards
him,&mdash;"Hammersley, do not<br>
always mistake me?"</p>

<p>He shook his head mournfully as it fell forward upon his
breast, and<br>
covering his arm, moved slowly away without speaking.</p>

<p>General Picton's voice as he descended the stairs, accompanied
by Generals<br>
Vandeleur and Vivian, aroused me at once, and I hurried towards
him.</p>

<p>"Now, sir, to horse. The troops will defile by the Namur gate,
and meet me<br>
there in an hour. Meanwhile tell Colonel Cameron that he must
march with<br>
the light companies of his own and the Ninety-second at
once."</p>

<p>"I say, Picton, they'll say we were taken by surprise in
England; won't<br>
they?" said a sharp, strong voice, in a half-laughing tone from
behind.</p>

<p>"No, your Grace," said Sir Thomas, bowing slightly; "they'll
scarcely do so<br>
when they hear the time we took to get under arms."</p>

<p>I heard no more; but throwing myself into the saddle of my
troop horse,<br>
once more rode back to the Belle Vue to make ready for the
road.</p>

<p>The thin pale crescent of a new moon, across which masses of
dark and inky<br>
clouds were hurrying, tipped with its faint and sickly light the
tall<br>
minarets of the Hotel de Ville, as I rode into the Grande Place.
Although<br>
midnight, the streets were as crowded as at noonday; horse, foot,
and<br>
dragoons passing and hurrying hither; the wild pibroch of the
Highlander;<br>
the mellow bugle of the Seventy-first; the hoarse trumpet of the
cavalry;<br>
the incessant roll of the drum,&mdash;mingled their sounds with the
tide of<br>
human voices, in which every accent was heard, from the reckless
cheer of<br>
anticipated victory, to the heart-piercing shriek of woman's
agony. Lights<br>
gleamed from every window; from the doors of almost every house
poured<br>
forth a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk. The sergeants, on one
side,<br>
might be seen telling off their men, their cool and steady
countenances<br>
evidencing no semblance of emotion; while near them some young
ensign,<br>
whose beardless cheek and vacant smile bespoke the mere boy,
looked on with<br>
mingled pride and wonder at the wild scene before him. Every now
and then<br>
some general officer with his staff came cantering past; and as
the efforts<br>
to muster and form the troops grew more pressing, I could mark
how soon we<br>
were destined to meet the enemy.</p>

<p>There are few finer monuments of the architecture of the
Middle Ages than<br>
the Grande Place of Brussels,&mdash;the rich fa&ccedil;ade of the
H&ocirc;tel de Ville, with<br>
its long colonnade of graceful arches, upon every keystone of
which some<br>
grim, grotesque head is peering; the massive cornices; the heavy
corbels<br>
carved into ten thousand strange and uncouth fancies; but finer
than all,<br>
the taper and stately spire, fretted and perforated like some
piece of<br>
silver filigree, stretches upward towards the sky, its airy
pinnacle<br>
growing finer and more beautiful as it nears the stars it points
to.<br>
How full of historic associations is every dark embrasure, every
narrow<br>
casement around! Here may have stood the great emperor, Charles
the Fifth,<br>
meditating upon that greatness he was about to forego forever;
here from<br>
this tall window, may have looked the sad and sickly features of
Jeanne<br>
Laffolle, as with wandering eye and idiot smile she gazed upon
the gorgeous<br>
procession beneath. There is not a stone that has not echoed to
the tread<br>
of haughty prince or bold baron; yet never, in the palmiest days
of ancient<br>
chivalry, did those proud dwellings of the great of old look out
upon a<br>
braver and more valiant host than now thronged beneath their
shadow. It was<br>
indeed a splendid sight, where the bright gleams of torch and
lantern threw<br>
the red light around, to watch the measured tread and steady
tramp of the<br>
Highland regiments as they defiled into the open space; each
footstep as it<br>
met the ground, seeming in its proud and firm tread, to move in
more than<br>
sympathy with the wild notes of their native mountains; silent
and still<br>
they moved along; no voice spoke within their ranks, save that of
some<br>
command to "Close up&mdash;take ground&mdash;to the right&mdash;rear rank&mdash;close
order."<br>
Except such brief words as these, or the low muttered praise of
some<br>
veteran general as he rode down the line, all was orderly and
steady as<br>
on a parade. Meanwhile, from an angle of the square, the band of
an<br>
approaching regiment was heard; and to the inspiriting quickness
of "The<br>
Young May Moon," the gallant Twenty-eighth came forward and took
up their<br>
ground opposite to the Highlanders.</p>

<p>The deep bell of the H&ocirc;tel de Ville tolled one. The
solemn sound rang out<br>
and died away in many an echo, leaving upon the heart a sense of
some<br>
unknown depression; and there was something like a knell in the
deep<br>
cadence of its bay; and over many a cheek a rapid trace of gloomy
thought<br>
now passed; and true&mdash;too true, alas!&mdash;how many now listened for
the last<br>
time!</p>

<p>"March! march!" passed from front to rear; and as the bands
burst forth<br>
again in streams of spirit-stirring harmony, the Seventy-ninth
moved on;<br>
the Twenty-eighth followed; and as they debouched from the
"Place" the<br>
Seventy-first and the Ninety-second succeeded them. Like wave
after wave,<br>
the tide of armed men pressed on, and mounted the steep and
narrow street<br>
towards the upper town of Brussels. Here Pack's Brigade was
forming in the<br>
Place Royale; and a crowd of staff officers dictating orders, and
writing<br>
hurriedly on the drum-heads, were also seen. A troop of dragoons
stood<br>
beside their horses at the door of the Belle Vue, and several
grooms with<br>
led horses walked to and fro.</p>

<p>"Ride forward, sir, to the Bois de Cambre," said Picton, "and
pivot the<br>
troops on the road to Mont St. Jean. You will then wait for my
coming up,<br>
or further orders."</p>

<p>This command, which was given to me, I hastened to obey; and
with<br>
difficulty forcing my way through the opposing crowd, at length
reached the<br>
Namur gate. Here I found a detachment of the Guards, who as yet
had got no<br>
orders to march, and were somewhat surprised to learn the forward
movement.<br>
Ten minutes' riding brought me to the angle of the wood, whence I
wrote a<br>
few lines to my host of the Belle Vue, desiring him to send Mike
after me<br>
with my horses and my kit. The night was cold, dark, and
threatening; the<br>
wind howled with a low and wailing cry through the dark
pine-trees; and as<br>
I stood alone and in solitude, I had time to think of the
eventful hours<br>
before me, and of that field which ere long was to witness the
triumph or<br>
the downfall of my country's arms. The road which led through the
forest of<br>
Soignies caught an additional gloom from the dark, dense woods
around. The<br>
faint moon only showed at intervals; and a lowering sky, without
a single<br>
star, stretched above us. It was an awful and a solemn thing to
hear the<br>
deep and thundering roll of that mighty column, awakening the
echoes of<br>
the silent forest as they went. So hurried was the movement that
we had<br>
scarcely any artillery, and that of the lightest calibre; but the
clash and<br>
clank of the cavalry, the heavy, monotonous tramp of infantry
were there;<br>
and as division followed after division, staff officers rode
hurriedly to<br>
and fro, pressing the eager troops still on.</p>

<p>"Move up there, Ninety-fifth. Ah, Forty-second, we've work
before us!" said<br>
Picton, as he rode up to the head of his brigade. The air of
depression<br>
which usually sat upon his careworn features now changed for a
light and<br>
laughing look, while his voice was softened and subdued into a
low and<br>
pleasing tone. Although it was midsummer, the roads were heavy
and deep<br>
with mud. For some weeks previously the weather had been rainy;
and<br>
this, added to the haste and discomfort of the night march,
considerably<br>
increased the fatigue of the troops. Notwithstanding these
disadvantages,<br>
not a murmur nor complaint was heard on any side.</p>

<p>"I'm unco glad to get a blink o' them, onyhow," said a tall,
raw-boned<br>
sergeant, who marched beside me.</p>

<p>"Faith, and may be you won't be over pleased at the expression
of their<br>
faces, when you see them," said Mike, whose satisfaction at the
prospect<br>
before him was still as great as that of any other amidst the
thousands<br>
there.</p>

<p>The day was slowly breaking, as a Prussian officer, splashed
and covered<br>
with foam, came galloping up at full speed past us. While I was
yet<br>
conjecturing what might be the intelligence he brought, Power
rode up to my<br>
side.</p>

<p>"We're in for it, Charley," said he. "The whole French army
are in march;<br>
and Blucher's aide-de-camp, who has arrived, gives the number at
one<br>
hundred and fifty thousand men. The Prussians are drawn up
between St.<br>
Amand and Sombref, and the Nassau and Dutch troops are at Quatre
Bras, both<br>
expecting to be attacked."</p>

<p>"Quatre Bras was the original rallying spot for our troops,
was it not?"<br>
said I.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes. It is that we're now marching upon; but our
Prussian friend<br>
seems to think we shall arrive too late. Strong French corps are
already at<br>
Fresnes, under the command, it is said, of Marshal Ney."</p>

<p>The great object of the British commander-in-chief was to
arrive at Quatre<br>
Bras in sufficient time to effect his junction with Blucher
before a battle<br>
should be fought. To effect this no exertion was spared: efforts
almost<br>
super-human were made; for, however prepared for a forward
movement, it was<br>
impossible to have anticipated anything until the intentions of
Napoleon<br>
became clearly manifest. While Nivelles and Charleroi were
exposed to him<br>
on one side, Namur lay open on the other; and he could either
march upon<br>
Brussels, by Mons or Halle, or, as he subsequently attempted, by
Quatre<br>
Bras and Waterloo. No sooner, however, were his intentions
unmasked, and<br>
the line of his operations manifested, than Lord Wellington, with
an energy<br>
equal to the mighty occasion that demanded it, poured down with
the whole<br>
force under his command to meet him.</p>

<p>The march was a most distressing one; upward of
three-and-twenty miles,<br>
with deep and cut-up roads, in hot, oppressive weather, in a
country almost<br>
destitute of water. Still the troops pressed forward, and by noon
came<br>
within hearing of the heavy cannonade in front, which indicated
the<br>
situation of the battle. From this time aide-de-camp followed
aide-de-camp<br>
in quick succession, who, from their scared looks and hurried
gestures,<br>
seemed to bode but ill-fortune to the cause we cared for. What
the precise<br>
situation of the rival armies might be we knew not; but we heard
the French<br>
were in overwhelming numbers; that the Dutch troops had abandoned
their<br>
position; the Hanoverians being driven back, the Duke of
Brunswick&mdash;the<br>
brave sovereign of a gallant people&mdash;fell charging at the head of
his black<br>
hussars. From one phrase which constantly met our ears, it seemed
that<br>
the Bois de Bossu was the key of the position. This had been won
and lost<br>
repeatedly by both sides; and as we neared the battle-field a
despatch<br>
hurriedly announced to Picton the importance of at once
recovering this<br>
contested point. The Ninety-fifth were ordered up to the attack.
Scarcely<br>
was the word given, when fatigue, thirst, and exhaustion were
forgotten;<br>
with one cheer the gallant regiment formed into line, and
advanced upon<br>
the wood. Meanwhile the Highland Brigade moved down towards the
right; the<br>
Royals and the Twenty-eighth debouched upon the left of the road;
and in<br>
less than half an hour after our arrival our whole force was in
action.</p>

<p>There is something appalling, to the bravest army, in coming
up to battle<br>
at the time that an overwhelming and conquering foe are carrying
victory<br>
triumphantly before them: such was our position at Quatre Bras.
Bravely and<br>
gloriously as the forces of the Prince of Orange fought, the day,
however,<br>
was not theirs. The Bois de Bossu, which opened to the enemy the
road to<br>
Brussels, was held by their tirailleurs; the valley to the right
was rode<br>
over by their mounted squadrons, who with lance and sabre carried
all<br>
before them; their dark columns pressed steadily on; and a
death-dealing<br>
artillery swept the allied ranks from flank to flank. Such was
the field<br>
when the British arrived, and throwing themselves into squares,
opposed<br>
their unaided force to the dreadful charges of the enemy. The
batteries<br>
showered down their storms of grape; Milhaud's Heavy Dragoons,
assisted by<br>
crowds of lancers, rushed upon the squares, but they stood
unbroken and<br>
undaunted, as sometimes upon three sides of their position the
infuriated<br>
horsemen of the enemy came down. Once, and once only, were the
French<br>
successful; the 42d, who were stationed amidst tall corn-fields,
were<br>
surrounded with cavalry before they knew it. The word was given
to form<br>
square; the Lancers were already among them, and fighting back to
back, the<br>
gallant Highlanders met the foe. Fresh numbers poured down upon
them, and<br>
already half the regiment was disabled and their colonel killed.
These<br>
brave fellows were rescued by the 44th, who, throwing in a
withering<br>
volley, fixed bayonets and charged. Meanwhile the 95th had won
and lost the<br>
wood, which, now in the possession of the French tirailleurs,
threatened to<br>
turn the left of our position. It was at this time that a body of
cavalry<br>
were seen standing to the left of the Enghien road, as if in
observation.<br>
An officer sent forward to reconnoitre, returned with the
intelligence that<br>
they were British troops, for he had seen their red uniforms.</p>

<p>"I can't think it, sir," said Picton. "It is hardly possible
that any<br>
regiment from Enghien could have arrived already. Ride forward,
O'Malley,<br>
and if they be our fellows, let them carry that height yonder;
there are<br>
two guns there cutting the 92d to pieces."</p>

<p>I put spurs to my horse, cleared the road at once, and dashing
across<br>
the open space to the left of the wood, rode on in the direction
of the<br>
horsemen. When I came within the distance of three hundred yards
I examined<br>
them with my glass, and could plainly detect the scarlet coats
and bright<br>
helmets. "Ha," thought I, "the 1st Dragoon Guards, no doubt."
Muttering<br>
to myself thus much, I galloped straight on; and waving my hand
as I came<br>
near, announced that I was the bearer of an order. Scarcely had I
done so,<br>
when four horsemen, dashing spurs into their steeds, plunged
hastily out<br>
from the line, and before I could speak, surrounded me. While the
foremost<br>
called out, as he flourished his sabre above his head,
"Rendez-vous!" At<br>
the same moment I was seized on each side, and led back a captive
into the<br>
hands of the enemy.</p>

<p>"We guess your mistake, Capitaine," said the French officer
before whom I<br>
was brought. "We are the regiment of Berg, and our scarlet
uniform cost us<br>
dearly enough yesterday."</p>

<p>This allusion, I afterwards learned, was in reference to a
charge by a<br>
cuirassier regiment, which, in mistaking them for English, poured
a volley<br>
into them, and killed and wounded about twenty of their
number.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LII.</p>

<p>QUATRE BRAS.</p>

<p>Those who have visited the field of Quatre Bras will remember
that on the<br>
left of the high road, and nearly at the extremity of the Bois de
Bossu,<br>
stands a large Flemish farm-house, whose high pitched roof,
pointed gables,<br>
and quaint, old-fashioned chimneys, remind one of the
architecture<br>
so frequently seen in Tenier's pictures. The house, which, with
its<br>
dependencies of stables, granaries, and out-houses, resembles a
little<br>
village, is surrounded by a large, straggling orchard of aged
fruit-trees,<br>
through which the approach from the high road leads. The interior
of this<br>
quaint dwelling, like all those of its class, is only remarkable
for a<br>
succession of small, dark, low-ceiled rooms, leading one into
another;<br>
their gloomy aspect increased by the dark oak furniture, the
heavy<br>
armories, and old-fashioned presses, carved in the grotesque
taste of the<br>
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Those who visit it now may
mark the<br>
trace of cannon-shot here and there through the building; more
than<br>
one deep crack will attest the force of the dread artillery.
Still the<br>
traveller will feel struck with the rural peace and quietude of
the scene;<br>
the speckled oxen that stand lowing in the deep meadows; the
splash of the<br>
silvery trout as he sports in the bright stream that ripples
along over its<br>
gravelly bed; the cawing of the old rooks in the tall
beech-trees; but more<br>
than all, the happy laugh of children,&mdash;speak of the spot as one
of retired<br>
and tranquil beauty; yet when my eyes opened upon it on the
morning of the<br>
17th of June, the scene presented features of a widely different
interest.<br>
The day was breaking as the deep, full sound of the French bugles
announced<br>
the reveille. Forgetful of where I was, I sprang from my bed and
rushed to<br>
the window; the prospect before me at once recalled me to my
recollection,<br>
and I remembered that I was a prisoner. The exciting events
around left me<br>
but little time and as little inclination to think over my old
misfortunes;<br>
and I watched, with all the interest of a soldier, the movement
of the<br>
French troops in the orchard beneath. A squadron of dragoons, who
seemed to<br>
have passed the night beside their horses, lay stretched or
seated in all<br>
the picturesque groupings of a bivouac,&mdash;some already up and
stirring;<br>
others leaned half listlessly upon their elbows, and looked about
as if<br>
unwilling to believe the night was over; and some, stretched in
deep<br>
slumber, woke not with the noise and tumult around them. The room
in which<br>
I was confined looked out upon the road to Charleroi; I could
therefore<br>
see the British troops; and as the French army had fallen back
during the<br>
night, only an advanced guard maintaining the position, I was
left to my<br>
unaided conjectures as to the fortune of the preceding day of
battle. What<br>
a period of anxiety and agitation was that morning to me; what
would I<br>
not have given to learn the result of the action since the moment
of my<br>
capture! Stubborn as our resistance had been, we were evidently
getting the<br>
worst, of it; and if the Guards had not arrived in time, I knew
we must<br>
have been beaten.</p>

