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<h2>CHARLES O'MALLEY, Vol. 1, by Charles Lever</h2>

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<p>Title: Charles O'Malley, Vol. 1</p>

<p>Author: Charles Lever</p>

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

<a name="0001"></a>
<img alt="0001.jpg (196K)" src="0001.jpg" height="1041" width="694">

<p>[THE SUNK FENCE]</p>
<br><br><br><br>

<h3><a href="#contents">Contents</a></h3>

<h3><a href="#illustrations">Illustrations</a></h3>

<br><br><br><br>


<p>TO THE</p>

<p>MOST NOBLE THE MARQUESS OF DOURO, M.P., D.C.L., ETC., ETC.</p>

<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>

<p>    MY DEAR LORD,&mdash;</p>

<p>    The imperfect attempt to picture forth some scenes of the
most<br>
    brilliant period of my country's history might naturally
suggest their<br>
    dedication to the son of him who gave that era its glory. I
feel,<br>
    however, in the weakness of the effort, the presumption of
such a<br>
    thought, and would simply ask of you to accept these volumes
as a<br>
    souvenir of many delightful hours passed long since in your
society,<br>
    and a testimony of the deep pride with which I regard the
honor of your<br>
    friendship.</p>

<p>    Believe me, my dear Lord, with every respect and
esteem,</p>

<p>    Yours, most sincerely,</p>

<p>    THE AUTHOR.</p>

<p>    BRUSSELS, November, 1841.</p>
<br><br><br><br>
<h2>A WORD OF EXPLANATION.</h2>
<br>

<h4>KIND PUBLIC,&mdash;</h4>

<p>Having so lately taken my leave of the stage, in a farewell
benefit, it is<br>
but fitting that I should explain the circumstances which once
more bring<br>
me before you,&mdash;that I may not appear intrusive, where I have met
with but<br>
too much indulgence.</p>

<p>A blushing <i>debutant</i>&mdash;<i>entre nous</i>, the most
impudent Irishman that ever<br>
swaggered down Sackville Street&mdash;has requested me to present him
to<br>
your acquaintance. He has every ambition to be a favorite with
you; but<br>
says&mdash;God forgive him&mdash;he is too bashful for the foot-lights.</p>

<p>He has remarked&mdash;-as, doubtless, many others have done&mdash;upon
what very<br>
slight grounds, and with what slender pretension, <i>my</i>
Confessions have<br>
met with favor at the hands of the press and the public; and the
idea has<br>
occurred to him to indite his <i>own</i>. Had his determination
ended here,<br>
I should have nothing to object to; but unfortunately, he expects
me to<br>
become his editor, and in some sort responsible for the faults of
his<br>
production. I have wasted much eloquence and more breath in
assuring him<br>
that I was no tried favorite of the public, who dared take
liberties<br>
with them; that the small rag of reputation I enjoyed, was a very
scanty<br>
covering for my own nakedness; that the plank which swam with
one, would<br>
most inevitably sink with two; and lastly, that the indulgence so
often<br>
bestowed upon a first effort is as frequently converted into
censure on the<br>
older offender. My arguments have, however, totally failed, and
he remains<br>
obdurate and unmoved. Under these circumstances I have yielded;
and as,<br>
happily for me, the short and pithy direction to the river
Thames, in the<br>
Critic, "to keep between its banks," has been imitated by my
friend, I find<br>
all that is required of me is to write my name upon the title and
go in<br>
peace. Such, he informs me, is modern editorship.</p>

<p>In conclusion, I would beg, that if the debt he now incurs at
your hands<br>
remain unpaid, you would kindly bear in mind that your remedy
lies against<br>
the drawer of the bill and not against its mere humble
indorser,</p>

<p>HARRY LORREQUER</p>

<p>BRUSSELS, March, 1840.</p>

<br><br><br><br>
<h2>PREFACE</h2>

<p>The success of Harry Lorrequer was the reason for writing
Charles O'Malley.<br>
That I myself was in no wise prepared for the favor the public
bestowed on,<br>
my first attempt is easily enough understood. The ease with which
I strung<br>
my stories together,&mdash;and in reality the Confessions of Harry
Lorrequer are<br>
little other than a note-book of absurd and laughable
incidents,&mdash;led me<br>
to believe that I could draw on this vein of composition without
any limit<br>
whatever. I felt, or thought I felt, an inexhaustible store of
fun and<br>
buoyancy within me, and I began to have a misty, half-confused
impression<br>
that Englishmen generally labored under a sad-colored
temperament, took<br>
depressing views of life, and were proportionately grateful to
any one who<br>
would rally them even passingly out of their despondency, and
give them a<br>
laugh without much trouble for going in search of it.</p>

<p>When I set to work to write Charles O'Malley I was, as I have
ever been,<br>
very low with fortune, and the success of a new venture was
pretty much as<br>
eventful to me as the turn of the right color at
<i>rouge-et-noir</i>. At the<br>
same time I had then an amount of spring in my temperament, and a
power of<br>
enjoying life which I can honestly say I never found surpassed.
The world<br>
had for me all the interest of an admirable comedy, in which the
part<br>
allotted myself, if not a high or a foreground one, was eminently
suited<br>
to my taste, and brought me, besides, sufficiently often on the
stage to<br>
enable me to follow all the fortunes of the piece. Brussels,
where I was<br>
then living, was adorned at the period by a most agreeable
English society.<br>
Some leaders of the fashionable world of London had come there to
refit and<br>
recruit, both in body and estate. There were several pleasant and
a great<br>
number of pretty people among them; and so far as I could judge,
the<br>
fashionable dramas of Belgrave Square and its vicinity were being
performed<br>
in the Rue Royale and the Boulevard de Waterloo with very
considerable<br>
success. There were dinners, balls, d&eacute;je&ucirc;ners, and
picnics in the Bois de<br>
Cambre, excursions to Waterloo, and select little parties to
Bois-fort,&mdash;a<br>
charming little resort in the forest whose intense cockneyism
became<br>
perfectly inoffensive as being in a foreign land, and remote from
the<br>
invasion of home-bred vulgarity. I mention all these things to
show the<br>
adjuncts by which I was aided, and the rattle of gayety by which
I was, as<br>
it were, "accompanied," when I next tried my voice.</p>

<p>The soldier element tinctured strongly our society, and I will
say most<br>
agreeably. Among those whom I remember best were several old
Peninsulars.<br>
Lord Combermere was of this number, and another of our set was an
officer<br>
who accompanied, if indeed he did not command, the first boat
party who<br>
crossed the Douro. It is needless to say how I cultivated a
society so<br>
full of all the storied details I was eager to obtain, and how
generously<br>
disposed were they to give me all the information I needed. On
topography<br>
especially were they valuable to me, and with such good result
that I have<br>
been more than once complimented on the accuracy of my
descriptions of<br>
places which I have never seen and whose features I have derived
entirely<br>
from the narratives of my friends.</p>

<p>When, therefore, my publishers asked me could I write a story
in the<br>
Lorrequer vein, in which active service and military adventure
could figure<br>
more prominently than mere civilian life, and where the
achievements of a<br>
British army might form the staple of the narrative,&mdash;when this
question<br>
was propounded me, I was ready to reply: Not one, but fifty. Do
not mistake<br>
me, and suppose that any overweening confidence in my literary
powers would<br>
have emboldened me to make this reply; my whole strength lay in
the fact<br>
that I could not recognize anything like literary effort in the
matter. If<br>
the world would only condescend to read that which I wrote
precisely as I<br>
was in the habit of talking, nothing could be easier than for me
to occupy<br>
them. Not alone was it very easy to me, but it was intensely
interesting<br>
and amusing to myself, to be so engaged.</p>

<p>The success of Harry Lorrequer had been freely wafted across
the German<br>
ocean, but even in its mildest accents it was very intoxicating
incense to<br>
me; and I set to work on my second book with a thrill of hope as
regards<br>
the world's favor which&mdash;and it is no small thing to say it&mdash;I
can yet<br>
recall.</p>

<p>I can recall, too, and I am afraid more vividly still, some of
the<br>
difficulties of my task when I endeavored to form anything like
an accurate<br>
or precise idea of some campaigning incident or some passage of
arms from<br>
the narratives of two distinct and separate "eye-witnesses." What
mistrust<br>
I conceived for all eye-witnesses from my own brief experience of
their<br>
testimonies! What an impulse did it lend me to study the nature
and the<br>
temperament of narrator, as indicative of the peculiar coloring
he might<br>
lend his narrative; and how it taught me to know the force of the
French<br>
epigram that has declared how it was entirely the alternating
popularity of<br>
Marshal Soult that decided whether he won or lost the battle of
Toulouse.</p>

<p>While, however, I was sifting these evidences, and separating,
as well as<br>
I might, the wheat from the chaff, I was in a measure training
myself for<br>
what, without my then knowing it, was to become my career in
life. This was<br>
not therefore altogether without a certain degree of labor, but
so light<br>
and pleasant withal, so full of picturesque peeps at character
and humorous<br>
views of human nature, that it would be the very rankest
ingratitude of me<br>
if I did not own that I gained all my earlier experiences of the
world in<br>
very pleasant company,&mdash;highly enjoyable at the time, and with
matter for<br>
charming souvenirs long after.</p>

<p>That certain traits of my acquaintances found themselves
embodied in some<br>
of the characters of this story I do not to deny. The principal
of natural<br>
selection adapts itself to novels as to Nature, and it would have
demanded<br>
an effort above my strength to have disabused myself at the desk
of all<br>
the impressions of the dinner-table, and to have forgotten
features which<br>
interested or amused me.</p>

<p>One of the personages of my tale I drew, however, with very
little aid from<br>
fancy. I would go so far as to say that I took him from the life,
if my<br>
memory did not confront me with the lamentable inferiority of my
picture to<br>
the great original it was meant to portray.</p>

<p>With the exception of the quality of courage, I never met a
man who<br>
contained within himself so many of the traits of Falstaff as
the<br>
individual who furnished me with Major Monsoon. But the major&mdash;I
must<br>
call him so, though that rank was far beneath his own&mdash;was a man
of<br>
unquestionable bravery. His powers as a story-teller were to my
thinking<br>
unrivalled; the peculiar reflections on life which he would
passingly<br>
introduce, the wise apothegms, were after a morality essentially
of his own<br>
invention. Then he would indulge in the unsparing exhibition of
himself in<br>
situations such as other men would never have confessed to, all
blended up<br>
with a racy enjoyment of life, dashed occasionally with sorrow
that our<br>
tenure of it was short of patriarchal. All these, accompanied by
a face<br>
redolent of intense humor, and a voice whose modulations were
managed with<br>
the skill of a consummate artist,&mdash;all these, I say, were above
me to<br>
convey; nor indeed as I re-read any of the adventures in which he
figures,<br>
am I other than ashamed at the weakness of my drawing and the
poverty of my<br>
coloring.</p>

<p>That I had a better claim to personify him than is always the
lot of a<br>
novelist; that I possessed, so to say, a vested interest in his
life and<br>
adventures,&mdash;I will relate a little incident in proof; and my
accuracy, if<br>
necessary, can be attested by another actor in the scene, who yet
survives.</p>

<p>I was living a bachelor life at Brussels, my family being at
Ostende<br>
for the bathing, during the summer of 1840. The city was
comparatively<br>
empty,&mdash;all the so-called society being absent at the various
spas or baths<br>
of Germany. One member of the British legation, who remained at
his post to<br>
represent the mission, and myself, making common cause of our
desolation<br>
and ennui, spent much of our time together, and dined
<i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i> every<br>
day.</p>

<p>It chanced that one evening, as we were hastening through the
park on<br>
our way to dinner, we espied the major&mdash;for as major I must speak
of<br>
him&mdash;lounging along with that half-careless, half-observant air
we had both<br>
of us remarked as indicating a desire to be somebody's, anybody's
guest,<br>
rather than surrender himself to the homeliness of domestic
fare.</p>

<p>"There's that confounded old Monsoon," cried my diplomatic
friend. "It's<br>
all up if he sees us, and I can't endure him."</p>

<p>Now, I must remark that my friend, though very far from
insensible to the<br>
humoristic side of the major's character, was not always in the
vein to<br>
enjoy it; and when so indisposed he could invest the object of
his dislike<br>
with something little short of antipathy. "Promise me," said he,
as Monsoon<br>
came towards us,&mdash;"promise me, you'll not ask him to dinner."
Before I<br>
could make any reply, the major was shaking a hand of either of
us, and<br>
rapturously expatiating over his good luck at meeting us. "Mrs.
M.," said<br>
he, "has got a dreary party of old ladies to dine with her, and I
have come<br>
out here to find some pleasant fellow to join me, and take our
mutton-chop<br>
together."</p>

<p>"We're behind our time, Major," said my friend, "sorry to
leave you<br>
so abruptly, but must push on. Eh, Lorrequer," added he, to
evoke<br>
corroboration on my part.</p>

<p>"Harry says nothing of the kind," replied Monsoon, "he says,
or he's going<br>
to say, 'Major, I have a nice bit of dinner waiting for me at
home, enough<br>
for two, will feed three, or if there be a short-coming, nothing
easier<br>
than to eke out the deficiency by another bottle of Moulton; come
along<br>
with us then, Monsoon, and we shall be all the merrier for your
company.'"</p>

<p>Repeating his last words, "Come along, Monsoon," etc., I
passed my arm<br>
within his, and away we went. For a moment my friend tried to get
free and<br>
leave me, but I held him fast and carried him along in spite of
himself. He<br>
was, however, so chagrined and provoked that till the moment we
reached my<br>
door he never uttered a word, nor paid the slightest attention
to<br>
Monsoon, who talked away in a vein that occasionally made gravity
all but<br>
impossible.</p>

<p>Our dinner proceeded drearily enough, the diplomatist's
stiffness never<br>
relaxed for a moment, and my own awkwardness damped all my
attempts at<br>
conversation. Not so, however, Monsoon, he ate heartily, approved
of<br>
everything, and pronounced my wine to be exquisite. He gave us a
perfect<br>
discourse on sherry and Spanish wines in general, told us the
secret of the<br>
Amontillado flavor, and explained that process of browning by
boiling down<br>
wine which some are so fond of in England. At last, seeing
perhaps that the<br>
protection had little charm for us, with his accustomed tact, he
diverged<br>
into anecdote. "I was once fortunate enough," said he, "to fall
upon some<br>
of that choice sherry from the St. Lucas Luentas which is always
reserved<br>
for royalty. It was a pale wine, delicious in the drinking, and
leaving no<br>
more flavor in the mouth than a faint dryness that seemed to say,
another<br>
glass. Shall I tell you how I came by it?" And scarcely pausing
for reply,<br>
he told the story of having robbed his own convoy, and stolen the
wine he<br>
was in charge of for safe conveyance.</p>

<p>I wish I could give any, even the weakest idea of how he
narrated that<br>
incident,&mdash;the struggle that he portrayed between duty and
temptation, and<br>
the apologetic tone of his voice in which he explained that the
frame of<br>
mind that succeeds to any yielding to seductive influences, is
often, in<br>
the main, more profitable to a man than is the vain-glorious
sense of<br>
having resisted a temptation. "Meekness is the mother of all the
virtues,"<br>
said he, "and there is no being meek without frailty." The story,
told as<br>
he told it, was too much for the diplomatist's gravity, he
resisted all<br>
signs of attention as long as he was able, and at last fairly
roared out<br>
with laughter.</p>

<p>As soon as I myself recovered from the effects of his
drollery, I said,<br>
"Major, I have a proposition to make you. Let me tell the story
in print,<br>
and I'll give you five naps."</p>

<p>"Are you serious, Harry?" asked he. "Is this on honor?"</p>

<p>"On honor, assuredly," I replied.</p>

<p>"Let me have the money down, on the nail, and I'll give you
leave to have<br>
me and my whole life, every adventure that ever befell me, ay,
and if you<br>
like, every moral reflection that my experiences have
suggested."</p>

<p>"Done!" cried I, "I agree."</p>

<p>"Not so fast," cried the diplomatist, "we must make a protocol
of this; the<br>
high contracting parties must know what they give and what they
receive,<br>
I'll draw out the treaty."</p>

<p>He did so at full length on a sheet of that solemn blue-tinted
paper, so<br>
dedicated to despatch purposes; he duly set fourth the concession
and the<br>
consideration. We each signed the document; he witnessed and
sealed it; and<br>
Monsoon pocketed my five napoleons, filling a bumper to any
success the<br>
bargain might bring me, and of which I have never had reason to
express<br>
deep disappointment.</p>

<p>This document, along with my university degree, my commission
in a militia<br>
regiment, and a vast amount of letters very interesting to me,
was seized<br>
by the Austrian authorities on the way from Como to Florence, in
the August<br>
of 1847, being deemed part of a treasonable
correspondence,&mdash;probably<br>
purposely allegorical in form,&mdash;and never restored to me. I
fairly own that<br>
I'd give all the rest willingly to repossess myself of the
Monsoon treaty,<br>
not a little for the sake of that quaint old autograph, faintly
shaken by<br>
the quiet laugh with which he wrote it.</p>

<p>That I did not entirely fail in giving my major some faint
resemblance<br>
to the great original from whom I copied him, I may mention that
he was<br>
speedily recognized in print by the Marquis of Londonderry, the
well-known<br>
Sir Charles Stuart of the Peninsular campaign. "I know that
fellow well,"<br>
said he, "he once sent me a challenge, and I had to make him a
very humble<br>
apology. The occasion was this: I had been out with a single
aide-de-camp<br>
to make a reconnaissance in front of Victor's division; and to
avoid<br>
attracting any notice, we covered over our uniform with two
common gray<br>
overcoats which reached to the feet, and effectually concealed
our rank as<br>
officers. Scarcely, however, had we topped a hill which commanded
the view<br>
of the French, than a shower of shells flew over and around us.
Amazed to<br>
think how we could have been so quickly noticed, I looked around
me, and<br>
discovered, quite close in my rear, your friend Monsoon with what
he called<br>
his staff,&mdash;a popinjay set of rascals dressed out in green and
gold, and<br>
with more plumes and feathers than the general staff ever
boasted. Carried<br>
away by momentary passion at the failure of my reconnaissance, I
burst out<br>
with some insolent allusion to the harlequin assembly which had
drawn the<br>
French fire upon us. Monsoon saluted me respectfully, and retired
without a<br>
word; but I had scarcely reached my quarters when a 'friend' of
his waited<br>
on me with a message, a very categorical message it was, too, 'it
must be a<br>
meeting or an ample apology.' I made the apology, a most full
one, for the<br>
major was right, and I had not a fraction of reason to sustain me
in my<br>
conduct, and we have been the best of friends ever since."</p>

<p>I myself had heard the incident before this from Monsoon, but
told among<br>
other adventures whose exact veracity I was rather disposed to
question,<br>
and did not therefore accord it all the faith that was its due;
and I admit<br>
that the accidental corroboration of this one event very often
served to<br>
puzzle me afterwards, when I listened to stories in which the
major seemed<br>
a second Munchausen, but might, like in this of the duel, have
been among<br>
the truest and most matter-of-fact of historians. May the reader
be not<br>
less embarrassed than myself, is my sincere, if not very
courteous, prayer.</p>