<p>I walked up and down my narrow room, tortured and agonized by
my doubts,<br>
now stopping to reason over the possibilities of success, now
looking from<br>
the window to try if, in the gesture and bearing of those
without, I could<br>
conjecture anything that passed. Too well I knew the vaunting
character<br>
of the French soldier, in defeat as in victory, to put much
confidence in<br>
their bearing. While, however, I watched them with an eager eye,
I heard<br>
the tramp of horsemen coming along the paved causeway. From the
moment my<br>
ear caught the sound to that of their arrival at the gate of the
orchard,<br>
but few minutes elapsed; their pace was indeed a severe one, and
as they<br>
galloped through the narrow path that led to the farm-house, they
never<br>
drew rein till they reached the porch. The party consisted of
about a dozen<br>
persons whose plumed hats bespoke them staff officers; but their
uniforms<br>
were concealed beneath their great-coats. As they came along the
picket<br>
sprang to their feet, and the guard at the door beneath presented
arms.<br>
This left no doubt upon my mind that some officer of rank was
among them,<br>
and as I knew that Ney himself commanded on the preceding day, I
thought<br>
it might be he. The sound of voices beneath informed me that the
party<br>
occupied the room under that in which I was, and although I
listened<br>
attentively I could hear nothing but the confused murmur of
persons<br>
conversing together without detecting even a word. My thoughts
now fell<br>
into another channel, and as I ruminated over my old position, I
heard the<br>
noise of the sentry at my door as he brought his musket to the
shoulder,<br>
and the next moment an officer in the uniform of the Chasseurs of
the Guard<br>
entered. Bowing politely as he advanced to the middle of the
room, he<br>
addressed me thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>"You speak French, sir?" and as I replied in the affirmative,
continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Will you, then, have the goodness to follow me this way?"</p>

<p>Although burning with anxiety to learn what had taken place,
yet somehow I<br>
could not bring myself to ask the question. A secret pride
mingled with my<br>
fear that all had not gone well with us, and I durst not expose
myself to<br>
hear of our defeat from the lips of an enemy. I had barely time
to ask into<br>
whose presence I was about to be ushered, when with a slight
smile of a<br>
strange meaning, he opened the door and introduced me into the
saloon.<br>
Although I had seen at least twelve or fourteen horsemen arrive,
there were<br>
but three persons in the room as I entered. One of these, who sat
writing<br>
at a small table near the window, never lifted his head on my
entrance, but<br>
continued assiduously his occupation. Another, a tall,
fine-looking man<br>
of some sixty years or upward, whose high, bald forehead and
drooping<br>
mustache, white as snow, looked in every way the old soldier of
the empire,<br>
stood leaning upon his sabre; while the third, whose stature,
somewhat<br>
below the middle size, was yet cast in a strong and muscular
mould, stood<br>
with his back to the fire, holding on his arms the skirts of a
gray surtout<br>
which he wore over his uniform; his legs were cased in the tall
<i>bottes &agrave;<br>
l'&eacute;cuy&egrave;re</i> worn by the <i>chasseur &agrave; cheval</i>,
and on his head a low cocked<br>
hat, without plume or feather, completed his costume. There was
something<br>
which, at the very moment of my entrance, struck me as uncommon
in his air<br>
and bearing, so much so that when my eyes had once rested on his
pale but<br>
placid countenance, his regular, handsome, but somewhat stern
features, I<br>
totally forgot the presence of the others and looked only at
him.</p>

<p>"What's your rank, sir?" said he, hurriedly, and with a tone
which bespoke<br>
command.</p>

<p>"I have none at present, save&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why do you wear your epaulettes then, sir?" said he, harshly,
while from<br>
his impatient look, and hurried gesture, I saw that he put no
faith in my<br>
reply.</p>

<p>"I am an aide-de-camp to General Picton, but without
regimental rank."</p>

<p>"What was the British force under arms yesterday?"</p>

<p>"I do not feel at liberty to give you any information as to
the number or<br>
the movements of our army."</p>

<p>"<i>Diantre! Diantre!</i>" said he, slapping his boot with his
horsewhip, "do<br>
you know what you've been saying there, eh? Cambronne, you heard
him, did<br>
you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Sire, and if your Majesty would permit me to deal with
him, I would<br>
have his information, if he possess any, and that ere long,
too."</p>

<p>"Eh, <i>gaillard</i>," said he, laughing, as he pinched the old
general's ear in<br>
jest, "I believe you, with all my heart."</p>

<p>The full truth flashed upon my mind. I was in presence of the
Emperor<br>
himself. As, however, up to this moment I was unconscious of his
presence,<br>
I resolved now to affect ignorance of it throughout.</p>

<p>"Had you despatches, sir?" said he, turning towards me with a
look of stern<br>
severity. "Were any despatches found upon him when he was taken?"
This<br>
latter question was directed to the aide-de-camp who introduced
me, and who<br>
still remained at the door.</p>

<p>"No, Sire, nothing was found upon him except this locket."</p>

<p>As he said these words he placed in Napoleon's hands the
keepsake which St.<br>
Croix had left with me years before in Spain, and which, as the
reader may<br>
remember, was a miniature of the Empress Josephine.</p>

<p>The moment the Emperor threw his eyes upon it, the flush which
excitement<br>
had called into his cheek disappeared at once. He became pale as
death, his<br>
very lips as bloodless as his wan cheek.</p>

<p>"Leave me, Lefebvre; leave me, Cambronne, for a moment. I will
speak with<br>
this gentleman alone."</p>

<p>As the door closed upon them he leaned his arm upon the
mantelpiece, and<br>
with his head sunk upon his bosom, remained some moments without
speaking.</p>

<p>"Augure sinistre!" muttered he within his teeth, as his
piercing gaze was<br>
riveted upon the picture before him. "Voil&agrave; la
troisi&egrave;me fois peut-&ecirc;tre<br>
la derni&egrave;re." Then suddenly rousing himself, he advanced
close to me, and<br>
seizing me by the arm with a grasp like iron, inquired:&mdash;</p>

<p>"How came you by this picture? The truth, sir; mark me, the
truth!"</p>

<p>Without showing any sign of feeling hurt at the insinuation of
this<br>
question, I detailed, in as few words as I could, the
circumstance by which<br>
the locket became mine. Long before I had concluded, however, I
could mark<br>
that his attention flagged, and finally wandered far away from
the matter<br>
before him.</p>

<p>"Why will you not give me the information I look for? I seek
for no breach<br>
of faith. The campaign is all but over. The Prussians were beaten
at Ligny,<br>
their army routed, their artillery captured, ten thousand
prisoners taken.<br>
Your troops and the Dutch were conquered yesterday, and they are
in full<br>
retreat on Brussels. By to-morrow evening I shall date my
bulletin from<br>
the palace at Laeken. Antwerp will be in my possession within
twenty-four<br>
hours. Namur is already mine. Cambronne, Lefebvre," cried he,
"cet homme-l&agrave;<br>
n'en sait rien," pointing to me as he spoke; "let us see the
other." With<br>
this he motioned slightly with his hand as a sign for me to
withdraw, and<br>
the next moment I was once more in the solitude of my
prison-room, thinking<br>
over the singular interview I had just had with the great
Emperor.</p>

<p>How anxiously pass the hours of one who, deprived of other
means of<br>
information, is left to form his conjectures by some passing
object or some<br>
chance murmur. The things which, in the ordinary course of life,
are passed<br>
by unnoticed and unregarded, are now matters of moment,&mdash;with
what scrutiny<br>
he examines the features of those whom he dare not question; with
what<br>
patient ear he listens to each passing word. Thus to me, a
prisoner,<br>
the hours went by tardily yet anxiously; no sabre clanked; no
war-horse<br>
neighed; no heavy-booted cuirassier tramped in the courtyard
beneath my<br>
window, without setting a hundred conjectures afloat as to what
was about<br>
to happen. For some time there had been a considerable noise and
bustle in<br>
and about the dwelling. Horsemen came and went continually. The
sounds of<br>
galloping could be heard along the paved causeway; then the
challenge of<br>
the sentry at the gate; then the nearer tread of approaching
stops, and<br>
many voices speaking together, would seem to indicate that some
messenger<br>
had arrived with despatches. At length all these sounds became
hushed and<br>
still. No longer were the voices heard; and except the measured
tread of<br>
the heavy cuirassier, as he paced on the flags beneath, nothing
was to be<br>
heard. My state of suspense, doubly greater now than when the
noise and<br>
tumult suggested food for conjecture, continued till towards
noon, when<br>
a soldier in undress brought me some breakfast, and told me to
prepare<br>
speedily for the road.</p>

<p>Scarcely had he left the room, when the rumbling noise of
wagons was heard<br>
below, and a train of artillery carts moved into the little
courtyard<br>
loaded with wounded men. It was a sad and frightful sight to see
these poor<br>
fellows, as, crammed side by side in the straw of the
<i>charrette</i>, they<br>
lay, their ghastly wounds opening with every motion of the wagon,
while<br>
their wan, pale faces were convulsed with agony and suffering. Of
every<br>
rank, from the sous-lieutenant to the humble soldier, from every
arm of the<br>
service, from the heavy cuirassier of the guard to the light and
intrepid<br>
tirailleur, they were there. I well remember one, an
artillery-man of<br>
the guard, who, as they lifted him forth from the cart, presented
the<br>
horrifying spectacle of one both of whose legs had been carried
away by a<br>
cannon-shot. Pale, cold, and corpse-like, ha lay in their arms;
his head<br>
lay heavily to one side, his arms fell passively as in death. It
was at<br>
this moment a troop of lancers, the advanced guard of D'Erlon's
Division,<br>
came trotting up the road; the cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" burst
from them<br>
as they approached; its echo rang within the walls of the
farm-house, when<br>
suddenly the dying man, as though some magic touch had called him
back to<br>
life and vigor, sprang up erect between his bearers, his filmy
eye flashing<br>
fire, a burning spot of red coloring his bloodless cheek. He cast
one wild<br>
and hurried look around him, like one called back from death to
look<br>
upon the living; and as he raised his blood-stained hand above
his head,<br>
shouted, in a heart-piercing cry, "Vive l'Empereur!" The effort
was his<br>
last. It was the expiring tribute of allegiance to the chief he
adored. The<br>
blood spouted in cataracts from his half-closed wounds, a
convulsive spasm<br>
worked through his frame, his eyes rolled fearfully, as his
outstretched<br>
hands seemed striving to clutch some object before them, and he
was dead.<br>
Fresh arrivals of wounded continued to pour in; and now I thought
I could<br>
detect at intervals the distant noise of a cannonade. The wind,
however,<br>
was from the southward, and the sounds were too indistinct to be
relied on.</p>

<p>"Allons, aliens, mon cher!" said a rough but good-humored
looking fellow,<br>
as he strode into my room. He was the quartermaster of Milhaud's
Dragoons,<br>
under whose care I was now placed, and came to inform me that we
were to<br>
set out immediately.</p>

<p>Monsieur Bonnard was a character in his way; and if it were
not so near the<br>
conclusion of my history, I should like to present him to my
readers. As<br>
it is, I shall merely say he was a thorough specimen of one class
of<br>
his countrymen,&mdash;a loud talker, a louder swearer, a vaporing,
boasting,<br>
overbearing, good-natured, and even soft-hearted fellow, who
firmly<br>
believed that Frenchmen were the climax of the species, and
Napoleon the<br>
climax of Frenchmen. Being a great <i>bavard</i>, he speedily told me
all that<br>
had taken place during the last two days. From him I learned that
the<br>
Prussians had really been beaten at Ligny, and had fallen back,
he knew<br>
not where. They were, however, he said, hotly pursued by Grouchy,
with<br>
thirty-five thousand men, while the Emperor himself was now
following the<br>
British and Dutch armies with seventy thousand more.</p>

<p>"You see," continued he, "l'affaire est faite! Who can resist
the Emperor?"</p>

<p>These were sad tidings for me; and although I did not place
implicit<br>
confidence in my informant, I had still my fears that much of
what he said<br>
was true.</p>

<p>"And the British, now," said I, "what direction have they
taken?"</p>

<p>"Bah, they're in retreat on Brussels, and will probably
capitulate<br>
to-morrow."</p>

<p>"Capitulate!"</p>

<p>"Oui, oui; ne vous f&acirc;chez pas, camarade," said he,
laughing. "What could<br>
you do against Napoleon? You did not expect to beat him, surely?
But come,<br>
we must move on; I have my orders to bring you to Planchenoit
this evening,<br>
and our horses are tired enough already."</p>

<p>"Mine, methinks, should be fresh," said I.</p>

<p>"<i>Parbleu, mon!</i>" replied he; "he has twice made the journey
to Fresnes<br>
this morning with despatches for Marshal Ney; the Emperor is
enraged<br>
with the marshal for having retreated last night, having the wood
in his<br>
possession; he says he should have waited till daybreak, and then
fallen<br>
upon your retreating columns. As it is, you are getting away
without much<br>
loss. <i>Sacristie</i>, that was a fine charge!" These last words he
muttered to<br>
himself, adding, between his teeth, "Sixty-four killed and
wounded."</p>

<p>"What was that? Who were they?" said I.</p>

<p>"Our fellows," replied he, frankly; "the Emperor ordered up
two<br>
twelve-pounders, and eight squadrons of lancers; they fell upon
your light<br>
dragoons in a narrow part of the high road. But suddenly we heard
a noise<br>
in front; your hussars fell back, and a column of your heavy
dragoons came<br>
thundering down upon us. <i>Parbleu!</i> they swept over us as if we
were broken<br>
infantry; and there! there!" said he, pointing to the courtyard,
from<br>
whence the groans of the wounded still rose,&mdash;"there are the
fruits of that<br>
terrible charge."</p>

<p>I could not restrain an outbreak of triumphant pleasure at
this gallant<br>
feat of my countrymen.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes," said the honest quartermaster; "it was a fine
thing; but a<br>
heavy reckoning is at hand. But come, now, let us take the
road."</p>

<p>In a few moments more I found myself seated upon a heavy
Norman horse,<br>
whose lumbering demi-peak saddle was nearly cleft in two by a
sabre-cut.</p>

<p>"Ay, ay," said Monsieur Bonnard, as he saw my eye fixed on the
spot, "it<br>
was one of your fellows did that; and the same cut clove poor
Pierre from<br>
the neck to the seat."</p>

<p>"I hope," said I, laughing, "the saddle may not prove an
unlucky one."</p>

<p>"No, no," said the Frenchman, seriously; "it has paid its debt
to fate."</p>

<p>As we pressed on our road, which, broken by the heavy guns,
and ploughed up<br>
in many places by the artillery, was nearly impassable, we could
distinctly<br>
hear from time to time the distant boom of the large guns, as the
retiring<br>
and pursuing armies replied to each other; while behind us, but
still a<br>
long way off, a dark mass appeared on the horizon: they were the
advancing<br>
columns of Ney's Division.</p>

<p>"Have the troops come in contact more than once this
morning?"</p>

<p>"Not closely," said the quartermaster; "the armies have kept a
respectful<br>
distance; they were like nothing I can think of," said the
figurative<br>
Frenchman, "except two hideous serpents wallowing in mire, and
vomiting at<br>
each other whole rivers of fire and flame."</p>

<p>As we approached Planchenoit, we came up to the rear-guard of
the French<br>
army; from them we learned that Ney's Division, consisting of the
Eighth<br>
Corps, had joined the Emperor; that the British were still in
retreat, but<br>
that nothing of any importance had occurred between the rival
armies, the<br>
French merely firing their heavy guns from time to time to
ascertain by<br>
the reply the position of the retreating forces. The rain poured
down in<br>
torrents; gusts of cold and stormy wind swept across the wide
plains, or<br>
moaned sorrowfully through the dense forest. As I rode on by the
side of my<br>
companion, I could not help remarking how little the effects of a
fatiguing<br>
march and unfavorable weather were apparent on those around me.
The spirit<br>
of excited gayety pervaded every rank; and unlike the stern
features which<br>
the discipline of our service enforces, the French soldiers were
talking,<br>
laughing and even singing, as they marched; the canteens passed
freely from<br>
hand to hand, and jests and toasts flew from front to rear along
the dark<br>
columns; many carried their loaves of dark rye-bread on the tops
of their<br>
bayonets; and to look upon that noisy and tumultuous mass as they
poured<br>
along, it would have needed a practised eye to believe them the
most<br>
disciplined of European armies.</p>