<p>I have no doubt myself, that often in recounting some strange
incident,&mdash;a<br>
personal experience it always was,&mdash;he was himself more amused by
the<br>
credulity of the hearers, and the amount of interest he could
excite in<br>
them, than were they by the story. He possessed the true
narrative gusto,<br>
and there was a marvellous instinct in the way in which he would
vary a<br>
tale to suit the tastes of an audience; while his moralizings
were almost<br>
certain to take the tone of a humoristic quiz on the company.</p>

<p>Though fully aware that I was availing myself of the contract
that<br>
delivered him into my hands, and dining with me two or three days
a week,<br>
he never lapsed into any allusion to his appearance in print; and
the story<br>
had been already some weeks published before he asked me to lend
him "that<br>
last thing&mdash;he forgot the name of it&mdash;I was writing."</p>

<p>Of Frank Webber I have said, in a former notice, that he was
one of my<br>
earliest friends, my chum in college, and in the very chambers
where I have<br>
located Charles O'Malley, in Old Trinity. He was a man of the
highest order<br>
of abilities, and with a memory that never forgot, but ruined and
run to<br>
seed by the idleness that came of a discursive, uncertain
temperament.<br>
Capable of anything, he spent his youth in follies and
eccentricities;<br>
every one of which, however, gave indications of a mind
inexhaustible in<br>
resources, and abounding in devices and contrivances that none
other but<br>
himself would have thought of. Poor fellow, he died young; and
perhaps it<br>
is better it should have been so. Had he lived to a later day, he
would<br>
most probably have been found a foremost leader of Fenianism; and
from<br>
what I knew of him, I can say he would have been a more dangerous
enemy to<br>
English rule than any of those dealers in the petty larceny of
rebellion we<br>
have lately seen among us.</p>

<p>I have said that of Mickey Free I had not one but one thousand
types.<br>
Indeed, I am not quite sure that in my last visit to Dublin, I
did not<br>
chance on a living specimen of the "Free" family, much readier in
repart&eacute;e,<br>
quicker with an apropos, and droller in illustration than my own
Mickey.<br>
This fellow was "boots" at a great hotel in Sackville Street; and
I owe him<br>
more amusement and some heartier laughs than it has been always
my fortune<br>
to enjoy in a party of wits. His criticisms on my sketches of
Irish<br>
character were about the shrewdest and the best I ever listened
to; and<br>
that I am not bribed to this by any flattery, I may remark that
they were<br>
more often severe than complimentary, and that he hit every
blunder of<br>
image, every mistake in figure, of my peasant characters, with an
acuteness<br>
and correctness which made me very grateful to know that his
daily<br>
occupations were limited to blacking boots, and not polishing off
authors.</p>

<p>I believe I have now done with my confessions, except I should
like to own<br>
that this story was the means of according me a more heartfelt
glow of<br>
satisfaction, a more gratifying sense of pride, than anything I
ever have<br>
or ever shall write, and in this wise. My brother, at that time
the rector<br>
of an Irish parish, once forwarded to me a letter from a lady
unknown to<br>
him, but who had heard he was the brother of "Harry Lorrequer,"
and who<br>
addressed him not knowing where a letter might be directed to
myself. The<br>
letter was the grateful expression of a mother, who said, "I am
the<br>
widow of a field officer, and with an only son, for whom I
obtained a<br>
presentation to Woolwich; but seeing in my boy's nature certain
traits of<br>
nervousness and timidity which induced me to hesitate on
embarking him in<br>
the career of a soldier, I became very unhappy and uncertain
which course<br>
to decide on.</p>

<p>"While in this state of uncertainty, I chanced to make him a
birthday<br>
present of 'Charles O'Malley,' the reading of which seemed to act
like a<br>
charm on his whole character, inspiring him with a passion for
movement and<br>
adventure, and spiriting him to an eager desire for a military
life. Seeing<br>
that this was no passing enthusiasm, but a decided and determined
bent,<br>
I accepted the cadetship for him; and his career has been not
alone<br>
distinguished as a student, but one which has marked him out for
an almost<br>
hare-brained courage, and for a dash and heroism that give high
promise for<br>
his future.</p>

<p>"Thank your brother for me," wrote she, "a mother's thanks for
the welfare<br>
of an only son; and say how I wish that my best wishes for him
and his<br>
could recompense him for what I owe him."</p>

<p>I humbly hope that it may not be imputed to me as unpardonable
vanity,&mdash;the<br>
recording of this incident. It gave me an intense pleasure when I
heard it;<br>
and now, as I look back on it, it invests this story for myself
with an<br>
interest which nothing else that I have written can afford
me.</p>

<p>I have now but to repeat what I have declared in former
editions, my<br>
sincere gratitude for the favor the public still continues to
bestow<br>
on me,&mdash;a favor which probably associates the memory of this book
with<br>
whatever I have since done successfully, and compels me to
remember that<br>
to the popularity of "Charles O'Malley" I am indebted for a great
share of<br>
that kindliness in criticism, and that geniality in judgment,
which&mdash;for<br>
more than a quarter of a century&mdash;my countrymen have graciously
bestowed on<br>
their faithful friend and servant,</p>

<p>CHARLES LEVER.</p>

<p>TRIESTE, 1872.</p>
<br><br>
<a name="contents"></a>
<br><br>
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<p>CHAPTER</p>

<table summary="">
<tr><td>

I.       <br>
II.      <br>
III.     <br>
IV.      <br>
V.       <br>
VI.      <br>
VII.     <br>
VIII.    <br>
IX.      <br>
X.       <br>
XI.      <br>
XII.     <br>
XIII.    <br>
XIV.     <br>
XV.      <br>
XVI.     <br>
XVII.    <br>
XVIII.   <br>
XIX.     <br>
XX.      <br>
XXI.     <br>
XXII.    <br>
XXIII.   <br>
XXIV.    <br>
XXV.     <br>
XXVI.    <br>
XXVII.   <br>
XXVIII.  <br>
XXIX.    <br>
XXX.     <br>
XXXI.    <br>
XXXII.   <br>
XXXIII.  <br>
XXXIV.   <br>
XXXV.    <br>
XXXVI.   <br>
XXXVII.  <br>
XXXVIII. <br>
XXXIX.   <br>
XL.      <br>
XLI.     <br>
XLII.    <br>
XLIII.   <br>
XLIV.    <br>
XLV.     <br>
XLVI.    <br>
XLVII.   <br>
XLVIII.  <br>
XLIX.    <br>
L.       <br>
LI.      <br>
LII.     <br>
LIII.    <br>
LIV.     <br>
LV.      <br>
LVI.     <br>
LVII.    <br>
LVIII.   <br>
LXIX.    <br>
LX.      <br>
LXI.     <br>
LXII.    <br>
LXIII.   <br>
LXIV.    <br>
LXV.     <br>
LXVI.    <br>
LXVII.   <br>
</td>

<td>
DALY'S CLUB-HOUSE<br>
THE ESCAPE<br>
MR. BLAKE<br>
THE HUNT<br>
THE DRAWING-ROOM<br>
THE DINNER<br>
THE FLIGHT FROM GURT-NA-MORRA<br>
THE DUEL<br>
THE RETURN<br>
THE ELECTION<br>
AN ADVENTURE<br>
MICKEY FREE<br>
THE JOURNEY<br>
DUBLIN<br>
CAPTAIN POWER<br>
THE VICE-PROVOST<br>
TRINITY COLLEGE.&mdash;A LECTURE<br>
THE INVITATION.&mdash;THE WAGER<br>
THE BALL<br>
THE LAST NIGHT IN TRINITY<br>
THE PHOENIX PARK<br>
THE ROAD<br>
CORK<br>
THE ADJUTANT'S DINNER<br>
THE ENTANGLEMENT<br>
THE PREPARATION<br>
THE SUPPER<br>
THE VOYAGE<br>
THE ADJUTANT'S STORY.&mdash;LIFE IN DERBY<br>
FRED POWER'S ADVENTURE IN PHILIPSTOWN<br>
THE VOYAGE CONTINUED<br>
MR. SPARKS'S STORY<br>
THE SKIPPER<br>
THE LAND<br>
MAJOR MONSOON<br>
THE LANDING<br>
LISBON<br>
THE RUA NUOVA<br>
THE VILLA<br>
THE DINNER<br>
THE ROUTE<br>
THE FAREWELL<br>
THE MARCH<br>
THE BIVOUAC<br>
THE DOURO<br>
THE MORNING<br>
THE REVIEW<br>
THE QUARREL<br>
THE ROUTE CONTINUED<br>
THE WATCH-FIRE<br>
THE MARCH<br>
THE PAGE<br>
ALVAS<br>
THE SUPPER<br>
THE LEGION<br>
THE DEPARTURE<br>
CUESTA<br>
THE LETTER<br>
MAJOR O'SHAUGHNESSY<br>
PRELIMINARIES<br>
ALL RIGHT<br>
THE DUEL<br>
NEWS FROM GALWAY<br>
AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR ARTHUR<br>
TALAVERA<br>
NIGHT AFTER TALAVERA<br>
THE OUTPOST<br>

</td></tr>
</table>


<br><br>
<a name="illustrations"></a>
<br><br>
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ IN VOL. I</h2>

<p>*Etchings<br><br>
<a href="#0001">*THE SUNK FENCE</a><br>
<a href="#0055">MR. BLAKE'S DRESSING-ROOM</a><br>
<a href="#0091">THE ELECTION</a><br>
<a href="#0103">*THE RESCUE</a><br>
<a href="#0126">MR. CROW WELL PLUCKED</a><br>
<a href="#0132">FRANK WEBBER AT HIS STUDIES</a><br>
<a href="#0174">MISS JUDY MACAN</a><br>
<a href="#0240">*CHARLES POPS THE QUESTION</a><br>
<a href="#0260">THE ADJUTANT'S AFTER-DINNER RIDE</a><br>
<a href="#0271">THE RIVAL FLUNKIES</a><br>
<a href="#0331">MAJOR MONSOON AND DONNA MARIA</a><br>
<a href="#0381">THE SALUTATION</a><br>
<a href="#0393">*THE SKIRMISH</a><br>
<a href="#0427">A TOUCH AT LEAP-FROG WITH NAPOLEON</a><br>
<a href="#0438">MAJOR MONSOON TRYING TO CHARGE</a><br>
<a href="#0460">MR. FREE'S SONG</a><br>
<a href="#0484">THE COAT OF MAIL</a></p>

<br><br><br><br>


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



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

<p>DALY'S CLUB-HOUSE.</p>

<p>The rain was dashing in torrents against the window-panes, and
the wind<br>
sweeping in heavy and fitful gusts along the dreary and deserted
streets,<br>
as a party of three persons sat over their wine, in that stately
old pile<br>
which once formed the resort of the Irish Members, in College
Green,<br>
Dublin, and went by the name of Daly's Club-House. The clatter of
falling<br>
tiles and chimney-pots, the jarring of the window-frames, and
howling of<br>
the storm without seemed little to affect the spirits of those
within as<br>
they drew closer to a blazing fire before which stood a small
table covered<br>
with the remains of a dessert, and an abundant supply of bottles,
whose<br>
characteristic length of neck indicated the rarest wines of
France and<br>
Germany; while the portly magnum of claret&mdash;the wine <i>par
excellence</i> of<br>
every Irish gentleman of the day&mdash;passed rapidly from hand to
hand, the<br>
conversation did not languish, and many a deep and hearty laugh
followed<br>
the stories which every now and then were told, as some
reminiscence of<br>
early days was recalled, or some trait of a former companion
remembered.</p>

<p>One of the party, however, was apparently engrossed by other
thoughts than<br>
those of the mirth and merriment around; for in the midst of all
he would<br>
turn suddenly from the others, and devote himself to a number of
scattered<br>
sheets of paper, upon which he had written some lines, but whose
crossed<br>
and blotted sentences attested how little success had waited
upon<br>
his literary labors. This individual was a short,
plethoric-looking,<br>
white-haired man of about fifty, with a deep, round voice, and a
chuckling,<br>
smothering laugh, which, whenever he indulged not only shook his
own ample<br>
person, but generally created a petty earthquake on every side of
him. For<br>
the present, I shall not stop to particularize him more closely;
but when I<br>
add that the person in question was a well-known member of the
Irish House<br>
of Commons, whose acute understanding and practical good sense
were veiled<br>
under an affected and well-dissembled habit of blundering that
did far<br>
more for his party than the most violent and pointed attacks of
his more<br>
accurate associates, some of my readers may anticipate me in
pronouncing<br>
him to be Sir Harry Boyle. Upon his left sat a figure the most
unlike him<br>
possible. He was a tall, thin, bony man, with a bolt-upright air
and a most<br>
saturnine expression; his eyes were covered by a deep green
shade, which<br>
fell far over his face, but failed to conceal a blue scar that
crossing his<br>
cheek ended in the angle of his mouth, and imparted to that
feature, when<br>
he spoke, an apparently abortive attempt to extend towards his
eyebrow; his<br>
upper lip was covered with a grizzly and ill-trimmed mustache,
which added<br>
much to the ferocity of his look, while a thin and pointed beard
on his<br>
chin gave an apparent length to the whole face that completed its
rueful<br>
character. His dress was a single-breasted, tightly buttoned
frock, in one<br>
button-hole of which a yellow ribbon was fastened, the decoration
of a<br>
foreign service, which conferred upon its wearer the title of
count; and<br>
though Billy Considine, as he was familiarly called by his
friends, was<br>
a thorough Irishman in all his feelings and affections, yet he
had no<br>
objection to the designation he had gained in the Austrian army.
The Count<br>
was certainly no beauty, but somehow, very few men of his day had
a fancy<br>
for telling him so. A deadlier hand and a steadier eye never
covered his<br>
man in the Phoenix; and though he never had a seat in the House,
he was<br>
always regarded as one of the government party, who more than
once had<br>
damped the ardor of an opposition member by the very significant
threat<br>
of "setting Billy at him." The third figure of the group was a
large,<br>
powerfully built, and handsome man, older than either of the
others, but<br>
not betraying in his voice or carriage any touch of time. He was
attired in<br>
the green coat and buff vest which formed the livery of the club;
and in<br>
his tall, ample forehead, clear, well-set eye, and still handsome
mouth,<br>
bore evidence that no great flattery was necessary at the time
which called<br>
Godfrey O'Malley the handsomest man in Ireland.</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience," said Sir Harry, throwing down his pen
with an air of<br>
ill-temper, "I can make nothing of it! I have got into such an
infernal<br>
habit of making bulls, that I can't write sense when I want
it!"</p>

<p>"Come, come," said O'Malley, "try again, my dear fellow. If
you can't<br>
succeed, I'm sure Billy and I have no chance."</p>

<p>"What have you written? Let us see," said Considine, drawing
the paper<br>
towards him, and holding it to the light. "Why, what the devil is
all this?<br>
You have made him 'drop down dead after dinner of a lingering
illness<br>
brought on by the debate of yesterday.'"</p>

<p>"Oh, impossible!"</p>

<p>"Well, read it yourself; there it is. And, as if to make the
thing less<br>
credible, you talk of his 'Bill for the Better Recovery of Small
Debts.'<br>
I'm sure, O'Malley, your last moments were not employed in that
manner."</p>

<p>"Come, now," said Sir Harry, "I'll set all to rights with a
postscript.<br>
'Any one who questions the above statement is politely requested
to call on<br>
Mr. Considine, 16 Kildare Street, who will feel happy to afford
him every<br>
satisfaction upon Mr. O'Malley's decease, or upon miscellaneous
matters."</p>

<p>"Worse and worse," said O'Malley. "Killing another man will
never persuade<br>
the world that I'm dead."</p>

<p>"But we'll wake you, and have a glorious funeral."</p>

<p>"And if any man doubt the statement, I'll call him out," said
the Count.</p>

<p>"Or, better still," said Sir Harry, "O'Malley has his action
at law for<br>
defamation."</p>

<p>"I see I'll never get down to Galway at this rate," said
O'Malley; "and as<br>
the new election takes place on Tuesday week, time presses. There
are more<br>
writs flying after me this instant than for all the government
boroughs."</p>

<p>"And there will be fewer returns, I fear," said Sir Harry.</p>

<p>"Who is the chief creditor?" asked the Count.</p>

<p>"Old Stapleton, the attorney in Fleet Street, has most of the
mortgages."</p>

<p>"Nothing to be done with him in this way?" said Considine,
balancing the<br>
corkscrew like a hair trigger.</p>

<p>"No chance of it."</p>

<p>"May be," said Sir Harry, "he might come to terms if I were to
call and<br>
say, 'You are anxious to close accounts, as your death has just
taken<br>
place.' You know what I mean."</p>

<p>"I fear so should he, were you to say so. No, no, Boyle, just
try a plain,<br>
straightforward paragraph about my death; we'll have it in
Falkner's paper<br>
to-morrow. On Friday the funeral can take place, and, with the
blessing<br>
o' God, I'll come to life on Saturday at Athlone, in time to
canvass the<br>
market."</p>

<p>"I think it wouldn't be bad if your ghost were to appear to
old Timins the<br>
tanner, in Naas, on your way down. You know he arrested you once
before."</p>

<p>"I prefer a night's sleep," said O'Malley. "But come, finish
the squib for<br>
the paper."</p>

<p>"Stay a little," said Sir Harry, musing; "it just strikes me
that if ever<br>
the matter gets out I may be in some confounded scrape. Who knows
if it is<br>
not a breach of privilege to report the death of a member? And to
tell you<br>
truth, I dread the Sergeant and the Speaker's warrant with a very
lively<br>
fear."</p>

<p>"Why, when did you make his acquaintance?" said the Count.</p>

<p>"Is it possible you never heard of Boyle's committal?" said
O'Malley. "You<br>
surely must have been abroad at the time. But it's not too late
to tell it<br>
yet."</p>

<p>"Well, it's about two years since old Townsend brought in his
Enlistment<br>
Bill, and the whole country was scoured for all our voters, who
were<br>
scattered here and there, never anticipating another call of the
House, and<br>
supposing that the session was just over. Among others, up came
our friend<br>
Harry, here, and the night he arrived they made him a 'Monk of
the Screw,'<br>
and very soon made him forget his senatorial dignities. On the
evening<br>
after his reaching town, the bill was brought in, and at two in
the morning<br>
the division took place,&mdash;a vote was of too much consequence not
to look<br>
after it closely,&mdash;and a Castle messenger was in waiting in
Exchequer<br>
Street, who, when the debate was closing, put Harry, with three
others,<br>
into a coach, and brought them down to the House. Unfortunately,
however,<br>
they mistook their friends, voted against the bill, and amidst
the loudest<br>
cheering of the opposition, the government party were defeated.
The rage of<br>
the ministers knew no bounds, and looks of defiance and even
threats were<br>
exchanged between the ministers and the deserters. Amidst all
this poor<br>
Harry fell fast asleep and dreamed that he was once more in
Exchequer<br>
Street, presiding among the monks, and mixing another tumbler. At
length he<br>
awoke and looked about him. The clerk was just at the instant
reading out,<br>
in his usual routine manner, a clause of the new bill, and the
remainder<br>
of the House was in dead silence. Harry looked again around on
every side,<br>
wondering where was the hot water, and what had become of the
whiskey<br>
bottle, and above all, why the company were so extremely dull and
ungenial.<br>
At length, with a half-shake, he roused up a little, and giving a
look<br>
of unequivocal contempt on every side, called out, 'Upon my soul,
you're<br>
pleasant companions; but I'll give you a chant to enliven you!'
So saying,<br>
he cleared his throat with a couple of short coughs, and struck
up, with<br>
the voice of a Stentor, the following verse of a popular
ballad:&mdash;</p>