<p>The sun was just setting, as mounting a ridge of high land
beside the high<br>
road, my companion pointed with his finger to a small farm-house,
which,<br>
standing alone in the plain, commands an extensive view on every
side of<br>
it.</p>

<p>"There," said he,&mdash;"there is the <i>quartier
g&eacute;n&eacute;ral</i>; the Emperor sleeps<br>
there to-night. The King of Holland will afford him a bed
to-morrow night."</p>

<p>The dark shadows of the coming night were rapidly falling as I
strained my<br>
eyes to trace the British position. A hollow, rumbling sound
announced the<br>
movement of artillery in our front.</p>

<p>"What is it, Arnotte?" said the quartermaster to a dragoon
officer who rode<br>
past.</p>

<p>"It is nothing," replied the other, laughing, "but a <i>ruse</i> of
the Emperor.<br>
He wishes to ascertain if the enemy are in force, or if we have
only a<br>
strong rear-guard before us."</p>

<p>As he spoke fifteen heavy guns opened there fire, and the
still air<br>
reverberated with a loud thunder. The sound had not died away,
the very<br>
smoke lay yet heavily upon the moist earth, when forty pieces of
British<br>
cannon rang out their answer, and the very plain trembled beneath
the<br>
shock.</p>

<p>"Ha, they are there, then!" exclaimed the dragoon, as his eyes
flashed with<br>
ecstasy. "Look! see! the artillery are limbering up already. The
Emperor is<br>
satisfied."</p>

<p>And so it was. A dark column of twelve hundred horse that
accompanied the<br>
guns into the plain, now wheeled slowly round, and wound their
long track<br>
far away to the right. The rain fell in torrents; the wind was
hushed;<br>
and as the night fell in darkness, the columns moved severally to
their<br>
destinations. The bivouacs were formed; the watch-fires were
lighted; and<br>
seventy thousand men and two hundred pieces of cannon occupied
the heights<br>
of Planchenoit.</p>

<p>"My orders are to bring you to La Caillon," said the
quartermaster; "and if<br>
you only can spur your jaded horse into a trot, we shall soon
reach it."</p>

<p>About a hundred yards from the little farm-house, stood a
small cottage of<br>
a peasant. Here some officers of Marshal Soult's staff had taken
up their<br>
quarters; and thither my guide now bent his steps.</p>

<p>"Comment, Bonnard!" said an aide-de-camp, as we rode up.
"Another prisoner?<br>
<i>Sacrebleu!</i> We shall have the whole British staff among us. You
are<br>
in better luck than your countryman, the general, I hope," said
the<br>
aide-decamp. "His is a sad affair; and I'm sorry for it, too.
He's a fine,<br>
soldier-like looking fellow."</p>

<p>"Pray, what has happened?" said I. "To what do you
allude?"</p>

<p>"Merely to one of your people who has just been taken with
some letters and<br>
papers of Bourmont's in his possession. The Emperor is in no very
amicable<br>
humor towards the traitor, and resolves to pay off some part of
his debt on<br>
his British correspondent."</p>

<p>"How cruel! How unjust!"</p>

<p>"Why, yes, it is hard, I confess, to be shot for the fault of
another.<br>
Mais, que voulez-vous?"</p>

<p>"And when is this atrocious act to take place?"</p>

<p>"By daybreak to-morrow," said he, bowing, as he turned towards
the hut.<br>
"Meanwhile, let me counsel you, if you would not make another in
the party,<br>
to reserve your indignation for your return to England."</p>

<p>"Come along," said the quartermaster; "I find they have got
quarters for<br>
you in the granary of the farm. I'll not forget you at
supper-time."</p>

<p>So saying, he gave his horse to an orderly, and led me by a
little path<br>
to a back entrance of the dwelling. Had I time or inclination for
such a<br>
scene, I might have lingered long to gaze at the spectacle before
me. The<br>
guard held their bivouac around the quarters of the Emperor; and
here,<br>
beside the watch-fires, sat the bronzed and scarred veterans who
had braved<br>
every death and danger, from the Pyramids to the Kremlin. On
every side I<br>
heard the names of those whom history has already consigned to
immortality;<br>
and as the fitful blaze of a wood-fire flashed from within the
house, I<br>
could mark the figure of one who, with his hands behind his back,
walked<br>
leisurely to and fro, his head leaned a little forward as though
in deep<br>
thought; but as the light fell upon his pale and placid features,
there was<br>
nothing there to indicate the stormy strife of hope and fear that
raged<br>
beneath. From the rapid survey I took around I was roused by an
officer,<br>
who, saluting me, politely desired me to follow him. We mounted a
flight of<br>
stone steps which, outside the wall of the building, led to the
upper story<br>
of a large but ruined granary. Here a sentry was posted, who
permitting us<br>
to pass forward, I found myself in a small, mean-looking
apartment, whose<br>
few articles of coarse furniture were dimly lighted by the feeble
glimmer<br>
of a lamp. At the farther end of the room sat a man wrapped in a
large blue<br>
cavalry cloak, whose face, covered with his hands as he bent
downward,<br>
was completely concealed from view. The noise of the opening door
did not<br>
appear to arouse him, nor did he notice my approach. As I
entered, a faint<br>
sigh broke from him, as he turned his back upon the light; but he
spoke not<br>
a word.</p>

<p>I sat for some time in silence, unwilling to obtrude myself
upon the<br>
sorrows of one to whom I was unknown; and as I walked up and down
the<br>
gloomy chamber, my thoughts became riveted so completely upon my
own<br>
fortunes that I ceased to remember my fellow-prisoner. The hours
passed<br>
thus lazily along, when the door suddenly opened, and an officer
in the<br>
dress of a lancer of the guard stood for an instant before me,
and then,<br>
springing forward, clasped me by both hands, and called
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Charles, mon ami, c'est bien toi?"</p>

<p>The voice recalled to my recollections what his features,
altered by time<br>
and years, had failed to do. It was Jules St. Croix, my former
prisoner in<br>
the Peninsula. I cannot paint the delight with which I saw him
again; his<br>
presence now, while it brought back the memory of some of my
happiest days,<br>
also assured me that I was not friendless.</p>

<p>His visit was a brief one, for he was in attendance on Marshal
Lobau's<br>
staff. In the few minutes, however, of his stay, he said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I have a debt to pay, Charles, and have come to discharge it.
In an hour<br>
hence I shall leave this with despatches for the left of our
line. Before<br>
I go, I'll come here with two or three others, as it were, to
wish you a<br>
good-night. I'll take care to carry a second cloak and a foraging
cap; I'll<br>
provide a fast horse; you shall accompany us for some distance.
I'll see<br>
you safe across our pickets; for the rest, you must trust to
yourself.<br>
C'est arrang&eacute;, n'est-ce-pas?"</p>

<p>One firm grasp of his hand, to which I responded by another,
followed, and<br>
he was gone.</p>

<p>Everything concurred to show me that a tremendous battle must
ensue on the<br>
morrow, if the British forces but held their position. It was,
then, with a<br>
feeling of excitement approaching to madness that I saw my
liberty before<br>
me; that once more I should join in the bold charge and the rude
shock<br>
of arms, hear the wild cry of my gallant countrymen, and either
live to<br>
triumph with them in victory, or wait not to witness our defeat.
Fast flew<br>
my hopes, as with increasing impatience I waited St. Croix's
coming, and<br>
with anxious heart listened to every sound upon the stairs which
might<br>
indicate his approach. At length he came. I heard the gay and
laughing<br>
voices of his companions as they came along; the door opened, and
affecting<br>
the familiarity of old acquaintance to deceive the sentry, they
all shook<br>
me by the hand and spoke in terms of intimacy.</p>

<p>"Labedoy&egrave;re is below," said St. Croix, in a whisper;
"you must wait here a<br>
few moments longer, and I'll return for you; put on the cloak and
cap, and<br>
speak not a word as you pass out. The sentry will suppose that
one of our<br>
party has remained behind; for I shall call out as if speaking to
him, as I<br>
leave the room."</p>

<p>The voice of an officer calling in tones of impatience for the
party<br>
to come down, cut short the interview; and again assuring me of
their<br>
determination to stand by me, they left the chamber and descended
into the<br>
court. Scarcely had the door closed behind them, when my
fellow-prisoner,<br>
whom I had totally forgotten, sprang on his legs and came towards
me. His<br>
figure screening the lamplight as he stood, prevented my
recognizing his<br>
features, but the first tones of his voice told me who he
was.</p>

<p>"Stay, sir," cried he, as he placed his hand upon my arm; "I
have overheard<br>
your project. In an hour hence you will be free. Can you&mdash;-will
you perform<br>
a service for one who will esteem it not the less that it will be
the last<br>
that man can render him? The few lines which I have written here
with my<br>
pencil are for my daughter."</p>

<p>I could bear no more, and called out in a voice broken as his
own,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, be not deceived, sir. Will you, even in an hour like
this, accept a<br>
service from one whom you have banished from your house?"</p>

<p>The old man started as I spoke; his hand trembled till it
shook my very<br>
arm, and after a pause and with an effort to seem calm and
collected, he<br>
added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"My hours are few. Some despatches of General Bourmont with
which the duke<br>
intrusted me were found in my possession. My sentence is a
hurried one, and<br>
it is death. By to-morrow's sunrise&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stay, stay!" said I. "You shall escape; my life is in no
danger. I have,<br>
as you see, even friends among the staff. Besides, I have done
nothing to<br>
compromise or endanger my position."</p>

<p>"No, sir," said he, sternly, "I will not act such a part as
this. The tears<br>
you have seen in these old eyes are not for myself. I fear not
death.<br>
Better it were it should have come upon the field of glorious
battle; but<br>
as it is, my soldier's honor is intact, untainted."</p>

<p>"You refuse the service on account of him who proffers it,"
said I, as I<br>
fell heavily upon a seat, my head bowed upon my bosom.</p>

<p>"Not so, not so, my boy," replied he, kindly. "The near
approach of death,<br>
like the fading light of day, gives us a longer and a clearer
view before<br>
us. I feel that I have wronged you; that I have imputed to you
the errors<br>
of others; but, believe me, if I have wronged you, I have
punished my own<br>
heart; for, Charles, I have loved you like a son."</p>

<p>"Then prove it," said I, "and let me act towards you as
towards a father.<br>
You will not? You refuse me still? Then, by Heaven, I remain to
share your<br>
fate! I well know the temper of him who has sentenced you, and
that, by one<br>
word of mine, my destiny is sealed forever."</p>

<p>"No, no, boy! This is but rash and insane folly. Another year
or two, nay,<br>
perhaps a few months more, and in the common course of Nature I
had ceased<br>
to be; but you, with youth, with fortune, and with hope&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, not with hope!" said I, in a voice of agony.</p>

<p>"Nay, say not so," replied he, calmly, while a sickly smile
played sadly<br>
over his face; "you will give this letter to my daughter, you
will tell her<br>
that we parted as friends should part; and if after that, when
time shall<br>
have smoothed down her grief, and her sorrow be rather a dark
dream of the<br>
past than a present suffering,&mdash;if then you love her, and
if&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, tempt me not thus!" said I, as the warm tears gushed from
my eyes.<br>
"Lead me not thus astray from what my honor tells me I should do.
Hark!<br>
They are coming already. I hear the clank of their sabres; they
are<br>
mounting the steps; not a moment is to be lost! Do you refuse me
still?"</p>

<p>"I do," replied he, firmly; "I am resolved to bide my
fate."</p>

<p>"Then so do I," cried I, as folding my arms, I sat down beside
the window,<br>
determined on my course.</p>

<p>"Charley, Charley," said he, stooping over me, "my friend, my
last hope,<br>
the protector of my child&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I will not go," said I, in a hollow whisper.</p>

<p>Already they were at the door; I heard their voices as they
challenged the<br>
sentry; I heard his musket as he raised it to his shoulder. The
thought<br>
flashed across me. I jumped up, and throwing the loose mantle of
the French<br>
dragoon around him, and replacing his own with the foraging cap
of St.<br>
Croix, I sprang into a corner of the room, and seating myself so
as to<br>
conceal my face, waited the result. The door opened, the party
entered<br>
laughing and talking together.</p>

<p>"Come, Eug&egrave;ne," said one, taking Sir George by the arm,
"you have spent<br>
long enough time here to learn the English language. We shall be
late at<br>
the outpost. Messieurs les Anglais, good-night, good-night!"</p>

<p>This was repeated by the others as they passed out with Sir
George Dashwood<br>
among them, who, seeing that my determination was not to be
shaken, and<br>
that any demur on his part must necessarily compromise both,
yielded to a<br>
<i>coup-de-main</i> what he never would have consented to from an
appeal to his<br>
reason. The door closed; their steps died away in the distance.
Again a<br>
faint sound struck my ear; it was the challenge of the sentry
beneath,<br>
and I heard the tramp of horses' feet. All was still, and in a
burst of<br>
heart-felt gratitude I sank upon my knees, and thanked God that
he was<br>
safe.</p>

<p>So soundly did I sleep, that not before I was shaken several
times by the<br>
shoulder could I awake on the following morning.</p>

<p>"I thought there were two prisoners here," said a gruff voice,
as an old<br>
mustached-looking veteran cast a searching look about the room.
"However,<br>
we shall have enough of them before sunset. Get&mdash;get up; Monsieur
le Duc de<br>
Dalmatie desires some information you can give him."</p>

<p>As he said this, he led me from the room; and descending the
flight of<br>
stone steps, we entered the courtyard. It was but four o'clock,
the rain,<br>
still falling in torrents, yet every one was up and stirring.</p>

<p>"Mount this horse," said my gruff friend, "and come with me
towards the<br>
left; the marshal has already gone forward."</p>

<p>The heavy mist of the morning, darkened by the lowering clouds
which almost<br>
rested on the earth, prevented our seeing above a hundred yards
before<br>
us; but the hazy light of the watch-fires showed me extent of the
French<br>
position, as it stretched away along the, ridge towards the Halle
road. We<br>
rode forward at a trot, but in the deep clayey soil we sank at
each moment<br>
to our horses' fetlocks. I turned my head as I heard the tramp
and splash<br>
of horsemen behind, and perceived that I was followed by two
dragoons,<br>
who, with their carbines on the rest, kept their eyes steadily
upon me to<br>
prevent any chance of escape. In a slight hollow of the ground
before us<br>
stood a number of horsemen, who conversed together in a low tone
as we came<br>
up.</p>

<p>"There, that is the marshal," said my companion, in a whisper,
as we joined<br>
the party.</p>

<p>"Yes, Monsieur le Duc," said an engineer colonel, who stood
beside Soult's<br>
horse with a colored plan in his hand,&mdash;"yes, that is the
Ch&acirc;teau de<br>
Goumont, yonder. It is, as you perceive, completely covered by
the rising<br>
ground marked here. They will doubtless place a strong artillery
force in<br>
this quarter."</p>

<p>"Ah, who is this?" said the marshal, turning his eyes suddenly
upon me, and<br>
then casting a look of displeasure around him, lest I should have
overheard<br>
any portion of their conversation. "You are deficient in cavalry,
it would<br>
appear, sir," said he to me.</p>

<p>"You must feel, Monsieur le Duc," said I, calmly, "how
impossible it is for<br>
me, as a man of honor and a soldier, to afford you any
information as to<br>
the army I belong to."</p>

<p>"I do not see that, sir. You are a prisoner in our hands; your
treatment,<br>
your fortune, your very life depends on us. Besides, sir, when
French<br>
officers fall into the power of your people, I have heard they
meet with no<br>
very ceremonious treatment."</p>

<p>"Those who say so, say falsely," said I, "and wrong both your
countrymen<br>
and mine. In any case&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The Guards are an untried force in your service," said he,
with a mixture<br>
of inquiry and assertion.</p>

<p>I replied not a word.</p>

<p>"You must see, sir," continued he, "that all the chances are
against you.<br>
The Prussians beaten, the Dutch discouraged, the Belgians only
waiting for<br>
victory to incline to our standard, to desert your ranks and pass
over to<br>
ours; while your troops, scarcely forty thousand,&mdash;nay, I might
say, not<br>
more than thirty-five thousand. Is it not so?"</p>