<p>    'And they nibbled away, both night and day,<br>
      Like mice in a round of Glo'ster;<br>
    Great rogues they were all, both great and small,<br>
      From Flood to Leslie Foster.<br>
           Great rogues all.</p>

<p>Chorus, boys!' If he was not joined by the voices of his
friends in the<br>
song, it was probably because such a roar of laughing never was
heard since<br>
the walls were roofed over. The whole House rose in a mass, and
my friend<br>
Harry was hurried over the benches by the sergeant-at-arms, and
left for<br>
three weeks in Newgate to practise his melody."</p>

<p>"All true," said Sir Harry; "and worse luck to them for not
liking music.<br>
But come, now, will this do? 'It is our melancholy duty to
announce the<br>
death of Godfrey O'Malley, Esq., late member for the county of
Galway,<br>
which took place on Friday evening, at Daly's Club-House. This
esteemed<br>
gentleman's family&mdash;one of the oldest in Ireland, and among whom
it was<br>
hereditary not to have any children&mdash;'"</p>

<p>Here a burst of laughter from Considine and O'Malley
interrupted the<br>
reader, who with the greatest difficulty could be persuaded that
he was<br>
again bulling it.</p>

<p>"The devil fly away with it," said he; "I'll never
succeed."</p>

<p>"Never mind," said O'Malley, "the first part will do
admirably; and let us<br>
now turn our attention to other matters."</p>

<p>A fresh magnum was called for, and over its inspiring contents
all the<br>
details of the funeral were planned; and as the clock struck four
the party<br>
separated for the <i>night</i>, well satisfied with the result of
their labors.</p>

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

<p>THE ESCAPE.</p>

<p>When the dissolution of Parliament was announced the following
morning in<br>
Dublin, its interest in certain circles was manifestly increased
by the<br>
fact that Godfrey O'Malley was at last open to arrest; for as in
olden<br>
times certain gifted individuals possessed some happy immunity
against<br>
death by fire or sword, so the worthy O'Malley seemed to enjoy a
no less<br>
valuable privilege, and for many a year had passed among the
myrmidons of<br>
the law as writ-proof. Now, however, the charm seemed to have
yielded; and<br>
pretty much with the same feeling as a storming party may be
supposed to<br>
experience on the day that a breach is reported as practicable,
did the<br>
honest attorneys retained in the various suits against him rally
round each<br>
other that morning in the Four Courts.</p>

<p>Bonds, mortgages, post-obits, promissory notes&mdash;in fact, every
imaginable<br>
species of invention for raising the O'Malley exchequer for the
preceding<br>
thirty years&mdash;were handed about on all sides, suggesting to the
mind of an<br>
uninterested observer the notion that had the aforesaid O'Malley
been an<br>
independent and absolute monarch, instead of merely being the
member for<br>
Galway, the kingdom over whose destinies he had been called to
preside<br>
would have suffered not a little from a depreciated currency and
an<br>
extravagant issue of paper. Be that as it might, one thing was
clear,&mdash;the<br>
whole estates of the family could not possibly pay one fourth of
the debt;<br>
and the only question was one which occasionally arises at a
scanty dinner<br>
on a mail-coach road,&mdash;who was to be the lucky individual to
carve the<br>
joint, where so many were sure to go off hungry?</p>

<p>It was now a trial of address between these various and highly
gifted<br>
gentlemen who should first pounce upon the victim; and when the
skill of<br>
their caste is taken into consideration, who will doubt that
every feasible<br>
expedient for securing him was resorted to? While writs were
struck against<br>
him in Dublin, emissaries were despatched to the various
surrounding<br>
counties to procure others in the event of his escape. <i>Ne
exeats</i> were<br>
sworn, and water-bailiffs engaged to follow him on the high seas;
and as<br>
the great Nassau balloon did not exist in those days, no
imaginable mode of<br>
escape appeared possible, and bets were offered at long odds that
within<br>
twenty-four hours the late member would be enjoying his <i>otium
cum<br>
dignitate</i> in his Majesty's jail of Newgate.</p>

<p>Expectation was at the highest, confidence hourly increasing,
success all<br>
but certain, when in the midst of all this high-bounding hope the
dreadful<br>
rumor spread that O'Malley was no more. One had seen it just five
minutes<br>
before in the evening edition of Falkner's paper; another heard
it in the<br>
courts; a third overheard the Chief-Justice stating it to the
Master of the<br>
Rolls; and lastly, a breathless witness arrived from College
Green with<br>
the news that Daly's Club-House was shut up, and the shutters
closed.<br>
To describe the consternation the intelligence caused on every
side is<br>
impossible; nothing in history equals it,&mdash;except, perhaps, the
entrance<br>
of the French army into Moscow, deserted and forsaken by its
former<br>
inhabitants. While terror and dismay, therefore, spread amidst
that wide<br>
and respectable body who formed O'Malley's creditors, the
preparations<br>
for his funeral were going on with every rapidity. Relays of
horses were<br>
ordered at every stage of the journey, and it was announced that,
in<br>
testimony of his worth, a large party of his friends were to
accompany his<br>
remains to Portumna Abbey,&mdash;a test much more indicative of
resistance<br>
in the event of any attempt to arrest the body, than of anything
like<br>
reverence for their departed friend.</p>

<p>Such was the state of matters in Dublin when a letter reached
me one<br>
morning at O'Malley Castle, whose contents will at once explain
the<br>
writer's intention, and also serve to introduce my unworthy self
to my<br>
reader. It ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>                                  DALY'S, about eight in the
evening.<br>
    Dear Charley,&mdash;Your uncle Godfrey, whose debts (God
pardon<br>
    him!) are more numerous than the hairs of his wig, was
obliged to<br>
    die here last night. We did the thing for him completely; and
all<br>
    doubts as to the reality of the event are silenced by the<br>
    circumstantial detail of the newspaper, "that he was confined
six<br>
    weeks to his bed from a cold he caught, ten days ago, while
on guard."<br>
    Repeat this; for it is better we had all the same story till
he<br>
    comes to life again, which, may be, will not take place
before<br>
    Tuesday or Wednesday. At the same time, canvass the county
for him,<br>
    and say he'll be with his friends next week, and up in
Woodford and<br>
    the Scariff barony. Say he died a true Catholic; it will
serve him on<br>
    the hustings. Meet us in Athlone on Saturday, and bring your
uncle's<br>
    mare with you. He says he'd rather ride home. And tell Father
Mac<br>
    Shane, to have a bit of dinner ready about four o'clock, for
the corpse<br>
    can get nothing after he leaves Mountmellick. No more now,
from<br>
    Yours ever,<br>
    HARRY BOYLE</p>

<p>    To CHARLES O'MALLEY, Esq.,<br>
    O'Malley Castle, Galway.</p>

<p>When this not over-clear document reached me I was the sole
inhabitant of<br>
O'Malley Castle,&mdash;a very ruinous pile of incongruous masonry,
that stood in<br>
a wild and dreary part of the county of Galway, bordering on the
Shannon.<br>
On every side stretched the property of my uncle, or at least
what had once<br>
been so; and indeed, so numerous were its present claimants that
he would<br>
have been a subtle lawyer who could have pronounced upon the
rightful<br>
owner. The demesne around the castle contained some well-grown
and handsome<br>
timber, and as the soil was undulating and fertile, presented
many features<br>
of beauty; beyond it, all was sterile, bleak, and barren. Long
tracts of<br>
brown heath-clad mountain or not less unprofitable valleys of
tall and<br>
waving fern were all that the eye could discern, except where the
broad<br>
Shannon, expanding into a tranquil and glassy lake, lay still
and<br>
motionless beneath the dark mountains, a few islands, with some
ruined<br>
churches and a round tower, alone breaking the dreary waste of
water.</p>

<p>Here it was that I passed my infancy and my youth; and here I
now stood,<br>
at the age of seventeen, quite unconscious that the world
contained aught<br>
fairer and brighter than that gloomy valley with its rugged frame
of<br>
mountains.</p>

<p>When a mere child, I was left an orphan to the care of my
worthy uncle. My<br>
father, whose extravagance had well sustained the family
reputation, had<br>
squandered a large and handsome property in contesting elections
for his<br>
native county, and in keeping up that system of unlimited
hospitality for<br>
which Ireland in general, and Galway more especially, was
renowned. The<br>
result was, as might be expected, ruin and beggary. He died,
leaving every<br>
one of his estates encumbered with heavy debts, and the only
legacy he left<br>
to his brother was a boy four years of age, entreating him with
his last<br>
breath, "Be anything you like to him, Godfrey, but a father, or
at least<br>
such a one as I have proved."</p>

<p>Godfrey O'Malley some short time previous had lost his wife,
and when this<br>
new trust was committed to him he resolved never to remarry, but
to rear<br>
me up as his own child and the inheritor of his estates. How
weighty and<br>
onerous an obligation this latter might prove, the reader can
form some<br>
idea. The intention was, however, a kind one; and to do my uncle
justice,<br>
he loved me with all the affection of a warm and open heart.</p>

<p>From my earliest years his whole anxiety was to fit me for the
part of a<br>
country gentleman, as he regarded that character,&mdash;namely, I rode
boldly<br>
with fox-hounds; I was about the best shot within twenty miles of
us; I<br>
could swim the Shannon at Holy Island; I drove four-in-hand
better than the<br>
coachman himself; and from finding a hare to hooking a salmon, my
equal<br>
could not be found from Killaloe to Banagher. These were the
staple of my<br>
endowments. Besides which, the parish priest had taught me a
little Latin,<br>
a little French, a little geometry, and a great deal of the life
and<br>
opinions of Saint Jago, who presided over a holy well in the
neighborhood,<br>
and was held in very considerable repute.</p>