<p>Here was another question so insidiously conveyed that even a
change of<br>
feature on my part might have given the answer. A half smile,
however, and<br>
a slight bow was all my reply; while Soult muttered something
between his<br>
teeth, which called forth a laugh from those around him.</p>

<p>"You may retire, sir, a little," said he, dryly, to me.</p>

<p>Not sorry to be freed from the awkwardness of my position, I
fell back to<br>
the little rising ground behind. Although the rain poured down
without<br>
ceasing, the rising sun dispelled, in part, the heavy vapor, and
by degrees<br>
different portions of the wide plain presented themselves to
view; and<br>
as the dense masses of fog moved slowly along, I could detect,
but still<br>
faintly, the outline of the large, irregular building which I had
heard<br>
them call the Ch&acirc;teau de Goumont, and from whence I could
hear the clank of<br>
masonry, as, at intervals, the wind bore the sounds towards me.
These were<br>
the sappers piercing the walls for musketry; and this I could now
perceive<br>
was looked upon as a position of no small importance. Surrounded
by a<br>
straggling orchard of aged fruit-trees, the ch&acirc;teau lay
some hundred yards<br>
in advance of the British line, commanded by two eminences,&mdash;one
of which,<br>
in the possession of the French, was already occupied by a park
of eleven<br>
guns; of the other I knew nothing, except the passing glance I
had obtained<br>
of its position on the map. The Second Corps, under Jerome
Bonaparte, with<br>
Foy and Kellermann's Brigade of light artillery, stretched behind
us. On<br>
the right of these came D'Erlon's Corps, extending to a small
wood, which<br>
my companion told me was Frischermont; while Lobau's Division was
stationed<br>
to the extreme right towards St. Lambert, to maintain the
communication<br>
with Grouchy at Wavre, or, if need be, to repel the advance of
the<br>
Prussians and prevent their junction with the Anglo-Dutch army.
The<br>
Imperial Guard, with the cavalry, formed the reserve. Such was,
in<br>
substance, the information given me by my guide, who seemed to
expatiate<br>
with pleasure over the magnificent array of battle, while he felt
a pride<br>
in displaying his knowledge of the various divisions and their
leaders.</p>

<p>"I see the marshal moving towards the right," said he; "we had
better<br>
follow him."</p>

<p>It was now about eight o'clock as from the extremity of the
line I could<br>
see a party of horsemen advancing at a sharp canter.</p>

<p>"That must be Ney," said my companion. "See how rashly he
approaches the<br>
English lines!"</p>

<p>And so it was. The party in question rode fearlessly down the
slope, and<br>
did not halt until they reached within about three hundred yards
of what<br>
appeared a ruined church.</p>

<p>"What is that building yonder?"</p>

<p>"That&mdash;that," replied he, after a moment's thought,&mdash;"that
must be La Haye<br>
Sainte; and yonder, to the right of it, is the road to Brussels.
There,<br>
look now! Your people are in motion. See, a column is moving
towards the<br>
right, and the cavalry are defiling on the other side of the
road! I was<br>
mistaken, that cannot be Ney. <i>Sacre Dieu!</i> it was the Emperor
himself, and<br>
here he comes."</p>

<p>As he spoke, the party galloped forward and pulled up short
within a few<br>
yards of where we stood.</p>

<p>"Ha!" cried he, as his sharp glance fell upon me, "there is my
taciturn<br>
friend of Quatre Bras. You see, sir, I can dispense with your
assistance<br>
now; the chess-board is before me;" and then added, in a tone he
intended<br>
not to be overheard, "Everything depends on Grouchy."</p>

<p>"Well, Haxo," he called out to an officer who galloped up,
<i>chapeau</i> in<br>
hand, "what say you? Are they intrenched in that position?"</p>

<p>"No, Sire, the ground is open, and in two hours more will be
firm enough<br>
for the guns to manoeuvre."</p>

<p>"Now, then, for breakfast," said Napoleon, as with an easy and
tranquil<br>
smile he turned his horse's head and cantered gently up the
heights<br>
towards La Belle Alliance. As he approached the lines, the cry of
"Vive<br>
l'Empereur!" burst forth. Regiment after regiment took it up; and
from the<br>
distant wood of Frischermont to the far left beside Merke-braine,
the<br>
shout resounded. So sudden, so simultaneous the outbreak, that he
himself,<br>
accustomed as he well was to the enthusiasm of his army, seemed
as he<br>
reined in his horse, and looked with proud and elated eye upon
the<br>
countless thousands, astounded and amazed. He lifted with slow
and graceful<br>
action his unplumed hat above his head, and while he bowed that
proud front<br>
before which kings have trembled, the acclamation burst forth
anew, and<br>
rent the very air.</p>

<p>At this moment the sun shone brilliantly from out the dark
clouds, and<br>
flashed upon the shining blades and glistening bayonets along the
line. A<br>
dark and lowering shadow hung gloomily over the British position,
while the<br>
French sparkled and glittered in the sunbeams. His quick glance
passed with<br>
lightning speed from one to the other; and I thought that, in his
look,<br>
upturned to heaven, I could detect the flitting thought which
bade him hope<br>
it was an augury. The bands of the Imperial Guard burst forth in
joyous and<br>
triumphant strains; and amidst the still repeated cries of
"L'Empereur!<br>
l'Empereur!" he rode slowly along towards La Belle Alliance.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LIII.</p>

<p>WATERLOO.</p>

<p>Napoleon's first intention was to open the battle by an attack
upon the<br>
extreme right; but Ney, who returned from an observation of the
ground,<br>
informed him that a rivulet swollen by the late rains had now
become a<br>
foaming torrent perfectly impassable to infantry. To avoid this
difficulty<br>
he abandoned his favorite manoeuvre of a flank movement, and
resolved to<br>
attack the enemy by the centre. Launching his cavalry and
artillery by the<br>
road to Brussels, he hoped thus to cut off the communication of
the British<br>
with their own left, as well as with the Prussians, for whom he
trusted<br>
that Grouchy would be more than a match.</p>

<p>The reserves were in consequence all brought up to the centre.
Seven<br>
thousand cavalry and a massive artillery assembled upon the
heights of La<br>
Belle Alliance, and waited but the order to march. It was eleven
o'clock,<br>
and Napoleon mounted his horse and rode slowly along the line;
again the<br>
cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" resounded, and the bands of the various
regiments<br>
struck up their spirit-stirring strains as the gorgeous staff
moved along.<br>
On the British side all was tranquil; and still the different
divisions<br>
appeared to have taken up their ground, and the long ridge from
Ter-la-Haye<br>
to Merke-braine bristled with bayonets. Nothing could possibly be
more<br>
equal than the circumstances of the field. Each army possessed an
eminence<br>
whence their artillery might play. A broad and slightly
undulating valley<br>
lay between both. The ground permitted in all places both cavalry
and<br>
infantry movements, and except the crumbling walls of the
Ch&acirc;teau of<br>
Hougoumont. or the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, both of which
were<br>
occupied by the British, no advantage either by Nature or art
inclined to<br>
either side. It was a fair stand-up fight. It was the mighty
tournament,<br>
not only of the two greatest nations, but the two deadliest
rivals and<br>
bitterest enemies, led on by the two greatest military geniuses
that the<br>
world has ever seen; it might not be too much to say, or ever
will see.<br>
As for me, condemned to be an inactive spectator of the mighty
struggle,<br>
doomed to witness all the deep-laid schemes and well-devised
plans of<br>
attack which were destined for the overthrow of my country's
arms, my state<br>
was one of torture and suspense. I sat upon the little rising
ground of<br>
Rossomme; before me in the valley, where yet the tall corn waved
in ripe<br>
luxuriance, stood the quiet and peaceful-looking old
Ch&acirc;teau of Hougoumont,<br>
and the blossoming branches of the orchard; the birds were gayly
singing<br>
their songs; the shrill whistle of the fatal musketry was to be
heard; and<br>
through my glass I could detect the uniform of the soldiers who
held the<br>
position, and my heart beat anxiously and proudly as I recognized
the<br>
Guards. In the orchard and the garden were stationed some
riflemen,&mdash;at<br>
least their dress and the scattered order they assumed bespoke
them such.<br>
While I looked, the tirailleurs of Jerome's Division advanced
from the<br>
front of the line, and descending the hill in a sling trot, broke
into<br>
scattered parties, keeping up as they went a desultory and
irregular fire.<br>
The English skirmishers, less expert in this peculiar service,
soon fell<br>
back, and the head of Reille's Brigade began their march towards
the<br>
ch&acirc;teau. The English artillery is unmasked and opens its
fire. Kellermann<br>
advances at a gallop his twelve pieces of artillery; the
ch&acirc;teau is<br>
concealed from view by the dense smoke, and as the attack
thickens, fresh<br>
troops pour forward, the artillery thundering on either side; the
entire<br>
lines of both armies stand motionless spectators of the terrific
combat,<br>
while every eye is turned towards that devoted spot from whose
dense mass<br>
of cloud and smoke the bright glare of artillery is flashing, as
the<br>
crashing masonry, the burning rafters, and the loud yell of
battle add<br>
to the frightful interest of the scene. For above an hour the
tremendous<br>
attack continues without cessation; the artillery stationed upon
the height<br>
has now found its range, and every ringing shot tells upon the
tottering<br>
walls; some wounded soldiers return faint and bleeding from the
conflict,<br>
but there are few who escape. A crashing volley of fire-arms is
now heard<br>
from the side where the orchard stands; a second, and a third
succeed, one<br>
after the other as rapid as lightning itself. A silence follows,
when,<br>
after a few moments, a deafening cheer bursts forth, and an
aide-de-camp<br>
gallops up to say that the orchard has been carried at the point
of the<br>
bayonet, the Nassau sharp-shooters who held it having, after a
desperate<br>
resistance, retired before the irresistible onset of the French
infantry.<br>
"A moi! maintenant!" said General Foy, as he drew his sabre and
rode down<br>
to the head of his splendid division, which, anxious for the word
to<br>
advance, was standing in the valley. "En avant! mes braves!"
cried he,<br>
while, pointing to the ch&acirc;teau with his sword, he dashed
boldly forward.<br>
Scarcely had he advanced a hundred yards, when a cannon-shot,
"ricocheting"<br>
as it went, struck his horse in the counter and rolled him dead
on the<br>
plain. Disengaging himself from the lifeless animal, at once he
sprang to<br>
his feet, and hurried forward. The column was soon hid from my
view, and I<br>
was left to mourn over the seemingly inevitable fate that
impended over my<br>
gallant countrymen.</p>

<p>In the intense interest which chained me to this part of the
field, I had<br>
not noticed till this moment that the Emperor and his staff were
standing<br>
scarcely thirty yards from where I was. Napoleon, seated upon a
gray,<br>
almost white, Arabian, had suffered the reins to fall loosely on
the neck<br>
as he held with both hands his telescope to his eye; his dress,
the usual<br>
green coat with white facings, the uniform of the <i>chasseurs
&agrave; cheval</i>,<br>
was distinguished merely by the cross of the legion; his high
boots were<br>
splashed and mud-stained from riding through the deep and clayey
soil; his<br>
compact and clean-bred charger looked also slightly blown and
heated, but<br>
he himself, and I watched his features well, looked calm,
composed, and<br>
tranquil. How anxiously did I scrutinize that face; with what a
throbbing<br>
heart did I canvass every gesture, hoping to find some passing
trait of<br>
doubt, of difficulty, or of hesitation; but none was there.
Unlike one who<br>
looked upon the harrowing spectacle of the battle-field, whose
all was<br>
depending on the game before him; gambling with one throw his
last his only<br>
stake, and that the empire of the world. Yet, could I picture to
myself one<br>
who felt at peace within himself,&mdash;naught of reproach, naught of
regret to<br>
move or stir his spirit, whose tranquil barque had glided over
the calm sea<br>
of life, unruffled by the breath of passion,&mdash;I should have
fancied such<br>
was he.</p>

<p>Beside him sat one whose flashing eye and changing features
looked in every<br>
way his opposite; watching with intense anxiety the scene of the
deadly<br>
struggle round the ch&acirc;teau, every look, every gesture told
the changing<br>
fortune of the moment; his broad and brawny chest glittered with
orders and<br>
decorations, but his heavy brow and lowering look, flushed almost
black<br>
with excitement, could not easily be forgotten. It was Soult,
who, in his<br>
quality of major-general, accompanied the Emperor throughout the
day.</p>

<p>"They have lost it again, Sire," said the marshal,
passionately; "and see,<br>
they are forming beneath the cross-fire of the artillery; the
head of the<br>
column keeps not its formation two minutes together; why does he
not move<br>
up?"</p>

<p>"Domont, you know the British; what troops are those in the
orchard? They<br>
use the bayonet well."</p>

<p>The officer addressed pointed his glass for a moment to the
spot. Then,<br>
turning to the Emperor, replied, as he touched his hat, "They are
the<br>
Guards, Sire."</p>

<p>During this time Napoleon spoke not a word; his eye ever bent
upon the<br>
battle, he seemed to pay little if any attention to the
conversation about<br>
him. As he looked, an aide-de-camp, breathless and heated,
galloped up.</p>

<p>"The columns of attack are formed, Sire; everything is ready,
and the<br>
marshal only waits the order."</p>

<p>Napoleon turned upon his saddle, and directing his glass
towards Ney's<br>
Division, looked fixedly for some moments at them. His eye moved
from front<br>
to rear slowly, and at last, carrying his telescope along the
line, he<br>
fixed it steadily upon the far left. Here, towards St. Lambert, a
slight<br>
cloud seemed to rest on the horizon, as the Emperor continued to
gaze<br>
steadfastly at it. Every glass of the staff was speedily turned
in that<br>
direction.</p>

<p>"It is nothing but a cloud; some exhalation from the low
grounds in that<br>
quarter," whispered one.</p>

<p>"To me," said another, "they look like trees, part of the Bois
de Wavre."</p>

<p>"They are men," said the Emperor, speaking for the first time.
"Est-ce<br>
Grouchy? Est-ce Blucher?"</p>

<p>Soult inclines to believe it to be the former, and proceeds to
give his<br>
reasons; but the Emperor, without listening, turns towards
Domont, and<br>
orders him, with his division of light cavalry and Subervic's
Brigade, to<br>
proceed thither at once. If it be Grouchy, to establish a
junction with<br>
him; to resist, should it prove to be the advanced guard of
Marshal<br>
Blucher. Scarcely is the order given when a column of cavalry,
wheeling<br>
"fours about," unravels itself from the immense mass, and seems
to<br>
serpentine like an enormous snake between the squares of the
mighty army.<br>
The pace increases at every moment, and at length we see them
emerge from<br>
the extreme right and draw up, as if on parade, above half a mile
from the<br>
wood. This movement, by its precision and beauty, attracted our
entire<br>
attention, not only from the attack upon Hougoumont, but also
from an<br>
incident which had taken place close beside us. This was the
appearance<br>
of a Prussian hussar who had been taken prisoner between Wavre
and<br>
Planchenoit; he was the bearer of a letter from Bulow to
Wellington,<br>
announcing his arrival at St. Lambert, and asking for orders.</p>

<p>This at once explains the appearance on the right; but the
prisoner also<br>
adds, that the three Prussian corps were at Wavre, having pushed
their<br>
patrols two leagues from that town without ever encountering any
portion of<br>
the force under the command of Grouchy. For a moment not a word
is spoken.<br>
A silence like a panic pervades the staff; the Emperor himself is
the first<br>
to break it.</p>

<p>"This morning," said he, turning towards Soult, "the chances
were ninety to<br>
one in our favor; Bulow's arrival has already lost us thirty of
the number;<br>
but the odds are still sufficient, if Grouchy but repair the
<i>horrible<br>
fault</i> he has committed."</p>

<p>He paused for a moment, and as he lifted up his own hand, and
turned a look<br>
of indignant passion towards the staff, added, in a voice the
sarcasm of<br>
whose tone there is no forgetting:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Il s'amuse &agrave; Gembloux! Still," said he, speaking
rapidly and with more<br>
energy than I had hitherto noticed, "Bulow may be entirely cut
off. Let<br>
an officer approach. Take this letter, sir," giving as he spoke,
Bulow's<br>
letter to Lord Wellington,&mdash;"give this letter to Marshal Grouchy;
tell him<br>
that at this moment he should be before Wavre; tell him that
already, had<br>
he obeyed his orders&mdash;but no, tell him to march at once, to press
forward<br>
his cavalry, to come up in two hours, in three at farthest. You
have but<br>
five leagues to ride; see, sir, that you reach him within an
hour."</p>

<p>As the officer hurries away at the top of his speed, an
aide-de-camp from<br>
General Domont confirms the news; they are the Prussians whom he
has before<br>
him. As yet, however, they are debouching from the wood, and have
attempted<br>
no forward movement.</p>

<p>"What's Bulow's force, Marshal?"</p>

<p>"Thirty thousand, Sire."</p>

<p>"Let Lobau take ten thousand, with the Cuirassiers of the
Young Guard, and<br>
hold the Prussians in check."</p>

<p>"Maintenant, pour les autres," this he said with a smile, as
he turned his<br>
eyes once more towards the field of battle. The aide-de-camp of
Marshal<br>
Ney, who, bare-headed and expectant, sat waiting for orders,
presented<br>
himself to view. The Emperor turned towards him as he said, with
a clear<br>
and firm voice:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Tell the marshal to open the fire of his batteries; to carry
La Haye<br>
Sainte with the bayonet, and leaving an infantry division for
its<br>
protection, to march against La Papelotte and La Haye. They must
be carried<br>
by the bayonet."</p>

<p>The aide-de-camp was gone; Napoleon's eye followed him as he
crossed the<br>
open plain and was lost in the dense ranks of the dark columns.
Scarcely<br>
five minutes elapsed when eighty guns thundered out together, and
as the<br>
earth shook and trembled beneath, the mighty movement of the day
began its<br>
execution. From Hougoumont, where the slaughter and the carnage
continued<br>
unslackened and unstayed, every eye was now turned towards the
right. I<br>
knew not what troops occupied La Haye Sainte, or whether they
were British<br>
who crowned the heights above it; but in my heart how fervently
did I pray<br>
that they might be so. Oh, in that moment of suspense and
agonizing doubt,<br>
what would I not have given to know that Picton himself and the
fighting<br>
Fifth were there; that behind that ridge the Greys, the Royals,
and the<br>
Enniskilleners sat motionless, but burning to advance; and the
breath<br>
of battle waved among the tartans of the Highlanders, and blew
upon the<br>
flashing features of my own island countrymen. Had I known this,
I could<br>
have marked the onset with a less failing spirit.</p>

<p>"There goes Marcognet's Division," said my companion,
springing to his<br>
legs; "they're moving to the right of the road. I should like to
see the<br>
troops that will stand before them."</p>

<p>So saying, he mounted his horse, and desiring me to accompany
him, rode to<br>
the height beside La Belle Alliance. The battle was now raging
from the<br>
Ch&acirc;teau de Hougoumont to St. Lambert, where the Prussian
tirailleurs, as<br>
they issued from the wood, were skirmishing with the advanced
posts of<br>
Lobau's Brigade. The attack upon the centre, however, engrossed
all my<br>
attention, and I watched the dark columns as they descended into
the plain,<br>
while the incessant roll of the artillery played about them. To
the right<br>
of Ney's attack, D'Erlon advanced with three divisions, and the
artillery<br>
of the Guard. Towards this part of the field my companion moved.
General le<br>
Vasseur desired to know if the division on the Brussels road were
English<br>
or Hanoverian troops, and I was sent for to answer the question.
We passed<br>
from square to square until at length we found ourselves upon the
flank of<br>
D'Erlon's Division. Le Vasseur, who at the head of his
cuirassiers waited<br>
but the order to charge, waved impatiently with his sword for us
to<br>
approach. We were now to the right of the high road, and about
four hundred<br>
yards from the crest of the hill where, protected by a slight
hedge,<br>
Picton, with Kempt's Brigade, waited the attack of the enemy.</p>

<p>Just at this moment an incident took place which, while in
itself one of<br>
the most brilliant achievements of the day, changed in a signal
manner my<br>
own fortunes. The head of D'Erlon's column pressed with fixed
bayonets up<br>
the gentle slope. Already the Belgian infantry give way before
them. The<br>
brave Brunswickers, overwhelmed by the heavy cavalry of France,
at first<br>
begin to waver, then are broken; and at last retreat in disorder
up the<br>
road, a whirlwind of pursuing squadrons thundering behind them.
"En avant!<br>
en avant! la victoire est &egrave;nous," is shouted madly through
the impatient<br>
ranks; and the artillery is called up to play upon the British
squares;<br>
upon which, fixed and immovable, the cuirassiers have charged
without<br>
success. Like a thunderbolt, the flying artillery dashes to the
front;<br>
but scarcely has it reached the bottom of the ascent, when, from
the deep<br>
ground, the guns become embedded in the soil, the wheels refuse
to move. In<br>
vain the artillery drivers whip and spur their laboring cattle.
Impatiently<br>
the leading files of the column prick with their bayonets the
struggling<br>
horses. The hesitation is fatal; for Wellington, who, with eager
glance,<br>
watches from an eminence beside the high road the advancing
column, sees<br>
the accident. An order is given; and with one fell swoop, the
heavy cavalry<br>
brigade pour down. Picton's Division deploys into line; the
bayonets glance<br>
above the ridge; and with a shout that tells above the battle, on
they<br>
come, the fighting Fifth. One volley is exchanged; but the
bayonet is now<br>
brought to the charge, and the French division retreat in close
column,<br>
pursued by their gallant enemy. Scarcely have the leading
divisions fallen<br>
back, and the rear pressed down upon, or thrown into disorder,
when the<br>
cavalry trumpets sound a charge; the bright helmets of the
Enniskilleners<br>
come flashing in the sunbeams, and the Scotch Greys, like a
white-crested<br>
wave, are rolling upon the foe. Marcognet's Division is
surrounded; the<br>
dragoons ride them down on every side; the guns are captured; the
drivers<br>
cut down; and two thousand prisoners are carried off. A sudden
panic seems<br>
to seize upon the French, as cavalry, infantry, and artillery are
hurried<br>
back on each other. Vainly the French attempt to rally; the
untiring enemy<br>
press madly on; the household brigade, led on by Lord Uxbridge,
came<br>
thundering down the road, riding down with their gigantic force
the mailed<br>
cuirassiers of France. Borne along with the retreating torrents,
I was<br>
carried on amidst the densely commingled mass. The British
cavalry, which,<br>
like the lightnings that sever the thunder-cloud, pierces through
in every<br>
direction, plunged madly upon us. The roar of battle grew louder,
as hand<br>
to hand they fought. Milhaud's Heavy Dragoons, with the 4th
Lancers, came<br>
up at a gallop. Picton presses forward, waving his plumed hat
above his<br>
head; his proud eye flashes with the fire of victory. That moment
is his<br>
last. Struck in the forehead by a musket-ball, he falls dead from
the<br>
saddle; and the wild yell of the Irish regiments, as they ring
his<br>
death-cry, are the last sounds which he hears. Meanwhile the Life
Guards<br>
are among us; prisoners of rank are captured on every side; and
I, seizing<br>
the moment, throw myself among the ranks of my countrymen, and am
borne to<br>
the rear with the retiring squadrons.</p>

<p>As we reached the crest of the hill above the road, a loud
cheer in the<br>
valley beneath us burst forth, and from the midst of the dense
smoke a<br>
bright and pointed flame shot up towards the sky. It was the
farm-house La<br>
Haye Sainte, which the French had succeeded in setting fire to
with hot<br>
shot. For some time past the ammunition of the corps that held it
had<br>
failed, and a dropping irregular musketry was the only reply to
the<br>
incessant rattle of the enemy. As the smoke cleared away we
discovered that<br>
the French had carried the position; and as no quarter was given
in that<br>
deadly hand-to-hand conflict, not one returned to our ranks to
toll the<br>
tale of their defeat.</p>

<p>"This is the officer that I spoke of," said an aide-decamp, as
he rode up<br>
to where I was standing bare-headed and without a sword. "He has
just made<br>
his escape from the French lines, and will be able to give your
lordship<br>
some information."</p>

<p>The handsome features and gorgeous costume of Lord Uxbridge
were known<br>
to me; but I was not aware, till afterward, that a
soldier-like,<br>
resolute-looking officer beside him was General Graham. It was
the latter<br>
who first addressed me.</p>

<p>"Are you aware, sir," said he, "if Grouchy's force have
arrived?"</p>

<p>"They have not; on the contrary, shortly before I escaped, an
aide-de-camp<br>
was despatched to Gembloux, to hasten his coming. And the troops,
for they<br>
must be troops, were debouching from the wood yonder. They seem
to form a<br>
junction with the corps to the right; they are the Prussians.
They arrived<br>
there before noon from St. Lambert, and are part of Bulow's
Corps. Count<br>
Lobau and his division of ten thousand men were despatched, about
an hour<br>
since, to hold them in check."</p>

<p>"This is great news," said Lord Uxbridge. "Fitzroy must know
it at once."</p>

<p>So saying, he dashed spurs into his horse, and soon
disappeared amidst the<br>
crowd on the hill-top.</p>

<p>"You had better see the duke, sir," said Graham. "Your
information is too<br>
important to be delayed. Captain Calvert, let this officer have a
horse;<br>
his own is too tired to go much farther."</p>

<p>"And a cap, I beg of you," added I in an undertone, "for I
have already<br>
found a sabre."</p>

<p>By a slightly circuitous route we reached the road, upon which
a mass<br>
of dismounted artillery-carts, baggage-wagons, and tumbrils were
heaped<br>
together as a barricade against the attack of the French
dragoons, who more<br>
than once had penetrated to the very crest of our position. Close
to this<br>
and on a little rising ground, from which a view of the entire
field<br>
extended, from Hougoumont to the far left, the Duke of Wellington
stood<br>
surrounded by his staff. His eye was bent upon the valley before
him, where<br>
the advancing columns of Ney's attack still pressed onward; while
the fire<br>
of sixty great guns poured death and carnage into his lines. The
Second<br>
Belgian Division, routed and broken, had fallen back upon the
27th<br>
Regiment, who had merely time to throw themselves into square,
when<br>
Milhaud's cuirassiers, armed with their terrible long, straight
swords,<br>
came sweeping down upon them. A line of impassable bayonets, a
living<br>
<i>chevaux-de-frise</i> of the best blood of Britain, stood firm and
motionless<br>
before the shock. The French <i>mitraille</i> played mercilessly on
the ranks;<br>
but the chasms were filled up like magic, and in vain the bold
horsemen of<br>
Gaul galloped round the bristling files. At length the word,
"Fire!" was<br>
heard within the square, and as the bullets at pistol-range
rattled upon<br>
them, the cuirass afforded them no defence against the deadly
volley. Men<br>
and horses rolled indiscriminately upon the earth. Then would
come a charge<br>
of our clashing squadrons, who, riding recklessly upon the foe,
were in<br>
their turn to be repulsed by numbers, and fresh attacks poured
down upon<br>
our unshaken infantry.</p>

<p>"That column yonder is wavering. Why does he not bring up his
supporting<br>
squadrons?" inquired the duke, pointing to a Belgian regiment of
light<br>
dragoons, who were formed in the same brigade with the 7th
Hussars.</p>

<p>"He refuses to oppose his light cavalry to cuirassiers, my
lord," said an<br>
aide-de-camp, who had just returned from the division in
question.</p>

<p>"Tell him to march his men off the ground," said the duke in a
quiet and<br>
impassive tone.</p>

<p>In less than ten minutes the "Belgian regiment" was seen to
defile from the<br>
mass and take the road to Brussels, to increase the panic of that
city by<br>
circulating and strengthening the report that the English were
beaten, and<br>
Napoleon in full march upon the capital.</p>

<p>"What's Ney's force; can you guess, sir?" said the Duke of
Wellington,<br>
turning to me.</p>

<p>"About twelve thousand men, my lord."</p>

<p>"Are the Guard among them?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; the Guard are in reserve above La Belle
Alliance."</p>

<p>"In what part of the field is Bonaparte?"</p>

<p>"Nearly opposite to where we stand."</p>

<p>"I told you, gentlemen, Hougoumont never was the great attack.
The battle<br>
must be decided here," pointing as he spoke to the plain beneath
us, where<br>
Ney still poured on his devoted columns, where yet the French
cavalry rode<br>
down upon our firm squares.</p>

<p>As he spoke, an aide-de-camp rode up from the valley.</p>

<p>"The Ninety-second requires support, my lord. They cannot
maintain their<br>
position half an hour longer with out it."</p>

<p>"Have they given way, sir?"</p>

<p>"No&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, then, they must stand where they are. I hear cannon
towards the<br>
left; yonder, near Frischermont."</p>

<p>At this moment the light cavalry swept past the base of the
hill on which<br>
we stood, hotly followed by the French heavy cuirassier brigade.
Three<br>
of our guns were taken; and the cheering of the French infantry,
as they<br>
advanced to the charge, presaged their hope of victory.</p>

<p>"Do it, then," said the duke, in reply to some whispered
question of Lord<br>
Uxbridge; and shortly after the heavy trot of advancing squadrons
was heard<br>
behind.</p>

<p>They were the Life Guards and the Blues, who, with the 1st
Dragoon Guards<br>
and the Enniskilleners, were formed into close column.</p>

<p>"I know the ground, my lord," said I to Lord Uxbridge.</p>

<p>"Come along, sir, come along," said he, as he threw his hussar
jacket<br>
loosely behind him to give freedom to his sword arm. "Forward, my
men,<br>
forward; but steady, hold your horses in hand, threes about, and
together,<br>
charge!</p>

<p>"Charge!" he shouted; while as the word flew from squadron to
squadron,<br>
each horseman bent upon his saddle, and that mighty mass, as
though<br>
instinct with but one spirit, dashed like a thunderbolt upon the
column<br>
beneath them. The French, blown and exhausted, inferior besides
in weight,<br>
both of man and horse, offered but a short resistance. As the
tall corn<br>
bends beneath the sweeping hurricane, wave succeeding wave, so
did the<br>
steel-clad squadrons of France fall before the nervous arm of
Britain's<br>
cavalry. Onward they went, carrying death and ruin before them,
and never<br>
stayed their course until the guns were recaptured, and the
cuirassiers,<br>
repulsed, disordered, and broken, had retired beneath the
protection of<br>
their artillery.</p>

<p>There was, as a brilliant and eloquent writer on the subject
mentions, a<br>
terrible sameness in the whole of this battle. Incessant charges
of cavalry<br>
upon the squares of our infantry, whose sole manoeuvre consisted
in either<br>
deploying into line to resist the attack of the infantry, or
falling back<br>
into square when the cavalry advanced; performing those two
evolutions<br>
under the devastating fire of artillery, before the unflinching
heroism of<br>
that veteran infantry whose glories have been reaped upon the
blood-stained<br>
fields of Austerlitz, Marengo, and Wagram, or opposing an
unbroken front<br>
to the whirlwind swoop of infuriated cavalry. Such were the
enduring and<br>
devoted services demanded from the English troops; and such they
failed not<br>
to render. Once or twice had temper nearly failed them, and the
cry ran<br>
through the ranks, "Are we never to move forward? Only let us at
them!" But<br>
the word was not yet spoken which was to undam the pent-up
torrent, and<br>
bear down with unrelenting vengeance upon the now exulting
columns of the<br>
enemy.</p>

<p>It was six o'clock; the battle had continued with unchanged
fortune for<br>
three hours. The French, masters of La Haye Sainte, could never
advance<br>
farther into our position. They had gained the orchard of
Hougoumont; but<br>
the ch&acirc;teau was still held by the British Guards, although
its blazing<br>
roof and crumbling walls made its occupation rather the desperate
stand of<br>
unflinching valor than the maintenance of an important position.
The smoke<br>
which hung upon the field rolled in slow and heavy masses back
upon the<br>
French lines, and gradually discovered to our view the entire of
the army.<br>
We quickly perceived that a change was taking place in their
position. The<br>
troops, which on their left stretched far beyond Hougoumont, were
now moved<br>
nearer to the centre. The attack upon the ch&acirc;teau seemed
less vigorously<br>
supported, while the oblique direction of their right wing,
which, pivoting<br>
upon Planchenoit, opposed a face to the Prussians, all denoted a
change in<br>
their order of battle. It was now the hour when Napoleon, at last
convinced<br>
that nothing but the carnage he could no longer support could
destroy the,<br>
unyielding ranks of British infantry; that although Hougoumont
had been<br>
partially, La Haye Sainte completely won; that upon the right of
the road<br>
the farm-houses Papolotte and La Haye were nearly surrounded by
his troops,<br>
which with any other army must prove the forerunner of
defeat,&mdash;yet still<br>
the victory was beyond his grasp. The bold stratagems, whose
success the<br>
experience of a life had proved, were here to be found powerless.
The<br>
decisive manoeuvre of carrying one important point of the enemy's
lines, of<br>
turning him upon the flank, or piercing him through the centre,
were here<br>
found impracticable. He might launch his avalanche of grape-shot,
he might<br>
pour down his crashing columns of cavalry, he might send forth
the iron<br>
storm of his brave infantry; but though death in every shape
heralded their<br>
approach, still were others found to fill the fallen ranks, and
feed with<br>
their hearts' blood the unslaked thirst for slaughter. Well might
the<br>
gallant leader of this gallant host, as he watched the reckless
onslaught<br>
of the untiring enemy, and looked upon the unflinching few who,
bearing the<br>
proud badge of Britain, alone sustained the fight, well might he
exclaim,<br>
"Night or Blucher!"</p>