<p>When I add to this portraiture of my accomplishments that I
was nearly six<br>
feet high, with more than a common share of activity and strength
for my<br>
years, and no inconsiderable portion of good looks, I have
finished my<br>
sketch, and stand before my reader.</p>

<p>It is now time I should return to Sir Harry's letter, which so
completely<br>
bewildered me that, but for the assistance of Father Roach, I
should have<br>
been totally unable to make out the writer's intentions. By his
advice, I<br>
immediately set out for Athlone, where, when I arrived, I found
my<br>
uncle addressing the mob from the top of the hearse, and
recounting his<br>
miraculous escapes as a new claim upon their gratitude.</p>

<p>"There was nothing else for it, boys; the Dublin people
insisted on<br>
my being their member, and besieged the club-house. I refused;
they<br>
threatened. I grew obstinate; they furious. 'I'll die first,'
said I.<br>
'Galway or nothing!'"</p>

<p>"Hurrah!" from the mob. "O'Malley forever!"</p>

<p>"And ye see, I kept my word, boys,&mdash;I did die; I died that
evening at a<br>
quarter past eight. There, read it for yourselves; there's the
paper. Was<br>
waked and carried out, and here I am after all, ready to die in
earnest for<br>
you, but never to desert you."</p>

<p>The cheers here were deafening, and my uncle was carried
through the market<br>
down to the mayor's house, who, being a friend of the opposite
party, was<br>
complimented with three groans; then up the Mall to the chapel,
beside<br>
which father Mac Shane resided. He was then suffered to touch the
earth<br>
once more; when, having shaken hands with all of his constituency
within<br>
reach, he entered the house, to partake of the kindest welcome
and best<br>
reception the good priest could afford him.</p>

<p>My uncle's progress homeward was a triumph. The real secret of
his escape<br>
had somehow come out, and his popularity rose to a white heat.
"An' it's<br>
little O'Malley cares for the law,&mdash;bad luck to it; it's himself
can laugh<br>
at judge and jury. Arrest him? Nabocklish! Catch a weasel
asleep!" etc.<br>
Such were the encomiums that greeted him as he passed on towards
home;<br>
while shouts of joy and blazing bonfires attested that his
success was<br>
regarded as a national triumph.</p>

<p>The west has certainly its strong features of identity. Had my
uncle<br>
possessed the claims of the immortal Howard; had he united in his
person<br>
all the attributes which confer a lasting and an ennobling fame
upon<br>
humanity,&mdash;he might have passed on unnoticed and unobserved; but
for<br>
the man that had duped a judge and escaped the sheriff, nothing
was<br>
sufficiently flattering to mark their approbation. The success of
the<br>
exploit was twofold; the news spread far and near, and the very
story<br>
canvassed the county better than Billy Davern himself, the
Athlone<br>
attorney.</p>

<p>This was the prospect now before us; and however little my
readers may<br>
sympathize with my taste, I must honestly avow that I looked
forward to<br>
it with a most delighted feeling. O'Malley Castle was to be the
centre<br>
of operations, and filled with my uncle's supporters; while I, a
mere<br>
stripling, and usually treated as a boy, was to be intrusted with
an<br>
important mission, and sent off to canvass a distant relation,
with whom<br>
my uncle was not upon terms, and who might possibly be
approachable by a<br>
younger branch of the family, with whom he had never any
collision.</p>

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

<p>MR. BLAKE.</p>

<p>Nothing but the exigency of the case could ever have persuaded
my uncle to<br>
stoop to the humiliation of canvassing the individual to whom I
was now<br>
about to proceed as envoy-extraordinary, with full powers to make
any or<br>
every <i>amende</i>, provided only his interest and that of his
followers should<br>
be thereby secured to the O'Malley cause. The evening before I
set out was<br>
devoted to giving me all the necessary instructions how I was to
proceed,<br>
and what difficulties I was to avoid.</p>

<p>"Say your uncle's in high feather with the government party,"
said Sir<br>
Harry, "and that he only votes against them as a <i>ruse de
guerre</i>, as the<br>
French call it."</p>

<p>"Insist upon it that I am sure of the election without him;
but that for<br>
family reasons he should not stand aloof from me; that people are
talking<br>
of it in the country."</p>

<p>"And drop a hint," said Considine, "that O'Malley is greatly
improved in<br>
his shooting."</p>

<p>"And don't get drunk too early in the evening, for Phil Blake
has beautiful<br>
claret," said another.</p>

<p>"And be sure you don't make love to the red-headed girls,"
added a third;<br>
"he has four of them, each more sinfully ugly than the
other."</p>

<p>"You'll be playing whist, too," said Boyle; "and never mind
losing a few<br>
pounds. Mrs. B., long life to her, has a playful way of turning
the king."</p>

<p>"Charley will do it all well," said my uncle; "leave him
alone. And now let<br>
us have in the supper."</p>

<p>It was only on the following morning, as the tandem came round
to the door,<br>
that I began to feel the importance of my mission, and certain
misgivings<br>
came over me as to my ability to fulfil it. Mr. Blake and his
family,<br>
though estranged from my uncle for several years past, had been
always most<br>
kind and good-natured to me; and although I could not, with
propriety, have<br>
cultivated any close intimacy with them, I had every reason to
suppose that<br>
they entertained towards me nothing but sentiments of good-will.
The head<br>
of the family was a Galway squire of the oldest and most genuine
stock, a<br>
great sportsman, a negligent farmer, and most careless father; he
looked<br>
upon a fox as an infinitely more precious part of the creation
than a<br>
French governess, and thought that riding well with hounds was a
far better<br>
gift than all the learning of a Parson. His daughters were after
his<br>
own heart,&mdash;the best-tempered, least-educated, most
high-spirited, gay,<br>
dashing, ugly girls in the county, ready to ride over a four-foot
paling<br>
without a saddle, and to dance the "Wind that shakes the barley"
for four<br>
consecutive hours, against all the officers that their hard fate,
and the<br>
Horse Guards, ever condemned to Galway.</p>

<p>The mamma was only remarkable for her liking for whist, and
her invariable<br>
good fortune thereat,&mdash;a circumstance the world were agreed in
ascribing<br>
less to the blind goddess than her own natural endowments.</p>

<p>Lastly, the heir of the house was a stripling of about my own
age, whose<br>
accomplishments were limited to selling spavined and
broken-winded horses<br>
to the infantry officers, playing a safe game at billiards, and
acting as<br>
jackal-general to his sisters at balls, providing them with a
sufficiency<br>
of partners, and making a strong fight for a place at the
supper-table for<br>
his mother. These fraternal and filial traits, more honored at
home than<br>
abroad, had made Mr. Matthew Blake a rather well-known individual
in the<br>
neighborhood where he lived.</p>

<p>Though Mr. Blake's property was ample, and strange to say for
his county,<br>
unencumbered, the whole air and appearance of his house and
grounds<br>
betrayed anything rather than a sufficiency of means. The gate
lodge was a<br>
miserable mud-hovel with a thatched and falling roof; the gate
itself, a<br>
wooden contrivance, one half of which was boarded and the other
railed; the<br>
avenue was covered with weeds, and deep with ruts; and the clumps
of young<br>
plantation, which had been planted and fenced with care, were now
open to<br>
the cattle, and either totally uprooted or denuded of their bark
and dying.<br>
The lawn, a handsome one of some forty acres, had been devoted to
an<br>
exercise-ground for training horses, and was cut up by their feet
beyond<br>
all semblance of its original destination; and the house itself,
a large<br>
and venerable structure of above a century old, displayed every
variety of<br>
contrivance, as well as the usual one of glass, to exclude the
weather. The<br>
hall-door hung by a single hinge, and required three persons each
morning<br>
and evening to open and shut it; the remainder of the day it lay
pensively<br>
open; the steps which led to it were broken and falling; and the
whole<br>
aspect of things without was ruinous in the extreme. Within,
matters were<br>
somewhat better, for though the furniture was old, and none of it
clean,<br>
yet an appearance of comfort was evident; and the large grate,
blazing with<br>
its pile of red-hot turf, the deep-cushioned chairs, the old
black mahogany<br>
dinner-table, and the soft carpet, albeit deep with dust, were
not to be<br>
despised on a winter's evening, after a hard day's run with the
"Blazers."<br>
Here it was, however, that Mr. Philip Blake had dispensed his
hospitalities<br>
for above fifty years, and his father before him; and here, with
a retinue<br>
of servants as <i>gauches</i> and ill-ordered as all about them,
was he<br>
accustomed to invite all that the county possessed of rank and
wealth,<br>
among which the officers quartered in his neighborhood were
never<br>
neglected, the Miss Blakes having as decided a taste for the army
as any<br>
young ladies of the west of Ireland; and while the Galway squire,
with<br>
his cords and tops, was detailing the latest news from
Ballinasloe in one<br>
corner, the dandy from St. James's Street might be seen
displaying more<br>
arts of seductive flattery in another than his most accurate
<i>insouciane</i><br>
would permit him to practise in the elegant salons of London or
Paris, and<br>
the same man who would have "cut his brother," for a solecism of
dress or<br>
equipage, in Bond Street, was now to be seen quietly
domesticated, eating<br>
family dinners, rolling silk for the young ladies, going down the
middle<br>
in a country dance, and even descending to the indignity of long
whist at<br>
"tenpenny" points, with only the miserable consolation that the
company<br>
were not honest.</p>