<p>It was now seven o'clock, when a dark mass was seen to form
upon the<br>
heights above the French centre, and divide into three gigantic
columns,<br>
of which the right occupied the Brussels road. These were the
reserves,<br>
consisting of the Old and Young Guards, and amounting to
twelve<br>
thousand,&mdash;the <i>&eacute;lite</i> of the French army,&mdash;reserved by
the Emperor for<br>
a great <i>coup-de-main</i>. These veterans of a hundred battles had
been<br>
stationed from the beginning of the day, inactive spectators of
the fight;<br>
their hour was now come, and with a shout of "Vive l'Empereur!"
which rose<br>
triumphantly over the din and crash of battle, they began their
march.<br>
Meanwhile aides-de-camp galloped along the lines announcing the
arrival of<br>
Grouchy, to reanimate the drooping spirits of the men; for at
last a doubt<br>
of victory was breaking upon the minds of those who never before,
in the<br>
most adverse hour of fortune, deemed <i>his</i> star could be set that
led them<br>
on to glory.</p>

<p>"They are coming; the attack will be made on the centre, my
lord," said<br>
Lord Fitzroy Somerset, as he directed his glass upon the column.
Scarcely<br>
had he spoken when the telescope fell from his hand, as his arm,
shattered<br>
by a French bullet, fell motionless to his side.</p>

<p>"I see it," was the cool reply of the duke, as he ordered the
Guards to<br>
deploy into line and lie down behind the ridge, which now the
French<br>
artillery had found the range of, and were laboring at their
guns. In front<br>
of them the Fifty-second, Seventy-first, and Ninety-fifth were
formed; the<br>
artillery stationed above and partly upon the road, loaded with
grape, and<br>
waited but the word to open.</p>

<p>It was an awful, a dreadful moment. The Prussian cannon
thundered on our<br>
left; but so desperate was the French resistance, they made but
little<br>
progress. The dark columns of the Guard had now commenced the
ascent, and<br>
the artillery ceased their fire as the bayonets of the grenadiers
showed<br>
themselves upon the slope. Then began that tremendous cheer from
right<br>
to left of our line, which those who heard never can forget. It
was the<br>
impatient, long-restrained burst of unslaked vengeance. With the
instinct<br>
which valor teaches, they knew the hour of trial was come; and
that wild<br>
cry flew from rank to rank, echoing from the, blood-stained walls
of<br>
Hougoumont to the far-off valley of La Papelotte. "They come!
they come!"<br>
was the cry; and the shout of "Vive l'Empereur!" mingled with the
out-burst<br>
of the British line.</p>

<p>Under an overwhelming shower of grape, to which succeeded a
charge of<br>
cavalry of the Imperial Guard, the head of Ney's column fired its
volley<br>
and advanced with the bayonet. The British artillery now opened
at half<br>
range, and although the plunging fire scathed and devasted the
dark ranks<br>
of the Guard, on they came, Ney himself on foot at their head.
Twice the<br>
leading division of that gallant column turned completely round,
as the<br>
withering fire wasted and consumed them; but they were resolved
to win.</p>

<p>Already they gained the crest of the hill, and the first line
of the<br>
British were falling back before them. The artillery closes up;
the<br>
flanking fire from the guns upon the road opens upon them; the
head of<br>
their column breaks like a shell; the duke seizes the moment, and
advances<br>
on foot towards the ridge.</p>

<p>"Up, Guards, and at them!" he cried.</p>

<p>The hour of triumph and vengeance had arrived. In a moment the
Guards were<br>
on their feet; one volley was poured in; the bayonets were
brought to<br>
the charge; they closed upon the enemy; then was seen the most
dreadful<br>
struggle that the history of all war can present. Furious
with<br>
long-restrained passion, the Guards rushed upon the leading
divisions; the<br>
Seventy-first and Ninety-fifth and Twenty-sixth overlapped them
on the<br>
flanks. Their generals fell thickly on every side; Michel,
Jamier, and<br>
Mallet are killed; Friant lies wounded upon the ground; Ney, his
dress<br>
pierced and ragged with balls, shouts still to advance; but the
leading<br>
files waver; they fall back; the supporting divisions thicken;
confusion,<br>
panic succeeds. The British press down; the cavalry come
galloping up to<br>
their assistance; and at last, pell-mell, overwhelmed and beaten,
the<br>
French fell back upon the Old Guard. This was the decisive moment
of the<br>
day; the duke closed his glass, as he said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The field is won. Order the whole line to advance."</p>

<p>On they came, four deep, and poured like a torrent from the
height.</p>

<p>"Let the Life Guards charge them," said the duke; but every
aide-de-camp on<br>
his staff was wounded, and I myself brought the order to Lord
Uxbridge.</p>

<p>Lord Uxbridge had already anticipated his orders, and bore
down with four<br>
regiments of heavy cavalry upon the French centre. The Prussian
artillery<br>
thundered upon their flank and at their rear. The British bayonet
was in<br>
their front; while a panic fear spread through their ranks, and
the cry of<br>
"Sauve qui peut!" resounded on all sides. In vain Ney, the
bravest of the<br>
brave, in vain Soult, Bertrand, Gourgaud, and Labedoy&egrave;re,
burst from the<br>
broken, disorganized mass, and called on them to stand fast. A
battalion<br>
of the Old Guard, with Cambronne at their head, alone obeyed the
summons;<br>
forming into square, they stood between the pursuers and their
prey,<br>
offering themselves a sacrifice to the tarnished honor of their
arms. To<br>
the order to surrender they answered with a cry of defiance; and
as our<br>
cavalry, flushed and elated with victory, rode round their
bristling<br>
ranks, no quailing look, no craven spirit was there. The Emperor
himself<br>
endeavored to repair the disaster; he rode with lightning speed
hither and<br>
thither, commanding, ordering, nay, imploring, too; but already
the night<br>
was falling, the confusion became each moment more inextricable,
and the<br>
effort was a fruitless one. A regiment of the Guards, and two
batteries<br>
were in reserve behind Planchenoit. He threw them rapidly into
position;<br>
but the overwhelming impulse of flight drove the mass upon them,
and they<br>
were carried away upon the torrent of the beaten army. No sooner
did the<br>
Emperor see this his last hope desert him, than he dismounted
from his<br>
horse, and drawing his sword, threw himself into a square, which
the first<br>
regiment of Chasseurs of the Old Guard had formed with a remnant
of the<br>
battalion. Jerome followed him, as he called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You are right, brother; here should perish all who bear the
name of<br>
Bonaparte."</p>

<p>The same moment the Prussian light artillery rend the ranks
asunder, and<br>
the cavalry charge down upon the scattered fragments. A few of
his staff,<br>
who never left him, place the Emperor upon a horse and fly
through the<br>
death-dealing artillery and musketry. A squadron of the Life
Guards, to<br>
which I had attached myself, came up at the moment, and as
Blucher's<br>
hussars rode madly here and there, where so lately the crowd of
staff<br>
officers had denoted the presence of Napoleon, expressed their
rage and<br>
disappointment in curses and cries of vengeance.</p>

<p>Cambronne's battalion stood yet unbroken, and seemed to defy
every attack<br>
that was brought against them. To the second summons to surrender
they<br>
replied as indignantly as at first; and Vivian's Brigade was
ordered to<br>
charge them. A cloud of British horse bore down on every face of
the<br>
devoted square; but firm as in their hour of victory, the heroes
of Marengo<br>
never quailed; and twice the bravest blood of Britian recoiled,
baffled and<br>
dismayed. There was a pause for some minutes, and even then, as
we surveyed<br>
our broken and blood-stained squadrons, a cry of admiration burst
from our<br>
ranks at the gallant bearing of that glorious infantry. Suddenly
the tramp<br>
of approaching cavalry was heard; I turned my head and saw two
squadrons of<br>
the Second Life Guards. The officer who led them on was
bare-headed; his<br>
long dark hair streaming wildly behind him, and upon his pale
features,<br>
to which not even the headlong enthusiasm of battle had lent one
touch of<br>
color. He rode straight to where I was standing, his dark eyes
fixed upon<br>
me with a look so fierce, so penetrating, that I could not look
away.<br>
The features, save in this respect, had almost a look of idiocy.
It was<br>
Hammersley.</p>

<p>"Ha!" he cried at last, "I have sought you out the entire day,
but in vain.<br>
It is not yet too late. Give me your hand, boy. You once called
on me to<br>
follow <i>you</i>, and I did not refuse; I trust you'll do the like by
<i>me</i>. Is<br>
it not so?"</p>


<a name="0471"></a>
<img alt="0471.jpg (155K)" src="0471.jpg" height="533" width="784">

<p>[DEATH OF HAMMERSLEY.]</p>
<br><br>
<p>A terrible perception of his meaning shot through my mind as I
clasped his<br>
clay-cold hand in mine, and for a moment I did not speak.</p>

<p>"I hoped for better than this," said he, bitterly, and as a
glance of<br>
withering scorn flashed from his eye. "I did trust that he who
was<br>
preferred before me was at least not a coward."</p>

<p>As the word fell from his lips I nearly leaped from my saddle,
and<br>
mechanically raised my sabre to cleave him on the spot.</p>

<p>"Then follow me!" shouted he, pointing with his sword to the
glistening<br>
ranks before us.</p>

<p>"Come on!" said I, with a voice hoarse with passion, while
burying my spurs<br>
in my horse's flanks, I sprang on a full length before him, and
bore down<br>
upon the enemy. A loud shout, a deafening volley, the agonizing
cry of the<br>
wounded and the dying, were all I heard, as my horse, rearing
madly upward,<br>
plunged twice into the air, and then fell dead upon the earth,
crushing me<br>
beneath his cumbrous weight, lifeless and insensible.</p>

<p>The day was breaking; the cold, gray light of morning was
struggling<br>
through the misty darkness, when I once more recovered my
consciousness.<br>
There are moments in life when memory can so suddenly conjure up
the whole<br>
past before us, that there is scarcely time for a doubt ere the
disputed<br>
reality is palpable to our senses. Such was this to me. One
hurried glance<br>
upon the wide, bleak plain before me, and every circumstance of
the<br>
battle-field was present to my recollection. The dismounted guns,
the<br>
broken wagons, the heaps of dead or dying, the straggling parties
who on<br>
foot or horseback traversed the field, and the dark litters which
carried<br>
the wounded, all betokened the sad evidences of the preceding
day's battle.</p>

<p>Close around me where I lay the ground was marked with the
bodies of our<br>
cavalry, intermixed with the soldiers of the Old Guard. The broad
brow and<br>
stalwart chest of the Saxon lay bleaching beside the bronzed and
bearded<br>
warrior of Gaul, while the torn-up ground attested the
desperation of that<br>
struggle which closed the day.</p>

<p>As my eye ranged over this harrowing spectacle, a dreadful
anxiety shot<br>
through me as I asked myself whose had been the victory. A
certain confused<br>
impression of flight and of pursuit remained in my mind; but at
the moment,<br>
the circumstances of my own position in the early part of the day
increased<br>
the difficulty of reflection, and left me in a state of intense
and<br>
agonizing uncertainty. Although not wounded, I had been so
crushed by my<br>
fall that it was not without pain I got upon my legs. I soon
perceived<br>
that the spot around me had not yet been visited by those
vultures of the<br>
battle-field who strip alike the dead and dying. The distance of
the place<br>
from where the great conflict of the battle had occurred was
probably the<br>
reason; and now, as the straggling sunbeams fell upon the earth,
I could<br>
trace the helmet of the Enniskilleners, or the tall bearskin of
the Scotch<br>
Greys, lying in thick confusion where the steel cuirass and long
sword of<br>
the French dragoons showed the fight had been hottest. As I
turned my eyes<br>
hither and thither I could see no living thing near me. In every
attitude<br>
of struggling agony they lay around; some buried beneath their
horses, some<br>
bathed in blood, some, with clinched hands and darting eyeballs,
seemed<br>
struggling even in death; but all was still,&mdash;not a word, not a
sigh, not a<br>
groan was there. I was turning to leave the spot, and uncertain
which way<br>
to direct my steps, looked once more around, when my glance
rested upon<br>
the pale and marble features of one who, even in that moment of
doubt and<br>
difficulty, there was no mistaking. His coat, torn widely open,
was grasped<br>
in either hand, while his breast was shattered with balls and
bathed in<br>
gore. Gashed and mutilated as he lay, still the features wore no
trace of<br>
suffering; cold, pale, motionless, but with the tranquil look of
sleep, his<br>
eyelids were closed, and his half-parted lips seemed still to
quiver in<br>
life. I knelt down beside him; I took his hand in mine; I bent
over and<br>
whispered his name; I placed my hand upon his heart, where even
still the<br>
life blood was warm,&mdash;but he was dead. Poor Hammersley! His was a
gallant<br>
soul; and as I looked upon his blood-stained corpse, my tears
fell fast and<br>
hot upon his brow to think how far I had myself been the cause of
a life<br>
blighted in its hope, and a death like his.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LIV.</p>

<p>BRUSSELS.</p>

<p>Once more I would entreat my reader's indulgence for the
prolixity of<br>
a narrative which has grown beneath my hands to a length I had
never<br>
intended. This shall, however, be the last time for either the
offence or<br>
the apology. My story is now soon concluded.</p>

<p>After wandering about for some time, uncertain which way to
take, I at<br>
length reached the Charleroi road, now blocked by carriages and
wagons<br>
conveying the wounded towards Brussels. Here I learned, for the
first time,<br>
that we had gained the battle, and heard of the total
annihilation of the<br>
French army, and the downfall of the Emperor. On arriving at the
farm-house<br>
of Mont St. Jean, I found a number of officers, whose wounds
prevented<br>
their accompanying the army in its forward movement. One of them,
with whom<br>
I was slightly acquainted, informed me that General Dashwood had
spent<br>
the greater part of the night upon the field in search of me and
that my<br>
servant Mike was in a state of distraction at my absence that
bordered on<br>
insanity. While he was speaking, a burst of laughter and the
tones of a<br>
well-remembered voice behind attracted my attention.</p>

<p>"Made a very good thing of it, upon my life. A
dressing-case,&mdash;not gold,<br>
you know, but silver-gilt,&mdash;a dozen knives with blood-stone
handles, and a<br>
little coffee-pot, with the imperial arms,&mdash;not to speak of three
hundred<br>
Naps in a green silk purse&mdash;Lord! it reminds me of the Peninsula.
Do you<br>
know those Prussians are mere barbarians, haven't a notion of
civilized<br>
war. Bless your heart, my fellows in the Legion would have
ransacked the<br>
whole coach, from the boot to the sword-case, in half the time
they took to<br>
cut down the coachman."</p>

<p>"The major, as I live!" said I. "How goes it, Major?"</p>

<p>"Eh, Charley! when did you turn up? Delighted see you. They
told me you<br>
were badly wounded or killed or something of that kind. But I
should have<br>
paid the little debt to your executors all the same."</p>

<p>"All the same, no doubt, Major; but where, in Heaven's name,
did you fall<br>
upon that mine of pillage you have just been talking of?"</p>

<p>"In the Emperor's carriage, to be sure, boy. While the duke
was watching<br>
all day the advance of Ney's column and keeping an anxious
look-out for the<br>
Prussians, I sat in a window in this old farm-house, and never
took my eye<br>
off the garden at Planchenoit. I saw the imperial carriage there
in the<br>
morning; it was there also at noon; and they never put the horses
to it<br>
till past seven in the evening. The roads were very heavy, and
the crowd<br>
was great. I judged the pace couldn't be a fast one; and with
four of the<br>
Enniskilleners I charged it like a man. The Prussians, however,
had the<br>
start of us; and if they hadn't thought, from my seat on
horseback and<br>
my general appearance, that I was Lord Uxbridge, I should have
got but a<br>
younger son's portion. However, I got in first, filled my pockets
with a<br>
few little <i>souvenirs</i> of the Emperor, and then laying my hands
upon what<br>
was readiest, got out in time to escape being shot; for two of
Blucher's<br>
hussars, thinking I must be the Emperor, fired at me through the
window."</p>

<p>"What an escape you had!"</p>

<p>"Hadn't I though? Fortunate, too, my Enniskilleners saw the
whole thing;<br>
for I intend to make the circumstance the ground of an
application for a<br>
pension. Hark ye, Charley, don't say anything about the
coffee-pot and<br>
the knives. The duke, you know, has strange notions of his own on
these<br>
matters. But isn't that your fellow fighting his way yonder?"</p>

<p>"Tear and ages! don't howld me&mdash;that's himself,&mdash;devil a one
else!"</p>

<p>This exclamation came from Mickey Free, who, with his dress
torn and<br>
dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot and strained, was upsetting and
elbowing<br>
all before him, as he made his way towards me through the
crowd.</p>

<p>"Take that fellow to the guard-house! Lay hold of him,
Sergeant! Knock him<br>
down! Who is the scoundrel?"</p>

<p>Such were the greetings he met with on every side. Regardless
of everything<br>
and everybody, he burst his way through the dense mass.</p>

<p>"Oh, murther! oh, Mary! oh, Moses! Is he safe here after
all?"</p>

<p>The poor fellow could say no more, but burst into a torrent of
tears.<br>
A roar of laughter around him soon, however, turned the current
of his<br>
emotions; when, dashing the scalding drops from his eyelids, he
glared<br>
fiercely like a tiger on every side.</p>

<p>"Ye're laughing at me, are ye," cried he, "bekase I love the
hand that fed<br>
me, and the master that stood to me? But let us see now which of
us two has<br>
the stoutest heart,&mdash;you with your grin on you, or myself with
the salt<br>
tears on my face."</p>

<p>As he spoke, he sprang upon them like a madman, striking right
and left at<br>
everything before him. Down they went beneath his blows, levelled
with the<br>
united strength of energy and passion, till at length, rushing
upon him<br>
in numbers, he was overpowered and thrown to the ground. It was
with some<br>
difficulty I accomplished his rescue; for his enemies felt by no
means<br>
assured how far his amicable propensities for the future could be
relied<br>
upon; and, indeed, Mike himself had a most constitutional
antipathy to<br>
binding himself by any pledge. With some persuasion, however, I
reconciled<br>
all parties; and having, by the kindness of a brother officer,
provided<br>
myself with a couple of troop horses, I mounted, and set out for
Brussels,<br>
followed by Mickey, who had effectually cured his auditory of any
tendency<br>
to laughter at his cost.</p>

<p>As I rode up to the Belle Vue, I saw Sir George Dashwood in
the window. He<br>
was speaking to the ambassador, Lord Clancarty, but the moment he
caught my<br>
eye, he hurried down to meet me.</p>

<p>"Charley, safe,&mdash;safe, my boy! Now am I really happy. The
glorious day had<br>
been one of sorrow to me for the rest of my life had anything
happened to<br>
you. Come up with me at once; I have more than one friend here
who longs to<br>
thank you."</p>

<p>So saying, he hurried me along; and before I could well
remember where I<br>
was, introduced me to a number of persons in the saloon.</p>

<p>"Ah, very happy to know you, sir," said Lord Clancarty.
"Perhaps we had<br>
better walk this way. My friend Dashwood has explained to me the
very<br>
pressing reasons there are for this step; and I, for my part, see
no<br>
objection."</p>

<p>"What, in Heaven's name, can he mean?" thought I, as he
stopped short,<br>
expecting me to say something, while, in utter confusion, I
smiled,<br>
simpered, and muttered some common-places.</p>

<p>"Love and war, sir," resumed the ambassador, "very admirable
associates,<br>
and you certainly have contrived to couple them most closely
together. A<br>
long attachment, I believe?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, a very long attachment," stammered I, not knowing
which of us<br>
was about to become insane.</p>

<p>"A very charming person, indeed; I have seen the lady,"
replied his<br>
lordship, as he opened the door of a small room, and beckoned me
to follow.<br>
The table was covered with paper and materials for writing; but
before<br>
I had time to ask for any explanation of this unaccountable
mystery, he<br>
added, "Oh, I was forgetting; this must be witnessed. Wait one
moment."</p>

<p>With these words he left the room, while I, amazed and
thunderstruck,<br>
vacillating between fear and hope, trembling lest the delusive
glimmering<br>
of happiness should give way at every moment, and yet totally
unable to<br>
explain by any possible supposition how fortune could so far have
favored<br>
me.</p>

<p>While yet I stood hesitating and uncertain, the door opened,
and the<br>
senhora entered. She looked a little pale though not less
beautiful than<br>
ever; and her features wore a slight trace of seriousness, which
rather<br>
heightened than took from the character of her loveliness.</p>

<p>"I heard you had come, Chevalier," said she, "and so I ran
down to shake<br>
hands with you. We may not meet again for some time."</p>

<p>"How so, Senhora? You are not going to leave us, I trust?"</p>

<p>"Then you have not seen Fred. Oh, I forgot; you know nothing
of our plans."</p>

<p>"Here we are at last," said the ambassador, as he came in
followed by Sir<br>
George, Power, and two other officers. "Ah, <i>ma belle</i>, how
fortunate to<br>
find you here! I assure you, it is a matter of no small
difficulty to get<br>
people together at such a time as this."</p>

<p>"Charley, my dear friend," cried Power, "I scarcely hoped to
have had a<br>
shake hands with you ere I left."</p>

<p>"Do, Fred, tell me what all this means? I am in a perfect maze
of doubt and<br>
difficulty, and cannot comprehend a word I hear about me."</p>

<p>"Faith, my boy, I have little time for explanation. The man
who was at<br>
Waterloo yesterday, is to be married to-morrow, and to sail for
India in a<br>
week, has quite enough upon his hands."</p>

<p>"Colonel Power, you will please to put your signature here,"
said Lord<br>
Clancarty, addressing himself to me.</p>

<p>"If you will allow me," said Fred, "I had rather represent
myself."</p>

<p>"Is not this the colonel, then? Why, confound it, I have been
wishing him<br>
joy the last quarter of an hour!"</p>

<p>A burst of laughter from the whole party, in which it was
pretty evident I<br>
took no part, followed this announcement.</p>

<p>"And so you are not Colonel Power? Nor going to be married,
either?"</p>

<p>I stammered out something, while, overwhelmed with confusion,
I stooped<br>
down to sign the paper. Scarcely had I done so, when a renewed
burst of<br>
laughter broke from the party.</p>

<p>"Nothing but blunders, upon my soul," said the ambassador, as
he handed the<br>
paper from one to another.</p>

<p>What was my confusion to discover that instead of Charles
O'Malley, I had<br>
written the name of Lucy Dashwood. I could bear no more. The
laughing and<br>
raillery of my friends came upon my wounded and irritated
feelings like the<br>
most poignant sarcasm. I seized my cap and rushed from the room.
Desirous<br>
of escaping from all that knew me, anxious to bury my agitated
and<br>
distracted thoughts in solitude and quiet, I opened the first
door before<br>
me, and seeing it an empty and unoccupied room, throw myself upon
a sofa,<br>
and buried my head within my hands. Oh, how often had the phantom
of<br>
happiness passed within my reach, but still glided from my grasp!
How often<br>
had I beheld the goal I aimed at, as it were before me, and the
next moment<br>
all the bleak reality of my evil fortune was lowering around
me!</p>

<p>"Oh, Lucy, Lucy!" I exclaimed aloud, "but for you and a few
words<br>
carelessly spoken, I had never trod that path of ambition whose
end has<br>
been the wreck of all my happiness. But for you, I had never
loved so<br>
fondly; I had never filled my mind with one image which,
excluding every<br>
other thought, leaves no pleasure but in it alone. Yes, Lucy, but
for you I<br>
should have gone tranquilly down the stream of life with naught
of grief or<br>
care, save such as are inseparable from the passing chances of
mortality;<br>
loved, perhaps, and cared for by some one who would have deemed
it no<br>
disgrace to have linked her fortune to my own. But for you, and I
had never<br>
been&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A soldier, you would say," whispered a soft voice, as a light
hand gently<br>
touched my shoulder. "I had come," continued she, "to thank you
for a gift<br>
no gratitude can repay,&mdash;my father's life; but truly, I did not
think to<br>
hear the words you have spoken; nor having heard them, can I feel
their<br>
justice. No, Mr. O'Malley, deeply grateful as I am to you for the
service<br>
you once rendered myself, bound as I am by every tie of
thankfulness, by<br>
the greater one to my father, yet do I feel that in the impulse I
had given<br>
to your life, if so be that to me you owe it, I have done more to
repay<br>
my debt to you, than by all the friendship, all the esteem I owe
you; if,<br>
indeed, by my means, you became a soldier, if my few and random
words<br>
raised within your breast that fire of ambition which has been
your<br>
beacon-light to honor and to glory, then am I indeed proud."</p>

<p>"Alas, alas, Lucy!&mdash;Miss Dashwood, I would say,&mdash;forgive me,
if I know not<br>
the very words I utter. How has my career fulfilled the promise
that gave<br>
it birth? For you, and you only, to gain your affection, to win
your heart,<br>
I became a soldier; hardship, danger, even death itself were
courted by me,<br>
supported by the one thought that you had cared for or had pitied
me; and<br>
now, and now&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And now," said she, while her eyes beamed upon me with a very
flood of<br>
tenderness, "is it nothing that in my woman's heart I have glowed
with<br>
pride at triumphs I could read of, but dared not share in? Is it
nothing<br>
that you have lent to my hours of solitude and of musing the
fervor of that<br>
career, the maddening enthusiasm of that glorious path my sex
denied me?<br>
I have followed you in my thoughts across the burning plains of
the<br>
Peninsula, through the long hours of the march in the dreary
nights, even<br>
to the battle-field. I have thought of you; I have dreamed of
you; I have<br>
prayed for you."</p>

<p>"Alas, Lucy, but not loved me!"</p>

<p>The very words, as I spoke them, sank with a despairing
cadence upon my<br>
heart. Her hand, which had fallen upon mine, trembled violently;
I pressed<br>
my lips upon it, but she moved it not. I dared to look up; her
head was<br>
turned away, but her heaving bosom betrayed her emotion.</p>

<p>"No, no, Lucy," cried I, passionately, "I will not deceive
myself; I ask<br>
for more than you can give me. Farewell!"</p>

<p>Now, and for the last time, I pressed her hand once more to my
lips; my hot<br>
tears fell fast upon it. I turned to go, and threw one last look
upon her.<br>
Our eyes met; I cannot say what it was, but in a moment the whole
current<br>
of my thoughts was changed; her look was bent upon me beaming
with softness<br>
and affection, her hand gently pressed my own, and her lips
murmured my<br>
name.</p>

<p>The door burst open at this moment, and Sir George Dashwood
appeared. Lucy<br>
turned one fleeting look upon her father, and fell fainting into
my arms.</p>

<p>"God bless you, my boy!" said the old general, as he hurriedly
wiped a tear<br>
from his eye; "I am now, indeed, a happy father."</p>


<a name="0481"></a>
<img alt="0481.jpg (184K)" src="0481.jpg" height="1043" width="665">

<p>[THE WELCOME HOME.]</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LV.</p>

<p>CONCLUSION.</p>

<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>

<p>The sun had set about half an hour. Already were the dusky
shadows blending<br>
with the faint twilight, as on a lovely July evening we entered
the little<br>
village of Portumna,&mdash;we, I say; for Lucy was beside me. For the
last few<br>
miles of the way I had spoken little; thoughts of the many times
I had<br>
travelled that same road, in how many moods, occupied my mind;
and<br>
although, as we flew rapidly along, some well-known face would
every now<br>
and then present itself, I had but time for the recognition ere
we were<br>
past. Arousing myself from my revery, I was pointing out to Lucy
certain<br>
well-known spots in the landscape, and directing her attention to
places<br>
with the names of which she had been for some time familiar, when
suddenly<br>
a loud shout rent the air, and the next moment the carriage was
surrounded<br>
by hundreds of country people, some of whom brandished blazing
pine<br>
torches; others carried rude banners in their hands,&mdash;but all
testified<br>
the most fervent joy as they bade us welcome. The horses were
speedily<br>
unharnessed, and their places occupied by a crowd of every age
and sex,<br>
who hurried us along through the straggling street of the
village, now a<br>
perfect blaze of bonfires.</p>

<p>Mounds of turf, bog-fir, and tar-barrels sent up their ruddy
blaze, while<br>
hundreds of wild, but happy faces, flitted around and through
them,&mdash;now<br>
dancing merrily in chorus; now plunging madly into the midst of
the fire,<br>
and scattering the red embers on every side. Pipers were there
too, mounted<br>
upon cars or turf-kishes; even the very roof-tops rang out their
merry<br>
notes; the ensigns of the little fishing-craft waved in the
breeze, and<br>
seemed to feel the general joy around them; while over the door
of the<br>
village inn stood a brilliantly lighted transparency,
representing the head<br>
of the O'Malleys holding a very scantily-robed young lady by the
tips of<br>
the fingers; but whether this damsel was intended to represent
the genius<br>
of the west, or my wife, I did not venture to inquire.</p>

<p>If the welcome were rude, assuredly it was a hearty one. Kind
wishes and<br>
blessings poured in on every side, and even our own happiness
took a<br>
brighter coloring from the beaming looks around us. The scene was
wild;<br>
the lurid glare of the red torchlight, the frantic gestures, the
maddening<br>
shouts, the forked flames rising amidst the dark shadows of the
little<br>
hamlet, had something strange and almost unearthly in their
effect; but<br>
Lucy showed no touch of fear. It is true she grasped my hand a
little<br>
closer, but her fair cheek glowed with pleasure, and her eye
brightened as<br>
she looked; and as the rich light fell upon her beauteous
features, how<br>
many a blessing, heart-felt and deep, how many a word of fervent
praise was<br>
spoken.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, the Lord be good to you; it's yourself has the
darling blue<br>
eyes! Look at them, Mary; ain't they like the blossoms on a
peacock's tail?<br>
Musha, may sorrow never put a crease in that beautiful cheek! The
saints<br>
watch over you, for your mouth is like a moss-rose! Be good to
her, yer<br>
honor, for she's a raal gem: devil fear you, Mr. Charles, but
you'd have a<br>
beauty!"</p>

<p>We wended our way slowly, the crowd ever thickening around us,
until we<br>
reached the market-place. Here the procession came to a stand,
and I could<br>
perceive, by certain efforts around me, that some endeavor was
making to<br>
enforce silence.</p>

<p>"Whisht, there! Hould your prate! Be still, Paddy! Tear an'
ages, Molly<br>
Blake, don't be holding me that way; let us hear his reverence.
Put him up<br>
on the barrel. Haven't you got a chair for the priest? Run, and
bring a<br>
table out of Mat Haley's. Here, Father&mdash;here, your reverence;
take care,<br>
will you,&mdash;you'll have the holy man in the blaze!"</p>

<p>By this time I could perceive that my worthy old friend Father
Rush was in<br>
the midst of the mob with what appeared to be a written oration,
as long as<br>
the tail of a kite, between his hands.</p>

<p>"Be aisy, there, ye savages! Who's tearing the back of my
neck? Howld me up<br>
straight! Steady, now&mdash;hem!"</p>

<p>"Take the laste taste in life to wet your lips, your
riverence," said a<br>
kind voice, while at the same moment a smoking tumbler of what
seemed to be<br>
punch appeared on the heads of the crowd.</p>

<p>"Thank ye, Judy," said the father, as he drained the cup.
"Howld the light<br>
up higher; I can't read my speech. There now, be quiet, will ye!
Here goes.<br>
Peter, stand to me now and give me the word."</p>

<p>This admonition was addressed to a figure on a barrel behind
the priest,<br>
who, as well as the imperfect light would permit me to descry,
was the<br>
coadjutor of the parish, Peter Nolan. Silence being perfectly
established,<br>
Father Rush began:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "When Mars, the god of war, on high,<br>
    Of battles first did think,<br>
    He girt his sword upon his thigh,<br>
    And&mdash;</p>

<p>and&mdash;what is't, Peter?"</p>

<p>    "And mixed a drop of drink."</p>

<p>"And mixed a drop of drink," quoth Father Rush, with great
emphasis; when<br>
scarcely were the spoken words than a loud shout of laughter
showed him his<br>
mistake, and he overturned upon the luckless curate the full vial
of his<br>
wrath.</p>

<p>"What is it you mean, Father Peter? I'm ashamed of ye; faith,
it's may be<br>
yourself, not Mars, you are speaking of."</p>

<p>The roar of merriment around prevented me hearing what passed;
but I could<br>
see by Peter's gestures&mdash;for it was too dark to see his
face&mdash;that he was<br>
expressing deep sorrow for the mistake. After a little time,
order was<br>
again established, and Father Rush resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "But love drove battles from his head,<br>
    And sick of wounds and scars,<br>
    To Venus bright he knelt, and said&mdash;</p>

<p>and said&mdash;and said; what the blazes did he say?"</p>

<p>    "I'll make you Mrs. Mars,"</p>

<p>shouted Peter, loud enough to be heard.</p>

<p>"Bad luck to you, Peter Nolan, it's yourself's the ruin of me
this blessed<br>
night! Here have I come four miles with my speech in my pocket,
<i>per imbres<br>
et ignes</i>." Here the crowd crossed themselves devoutly. "Ay, just
so; and<br>
he spoiled it for me entirely." At the earnest entreaty, however,
of the<br>
crowd, Father Rush, with renewed caution to his unhappy prompter,
again<br>
returned to the charge:</p>