<p>It was upon a clear frosty morning, when a bright blue sky and
a sharp but<br>
bracing air seem to exercise upon the feelings a sense no less
pleasurable<br>
than the balmiest breeze and warmest sun of summer, that I
whipped my<br>
leader short round, and entered the precincts of "Gurt-na-Morra."
As I<br>
proceeded along the avenue, I was struck by the slight traces of
repairs<br>
here and there evident,&mdash;a gate or two that formerly had been
parallel to<br>
the horizon had been raised to the perpendicular; some
ineffectual efforts<br>
at paint were also perceptible upon the palings; and, in short,
everything<br>
seemed to have undergone a kind of attempt at improvement.</p>

<p>When I reached the door, instead of being surrounded, as of
old, by a tribe<br>
of menials frieze-coated, bare-headed, and bare-legged, my
presence was<br>
announced by a tremendous ringing of bells from the hands of an
old<br>
functionary in a very formidable livery, who peeped at me through
the<br>
hall-window, and whom, with the greatest difficulty, I recognized
as my<br>
quondam acquaintance, the butler. His wig alone would have graced
a king's<br>
counsel; and the high collar of his coat, and the stiff pillory
of his<br>
cravat denoted an eternal adieu to so humble a vocation as
drawing a cork.<br>
Before I had time for any conjecture as to the altered
circumstances about,<br>
the activity of my friend at the bell had surrounded me with
"four others<br>
worse than himself," at least they were exactly similarly
attired; and<br>
probably from the novelty of their costume, and the restraints of
so<br>
unusual a thing as dress, were as perfectly unable to assist
themselves<br>
or others as the Court of Aldermen would be were they to rig out
in plate<br>
armor of the fourteenth century. How much longer I might have
gone on<br>
conjecturing the reasons for the masquerade around, I cannot say;
but my<br>
servant, an Irish disciple of my uncle's, whispered in my ear,
"It's a<br>
red-breeches day, Master Charles,&mdash;they'll have the hoith of
company in the<br>
house." From the phrase, it needed little explanation to inform
me that it<br>
was one of those occasions on which Mr. Blake attired all the
hangers-on<br>
of his house in livery, and that great preparations were in
progress for a<br>
more than usually splendid reception.</p>

<p>In the next moment I was ushered into the breakfast-room,
where a party of<br>
above a dozen persons were most gayly enjoying all the good cheer
for which<br>
the house had a well-deserved repute. After the usual shaking of
hands and<br>
hearty greetings were over, I was introduced in all form to Sir
George<br>
Dashwood, a tall and singularly handsome man of about fifty, with
an<br>
undress military frock and ribbon. His reception of me was
somewhat<br>
strange; for as they mentioned my relationship to Godfrey
O'Malley, he<br>
smiled slightly, and whispered something to Mr. Blake, who
replied, "Oh,<br>
no, no; not the least. A mere boy; and besides&mdash;" What he added I
lost, for<br>
at that moment Nora Blake was presenting me to Miss Dashwood.</p>

<p>If the sweetest blue eyes that ever beamed beneath a forehead
of snowy<br>
whiteness, over which dark brown and waving hair fell less in
curls than<br>
masses of locky richness, could only have known what wild work
they were<br>
making of my poor heart, Miss Dashwood, I trust, would have
looked at her<br>
teacup or her muffin rather than at me, as she actually did on
that fatal<br>
morning. If I were to judge from her costume, she had only just
arrived,<br>
and the morning air had left upon her cheek a bloom that
contributed<br>
greatly to the effect of her lovely countenance. Although very
young, her<br>
form had all the roundness of womanhood; while her gay and
sprightly manner<br>
indicated all the <i>sans g&ecirc;ne</i> which only very young
girls possess, and<br>
which, when tempered with perfect good taste, and accompanied by
beauty and<br>
no small share of talent, forms an irresistible power of
attraction.</p>

<p>Beside her sat a tall, handsome man of about five-and-thirty
or perhaps<br>
forty years of age, with a most soldierly air, who as I was
presented to<br>
him scarcely turned his head, and gave me a half-nod of very
unequivocal<br>
coldness. There are moments in life in which the heart is, as it
were, laid<br>
bare to any chance or casual impression with a wondrous
sensibility of<br>
pleasure or its opposite. This to me was one of those; and as I
turned from<br>
the lovely girl, who had received me with a marked courtesy, to
the cold<br>
air and repelling <i>hauteur</i> of the dark-browed captain, the
blood rushed<br>
throbbing to my forehead; and as I walked to my place at the
table, I<br>
eagerly sought his eye, to return him a look of defiance and
disdain,<br>
proud and contemptuous as his own. Captain Hammersley, however,
never took<br>
further notice of me, but continued to recount, for the amusement
of those<br>
about him, several excellent stories of his military career,
which, I<br>
confess, were heard with every test of delight by all save me.
One thing<br>
galled me particularly,&mdash;and how easy is it, when you have begun
by<br>
disliking a person, to supply food for your antipathy,&mdash;all his
allusions<br>
to his military life were coupled with half-hinted and
ill-concealed<br>
sneers at civilians of every kind, as though every man not a
soldier were<br>
absolutely unfit for common intercourse with the world, still
more for any<br>
favorable reception in ladies' society.</p>

<p>The young ladies of the family were a well-chosen auditory,
for their<br>
admiration of the army extended from the Life Guards to the
Veteran<br>
Battalion, the Sappers and Miners included; and as Miss Dashwood
was the<br>
daughter of a soldier, she of course coincided in many of, if not
all, his<br>
opinions. I turned towards my neighbor, a Clare gentleman, and
tried to<br>
engage him in conversation, but he was breathlessly attending to
the<br>
captain. On my left sat Matthew Blake, whose eyes were firmly
riveted<br>
upon the same person, and who heard his marvels with an interest
scarcely<br>
inferior to that of his sisters. Annoyed and in ill-temper, I ate
my<br>
breakfast in silence, and resolved that the first moment I could
obtain a<br>
hearing from Mr. Blake I would open my negotiation, and take my
leave at<br>
once of Gurt-na-Morra.</p>

<p>We all assembled in a large room, called by courtesy the
library, when<br>
breakfast was over; and then it was that Mr. Blake, taking me
aside,<br>
whispered, "Charley, it's right I should inform you that Sir
George<br>
Dashwood there is the Commander of the Forces, and is come down
here at<br>
this moment to&mdash;" What for, or how it should concern me, I was
not to<br>
learn; for at that critical instant my informant's attention was
called off<br>
by Captain Hammersley asking if the hounds were to hunt that
day.</p>

<p>"My friend Charley here is the best authority upon that
matter," said Mr.<br>
Blake, turning towards me.</p>

<p>"They are to try the Priest's meadows," said I, with an air of
some<br>
importance; "but if your guests desire a day's sport, I'll send
word over<br>
to Brackely to bring the dogs over here, and we are sure to find
a fox in<br>
your cover."</p>

<p>"Oh, then, by all means," said the captain, turning towards
Mr. Blake, and<br>
addressing himself to him,&mdash;"by all means; and Miss Dashwood, I'm
sure,<br>
would like to see the hounds throw off."</p>

<p>Whatever chagrin the first part of his speech caused me, the
latter set my<br>
heart a-throbbing; and I hastened from the room to despatch a
messenger to<br>
the huntsman to come over to Gurt-na-Morra, and also another to
O'Malley<br>
Castle to bring my best horse and my riding equipments as quickly
as<br>
possible.</p>

<p>"Matthew, who is this captain?" said I, as young Blake met me
in the hall.</p>

<p>"Oh, he is the aide-de-camp of General Dashwood. A nice
fellow, isn't he?"</p>

<p>"I don't know what you may think," said I, "but I take him for
the most<br>
impertinent, impudent, supercilious&mdash;"</p>

<p>The rest of my civil speech was cut short by the appearance of
the very<br>
individual in question, who, with his hands in his pockets and a
cigar in<br>
his mouth, sauntered forth down the steps, taking no more notice
of Matthew<br>
Blake and myself than the two fox-terriers that followed at his
heels.</p>

<p>However anxious I might be to open negotiations on the subject
of my<br>
mission, for the present the thing was impossible; for I found
that Sir<br>
George Dashwood was closeted closely with Mr. Blake, and resolved
to wait<br>
till evening, when chance might afford me the opportunity I
desired.</p>

<p>As the ladies had retired to dress for the hunt, and as I felt
no peculiar<br>
desire to ally myself with the unsocial captain, I accompanied
Matthew to<br>
the stable to look after the cattle, and make preparations for
the coming<br>
sport.</p>

<p>"There's Captain Hammersley's mare," said Matthew, as he
pointed out a<br>
highly bred but powerful English hunter. "She came last night;
for as he<br>
expected some sport, he sent his horses from Dublin on purpose.
The others<br>
will be here to-day."</p>

<p>"What is his regiment?" said I, with an appearance of
carelessness, but in<br>
reality feeling curious to know if the captain was a cavalry or
infantry<br>
officer.</p>

<p>"The &mdash;th Light Dragoons,"</p>

<p>"You never saw him ride?" said I.</p>

<p>"Never; but his groom there says he leads the way in his own
country."</p>

<p>"And where may that be?"</p>

<p>"In Leicestershire, no less," said Matthew.</p>

<p>"Does he know Galway?"</p>

<p>"Never was in it before. It's only this minute he asked Moses
Daly if the<br>
ox-fences were high here."</p>

<p>"Ox-fences! Then he does not know what a wall is?"</p>

<p>"Devil a bit; but we'll teach him."</p>

<p>"That we will," said I, with as bitter a resolution to impart
the<br>
instruction as ever schoolmaster did to whip Latin grammar into
one of the<br>
great unbreeched.</p>

<p>"But I had better send the horses down to the Mill," said
Matthew; "we'll<br>
draw that cover first."</p>

<p>So saying, he turned towards the stable, while I sauntered
alone towards<br>
the road by which I expected the huntsman. I had not walked half
a mile<br>
before I heard the yelping of the dogs, and a little farther on I
saw old<br>
Brackely coming along at a brisk trot, cutting the hounds on each
side, and<br>
calling after the stragglers.</p>