<p>    "Thus love compelled the god to yield<br>
    And seek for purer joys;<br>
    He laid aside his helm and shield,<br>
    And took&mdash;</p>

<p>took&mdash;took&mdash;"</p>

<p>    "And took to corduroys,"</p>

<p>cried Father Nolan.</p>

<p>This time, however, the good priest's patience could endure no
more, and he<br>
levelled a blow at his luckless colleague, which, missing his
aim, lost him<br>
his own balance, and brought him down from his eminence upon the
heads of<br>
the mob.</p>

<p>Scarcely had I recovered the perfect convulsion of laughter
into which this<br>
scene had thrown me, when the broad brim of Father Nolan's hat
appeared at<br>
the window of the carriage. Before I had time to address him, he
took it<br>
reverently from his head, disclosing in the act the
ever-memorable features<br>
of Master Frank Webber!</p>

<p>"What! Eh! Can it be?" said I.</p>

<p>"It is surely not&mdash;" said Lucy, hesitating at the name.</p>

<p>"Your aunt, Miss Judy Macan, no more than the Rev. Peter
Nolan, I assure<br>
you; though, I confess, it has cost me much more to personate the
latter<br>
character than the former, and the reward by no means so
tempting."</p>

<p>Here poor Lucy blushed deeply at the remembrance of the scene
alluded to;<br>
and anxious to turn the conversation, I asked by what stratagem
he had<br>
succeeded to the functions of the worthy Peter.</p>

<p>"At the cost of twelve tumblers of the strongest punch ever
brewed at the<br>
O'Malley Arms. The good father gave in only ten minutes before
the oration<br>
began, and I had barely time to change my dress and mount the
barrel,<br>
without a moment's preparation."</p>

<p>The procession once more resumed its march; and hurried along
through the<br>
town, we soon reached the avenue. Here fresh preparations for
welcoming us<br>
had also been made; but regardless of blazing tar-barrels and
burning logs,<br>
the reckless crowd pressed madly on, their wild cheers waking the
echoes as<br>
they went. We soon reached the house; but with a courtesy which
even<br>
the humblest and poorest native of this country is never devoid
of, the<br>
preparations of noise and festivity had not extended to the
precincts of<br>
the dwelling. With a tact which those of higher birth and older
blood might<br>
be proud of, they limited the excesses of their reckless and
careless<br>
merriment to their own village; so that as we approached the
terrace, all<br>
was peaceful, still, and quiet.</p>

<p>I lifted Lucy from the carriage, and passing my arm around
her, was<br>
assisting her to mount the steps, when a bright gleam of
moonlight burst<br>
forth and lit up the whole scene. It was, indeed, an impressive
one. Among<br>
the assembled hundreds there who stood bare-headed, beneath the
cold<br>
moonlight, not a word was now spoken, not a whisper heard. I
turned from<br>
the lawn, where the tall beech-trees were throwing their gigantic
shadows,<br>
to where the river, peering at intervals through the foliage, was
flowing<br>
on its silvery track, plashing amidst the tall flaggers that
lined its<br>
banks,&mdash;all were familiar, all were dear to me from childhood.
How doubly<br>
were they so now! I lifted up my eyes towards the door, and what
was my<br>
surprise at the object before them! Seated in a large chair was
an old man,<br>
whose white hair, flowing in straggling masses upon his neck and
shoulders,<br>
stirred with the night air; his hands rested upon his knees, and
his eyes,<br>
turned slightly upward, seemed to seek for some one he found it
difficult<br>
to recognize. Changed as he was by time, heavily as years had
done their<br>
work upon him, the stern features were not to be mistaken; but as
I looked,<br>
he called out in a voice whose unshaken firmness seemed to defy
the touch<br>
of time,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Charley O'Malley, come here, my boy! Bring her to me, till I
bless you<br>
both. Come here, Lucy,&mdash;I may call you so. Come here, my
children. I have<br>
tried to live on to see this day, when the head of an old house
comes back<br>
with honor, with fame, and with fortune, to dwell amidst his own
people in<br>
the old home of his fathers."</p>

<p>The old man bent above us, his white hair falling upon the
fair locks of<br>
her who knelt beside him, and pressed his cold and quivering hand
within<br>
her own.</p>

<p>"Yes, Lucy," said I, as I led her within the house, "this is
home."</p>

<p>Here now ends my story. The patient reader who has followed me
so far<br>
deserves at my hands that I should not trespass upon his kindness
one<br>
moment beyond the necessity; if, however, any lurking interest
may remain<br>
for some of those who have accompanied me through this my
history, it<br>
may be as well that I should say a few words farther, ere they
disappear<br>
forever.</p>

<p>Power went to India immediately after his marriage,
distinguished himself<br>
repeatedly in the Burmese war, and finally rose to a high command
that he<br>
this moment holds, with honor to himself and advantage to his
country.</p>

<p>O'Shaughnessy, on half-pay, wanders about the Continent,
passing his<br>
summers on the Rhine, his winters at Florence or Geneva. Known to
and by<br>
everybody, his interest in the service keeps him <i>au courant</i> to
every<br>
change and regulation, rendering him an invaluable companion to
all to whom<br>
an army list is inaccessible. He is the same good fellow he ever
was, and<br>
adds to his many excellent qualities the additional one of being
the only<br>
man who can make a bull in French!</p>

<p>Monsoon, the major, when last I saw him, was standing on the
pier at<br>
Calais, endeavoring, with a cheap telescope, to make out the
Dover cliffs,<br>
from a nearer prospect of which certain little family
circumstances might<br>
possibly debar him. He recognized me in a moment, and held out
his hand,<br>
while his eye twinkled with its ancient drollery.</p>

<p>"Charley, my son, how goes it? Delighted to see you. What a
pity I did not<br>
meet you yesterday! Had a little dinner at Crillon's. Harding,
Vivian, and<br>
a few others. They all wished for you; 'pon my life they
did."</p>

<p>"Civil, certainly," thought I, "as I have not the honor of
being known to<br>
them."</p>

<p>"You are at Meurice's," resumed he; "a very good house, but
give you bad<br>
wine, if they don't know you. They know me," added he, in a
whisper; "never<br>
try any tricks upon me. I'll just drop in upon you at six."</p>

<p>"It is most unfortunate, Major; I can't have the pleasure you
speak of; we<br>
start in half an hour."</p>

<p>"Never mind, Charley, never mind; another time. By-the-bye,
now I think of<br>
it, don't you remember something of a ten-pound note you owe
me?"</p>

<p>"As well as I remember, Major, the circumstance was reversed.
You are the<br>
debtor."</p>

<p>"Upon my life, you are right; how droll. No matter; let me
have the ten,<br>
and I'll give you a check for the whole."</p>

<p>The major thrust his tongue into his cheek as he spoke, gave
another leer,<br>
pocketed the note, and sauntered down the pier, muttering
something to<br>
himself about King David and greenhorns; but how they were
connected I<br>
could not precisely overhear.</p>

<p>Baby Blake, or Mrs. Sparks,&mdash;to call her by her more
fitting<br>
appellation,&mdash;is as handsome as ever, and not less good-humored
and<br>
light-hearted, her severest trials being her ineffectual efforts
to convert<br>
Sparks into something like a man for Galway.</p>

<p>Last of all, Mickey Free. Mike remains attached to our fortune
firmly, as<br>
at first he opened his career; the same gay, rollicksome
Irishman, making<br>
songs, making love, and occasionally making punch, he spends his
days and<br>
his nights pretty much as he was wont to do some thirty years
ago. He<br>
obtains an occasional leave of absence for a week or so, but for
what<br>
precise purpose, or with what exact object, I have never been
completely<br>
able to ascertain. I have heard, it as true, that a very
fascinating<br>
companion and a most agreeable gentleman frequents a certain
oyster-house<br>
in Dublin called Burton Bindon's. I have also been told of a
distinguished<br>
foreigner, whose black mustache and broken English were the
admiration of<br>
Cheltenham for the last two winters. I greatly fear from the high
tone of<br>
the conversation in the former, and for the taste in continental
characters<br>
in the latter resort, that I could fix upon the individual whose
convivial<br>
and social gifts have won so much of their esteem and admiration;
but were<br>
I to run on thus, I should recur to every character of my story,
with each<br>
and all of whom you have, doubtless, grown well wearied. So here
for the<br>
last time, and with every kind wish, I say, adieu!</p>

<p>L'ENVOI.</p>

<p>Kind friends,&mdash;It is somewhat unfortunate that the record of
the happiest<br>
portion of my friend's life should prove the saddest part of my
duty as<br>
his editor, and for this reason, that it brings me to that spot
where my<br>
acquaintance with you must close, and sounds the hour when I must
say,<br>
good-bye.</p>

<p>They, who have never felt the mysterious link that binds the
solitary<br>
scribe in his lonely study, to the circle of his readers, can
form no<br>
adequate estimate of what his feelings are when that chain is
about to be<br>
broken; they know not how often, in the fictitious garb of his
narrative,<br>
he has clothed the inmost workings of his heart; they know not
how<br>
frequently he has spoken aloud his secret thoughts, revealing, as
though to<br>
a dearest friend, the springs of his action, the causes of his
sorrow, the<br>
sources of his hope; they cannot believe by what a sympathy he is
bound to<br>
those who bow their heads above his pages; they do not think how
the ideal<br>
creations of his brain are like mutual friends between him and
the world,<br>
through whom he is known and felt and thought of, and by whom he
reaps in<br>
his own heart the rich harvest of flattery and kindness that are
rarely<br>
refused to any effort to please, however poor, however humble.
They know<br>
not this, nor can they feel the hopes, the fears, that stir
within him, to<br>
earn some passing word of praise; nor think they, when won, what
brightness<br>
around his humble hearth it may be shedding. These are the
rewards for<br>
nights of toil and days of thought; these are the recompenses
which pay the<br>
haggard cheek, the sunken eye, the racked and tired head. These
are the<br>
stakes for which one plays his health, his leisure, and his life,
yet not<br>
regrets the game.</p>

<p>Nearly three years have now elapsed since I first made my bow
before you.<br>
How many events have crowded into that brief space! How many
things of<br>
vast moment have occurred! Only think that in the last few months
you've<br>
frightened the French; terrified M. Thiers; worried the Chinese;
and are,<br>
at this very moment, putting the Yankees into a "<i>most uncommon
fix</i>;" not<br>
to mention the minor occupations of ousting the Whigs;
reinstating the<br>
Tories, and making O'Connell Lord Mayor,&mdash;and yet, with all these
and a<br>
thousand other minor cares, you have not forgotten your poor
friend, the<br>
Irish Dragoon. Now this was really kind of you, and in my heart I
thank you<br>
for it.</p>

<p>Do not, I entreat you, construe my gratitude into any sense of
future<br>
favors,&mdash;no such thing; for whatever may be my success with you
hereafter,<br>
I am truly deeply grateful for the past. Circumstances, into
which I<br>
need not enter, have made me for some years past a resident in a
foreign<br>
country, and as my lot has thrown me into a land where the
reputation of<br>
writing a book is pretty much on a par with that of picking a
pocket, it<br>
may readily be conceived with what warm thankfulness I have
caught at any<br>
little testimonies of your approval which chance may have thrown
in my way.</p>

<p>Like the reduced gentlewoman who, compelled by poverty to cry
fresh eggs<br>
through the streets, added after every call, "I hope nobody hears
me;" so<br>
I, finding it convenient, for a not very dissimilar reason, to
write books,<br>
keep my authorship as quietly to myself as need be, and comfort
me with the<br>
assurance that nobody knows me.</p>

<p>A word now to my critics. Never had any man more reason to be
satisfied<br>
with that class than myself. As if you knew and cared for the
temperament<br>
of the man you were reviewing; as if you were aware of the fact
that it was<br>
at any moment in your power, by a single article of severe
censure, to have<br>
extinguished in him forever all effort, all ambition for
success,&mdash;you have<br>
mercifully extended to him the mildest treatment, and meted out
even your<br>
disparagement, with a careful measure.</p>

<p>While I have studied your advice with attention, and read your
criticisms<br>
with care, I confess I have trembled more than once before your
more<br>
palpable praise; for I thought you might be hoaxing me.</p>

<p>Now and then, to be sure, I have been accused of impressing
real<br>
individuals, and compelling them to serve in my book; that this
reproach<br>
was unjust, they who know me can best vouch for, while I myself
can<br>
honestly aver, that I never took a portrait without the consent
of the<br>
sitter.</p>

<p>Others again have fallen foul of me, for treating of things,
places, and<br>
people with which I had no opportunity of becoming personally
acquainted.<br>
Thus one of my critics has showed that I could not have been a
Trinity<br>
College man; and another has denied my military matriculation.
Now,<br>
although both my Latin and my learning are on the peace
establishment, and<br>
if examined in the movements for cavalry, it is perfectly
possible I should<br>
be cautioned, yet as I have both a degree and a commission I
might have<br>
been spared this reproach.</p>

<p>"Of coorse," says Father Malachi Brennan, who leans over my
shoulder while<br>
I write,&mdash;"of coorse you ought to know all about these things as
well as<br>
the Duke of Wellington or Marshal Soult himself. UNDE DERYVATUR
MILES.<br>
Ain't you in the Derry militia?" I hope the Latin and the
translation will<br>
satisfy every objection.</p>

<p>While, then, I have nothing but thankfulness in my heart
respecting the<br>
entire press of my own country, I have a small grudge with my
friends of<br>
the far west; and as this is a season of complaint against the
Yankees,<br>
"Why shouldn't I roll my tub also?" A certain New York paper,
called the<br>
"Sunday Times," has thought fit for some time past to fill its
columns with<br>
a story of the Peninsular war, announcing it as "by the author of
Charles<br>
O'Malley." Heaven knows that injured individual has sins enough
of his own<br>
to answer for, without fathering a whole foundling hospital of
American<br>
balderdash; but this kidnapping spirit of brother Jonathan would
seem to be<br>
the fashion of the day! Not content with capturing Macleod, who
unhappily<br>
ventured within his frontier, he must come over to Ireland and
lay hands<br>
on Harry Lorrequer. Thus difficulties are thickening every day.
When they<br>
dispose of the colonel, then comes the boundary question; after
that there<br>
is Grogan's affair, then me. They may liberate Macleod; [3] they
may<br>
abandon the State of Maine,&mdash;but what recompense can be made to
me for this<br>
foul attack on my literary character? It has been suggested to me
from the<br>
Foreign Office that the editor might be hanged. I confess I
should like<br>
this; but after all it would be poor satisfaction for the injury
done me.<br>
Meanwhile, as Macleod has the <i>pas</i> of me, I'll wait patiently,
and think<br>
the matter over.</p>

<p>[Footnote 3: I have just read that Macleod and Grogan have
been liberated.<br>
May I indulge a hope that <i>my</i> case will engage the sympathies of
the<br>
world during the Christmas holidays. H. L.]</p>

<p>It was my intention, before taking leave of you, to have
apologized<br>
separately for many blunders in my book; but the errors of the
press are<br>
too palpable to be attributed to me. I have written letters
without end,<br>
begged, prayed, and entreated that more care might be bestowed;
but<br>
somehow, after all, they have crept in in spite of me. Indeed,
latterly I<br>
began to think I had found out the secret of it. My publisher,
excellent<br>
man, has a kind of pride about printing in Ireland, and he thinks
the<br>
blunders, like the green cover to the volume, give the thing a
national<br>
look. I think it was a countryman of mine of whom the story is
told, that<br>
he apologized for his spelling by the badness of his pen. This
excuse, a<br>
little extended, may explain away anacronisms, and if it won't I
am sorry<br>
for it, for I have no other.</p>

<p>Here then I conclude: I must say, adieu! Yet can I not do so
before I<br>
again assure you that if perchance I may have lightened an hour
of <i>your</i><br>
solitude, you, my kind friends, have made happy whole weeks and
days of<br>
<i>mine</i>; and if happily I have called up a passing smile upon
<i>your</i> lip,<br>
your favor has spoken joy and gladness to many a heart around
<i>my</i> board.<br>
Is it, then, strange that I should be grateful for the past; be
sorrowful<br>
for the present?</p>

<p>To one and all, then, a happy Christmas; and if before the new
year, you<br>
have not forgotten me, I shall be delighted to have your company
at OUR<br>
MESS.</p>

<p>Meanwhile believe me most respectfully and faithfully
yours,</p>

<p>    HARRY LORREQUER.</p>

<p>    BRUSSELS, November, 1841.</p>

<p>THE END.</p>

<br><br><br><br>


<p>End of Project Gutenberg's Charles O'Malley, Vol. 2, by
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