<p>"Did you see my horse on the road, Brackely?" said I.</p>

<p>"I did, Misther Charles; and troth, I'm sorry to see him. Sure
yerself<br>
knows better than to take out the Badger, the best steeple-chaser
in<br>
Ireland, in such a country as this,&mdash;nothing but awkward
stone-fences, and<br>
not a foot of sure ground in the whole of it."</p>

<p>"I know it well, Brackely; but I have my reasons for it."</p>

<p>"Well, may be you have; what cover will your honor try
first?"</p>

<p>"They talk of the Mill," said I; "but I'd much rather try
Morran-a-Gowl."</p>

<p>"Morran-a-Gowl! Do you want to break your neck entirely?"</p>

<p>"No, Brackely, not mine."</p>

<p>"Whose, then, alannah?"</p>

<p>"An English captain's, the devil fly away with him! He's come
down here<br>
to-day, and from all I can see is a most impudent fellow; so,
Brackely&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I understand. Well, leave it to me; and though I don't like
the only<br>
deer-park wall on the hill, we'll try it this morning with the
blessing.<br>
I'll take him down by Woodford, over the Devil's Mouth,&mdash;it's
eighteen foot<br>
wide this minute with the late rains,&mdash;into the four callows;
then over the<br>
stone-walls, down to Dangan; then take a short cast up the hill,
blow him<br>
a bit, and give him the park wall at the top. You must come in
then fresh,<br>
and give him the whole run home over Sleibhmich. The Badger knows
it all,<br>
and takes the road always in a fly,&mdash;a mighty distressing thing
for the<br>
horse that follows, more particularly if he does not understand a
stony<br>
country. Well, if he lives through this, give him the sunk fence
and the<br>
stone wall at Mr. Blake's clover-field, for the hounds will run
into the<br>
fox about there; and though we never ride that leap since Mr.
Malone broke<br>
his neck at it, last October, yet upon an occasion like this, and
for the<br>
honor of Galway&mdash;"</p>

<p>"To be sure, Brackely; and here's a guinea for you, and now
trot on towards<br>
the house. They must not see us together, or they might suspect
something.<br>
But, Brackely," said I, calling out after him, "if he rides at
all fair,<br>
what's to be done?"</p>

<p>"Troth, then, myself doesn't know. There is nothing so bad
west of Athlone.<br>
Have ye a great spite again him?"</p>

<p>"I have," said I, fiercely.</p>

<p>"Could ye coax a fight out of him?"</p>

<p>"That's true," said I; "and now ride on as fast as you
can."</p>

<p>Brackely's last words imparted a lightness to my heart and my
step, and I<br>
strode along a very different man from what I had left the house
half an<br>
hour previously.</p>

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

<p>THE HUNT.</p>

<p>Although we had not the advantages of a southerly wind and
cloudy sky, the<br>
day towards noon became strongly over-cast, and promised to
afford us good<br>
scenting weather; and as we assembled at the meet, mutual
congratulations<br>
were exchanged upon the improved appearance of the day. Young
Blake had<br>
provided Miss Dashwood with a quiet and well-trained horse, and
his sisters<br>
were all mounted as usual upon their own animals, giving to our
turnout<br>
quite a gay and lively aspect. I myself came to cover upon a
hackney,<br>
having sent Badger with a groom, and longed ardently for the
moment when,<br>
casting the skin of my great-coat and overalls, I should appear
before the<br>
world in my well-appointed "cords and tops." Captain Hammersley
had not as<br>
yet made his appearance, and many conjectures were afloat as to
whether "he<br>
might have missed the road, or changed his mind," or "forgot all
about it,"<br>
as Miss Dashwood hinted.</p>

<p>"Who, pray, pitched upon this cover?" said Caroline Blake, as
she looked<br>
with a practised eye over the country on either side.</p>

<p>"There is no chance of a fox late in the day at the Mill,"
said the<br>
huntsman, inventing a lie for the occasion.</p>

<p>"Then of course you never intend us to see much of the sport;
for after you<br>
break cover, you are entirely lost to us."</p>

<p>"I thought you always followed the hounds," said Miss
Dashwood, timidly.</p>

<p>"Oh, to be sure we do, in any common country, but here it is
out of the<br>
question; the fences are too large for any one, and if I am not
mistaken,<br>
these gentlemen will not ride far over this. There, look yonder,
where<br>
the river is rushing down the hill: that stream, widening as it
advances,<br>
crosses the cover nearly midway,&mdash;well, they must clear that; and
then you<br>
may see these walls of large loose stones nearly five feet in
height. That<br>
is the usual course the fox takes, unless he heads towards the
hills and<br>
goes towards Dangan, and then there's an end of it; for the
deer-park wall<br>
is usually a pull up to every one except, perhaps, to our friend
Charley<br>
yonder, who has tried his fortune against drowning more than once
there."</p>

<p>"Look, here he comes," said Matthew Blake, "and looking
splendidly too,&mdash;a<br>
little too much in flesh perhaps, if anything."</p>

<p>"Captain Hammersley!" said the four Miss Blakes, in a breath.
"Where is<br>
he?"</p>

<p>"No; it's the Badger I'm speaking of," said Matthew, laughing,
and pointing<br>
with his finger towards a corner of the field where my servant
was<br>
leisurely throwing down a wall about two feet high to let him
pass.</p>

<p>"Oh, how handsome! What a charger for a dragoon!" said Miss
Dashwood.</p>

<p>Any other mode of praising my steed would have been much more
acceptable.<br>
The word "dragoon" was a thorn in my tenderest part that rankled
and<br>
lacerated at every stir. In a moment I was in the saddle, and
scarcely<br>
seated when at once all the <i>mauvais honte</i> of boyhood left
me, and I<br>
felt every inch a man. I often look back to that moment of my
life, and<br>
comparing it with similar ones, cannot help acknowledging how
purely is the<br>
self-possession which so often wins success the result of some
slight and<br>
trivial association. My confidence in my horsemanship suggested
moral<br>
courage of a very different kind; and I felt that Charles
O'Malley<br>
curvetting upon a thorough-bred, and the same man ambling upon a
shelty,<br>
were two and very dissimilar individuals.</p>

<p>"No chance of the captain," said Matthew, who had returned
from a<br>
<i>reconnaissance</i> upon the road; "and after all it's a pity,
for the day is<br>
getting quite favorable."</p>

<p>While the young ladies formed pickets to look out for the
gallant<br>
<i>militaire</i>, I seized the opportunity of prosecuting my
acquaintance with<br>
Miss Dashwood, and even in the few and passing observations that
fell from<br>
her, learned how very different an order of being she was from
all I had<br>
hitherto seen of country belles. A mixture of courtesy with
<i>na&iuml;vet&eacute;;</i> a<br>
wish to please, with a certain feminine gentleness, that always
flatters a<br>
man, and still more a boy that fain would be one,&mdash;gained
momentarily<br>
more and more upon me, and put me also on my mettle to prove to
my fair<br>
companion that I was not altogether a mere uncultivated and
unthinking<br>
creature, like the remainder of those about me.</p>

<p>"Here he is at last," said Helen Blake, as she cantered across
a field<br>
waving her handkerchief as a signal to the captain, who was now
seen<br>
approaching at a brisk trot.</p>

<p>As he came along, a small fence intervened; he pressed his
horse a little,<br>
and as he kissed hands to the fair Helen, cleared it in a bound,
and was in<br>
an instant in the midst of us.</p>

<p>"He sits his horse like a man, Misther Charles," said the old
huntsman;<br>
"troth, we must give him the worst bit of it."</p>

<p>Captain Hammersley was, despite all the critical acumen with
which I<br>
canvassed him, the very beau-ideal of a gentleman rider; indeed,
although a<br>
very heavy man, his powerful English thorough-bred, showing not
less bone<br>
than blood, took away all semblance of overweight; his saddle was
well<br>
fitting and well placed, as also was his large and broad-reined
snaffle;<br>
his own costume of black coat, leathers, and tops was in perfect
keeping,<br>
and even to his heavy-handled hunting-whip I could find nothing
to cavil<br>
at. As he rode up he paid his respects to the ladies in his usual
free and<br>
easy manner, expressed some surprise, but no regret, at hearing
that he was<br>
late, and never deigning any notice of Matthew or myself, took
his place<br>
beside Miss Dashwood, with whom he conversed in a low
undertone.</p>

<p>"There they go!" said Matthew, as five or six dogs, with their
heads up,<br>
ran yelping along a furrow, then stopped, howled again, and once
more set<br>
off together. In an instant all was commotion in the little
valley<br>
below us. The huntsman, with his hand to his mouth, was calling
off the<br>
stragglers, and the whipper-in followed up the leading dogs with
the rest<br>
of the pack. "They've found! They're away!" said Matthew; and as
he spoke<br>
a yell burst from the valley, and in an instant the whole pack
were off at<br>
full speed. Rather more intent that moment upon showing off my
horsemanship<br>
than anything else, I dashed spurs into Badger's sides, and
turned him<br>
towards a rasping ditch before me; over we went, hurling down
behind us a<br>
rotten bank of clay and small stones, showing how little safety
there had<br>
been in topping instead of clearing it at a bound. Before I was
well-seated<br>
again the captain was beside me. "Now for it, then," said I; and
away we<br>
went. What might be the nature of his feelings I cannot pretend
to state,<br>
but my own were a strange <i>m&eacute;lange</i> of wild, boyish
enthusiasm, revenge,<br>
and recklessness. For my own neck I cared little,&mdash;nothing; and
as I led<br>
the way by half a length, I muttered to myself, "Let him follow
me fairly<br>
this day, and I ask no more."</p>

<p>The dogs had got somewhat the start of us; and as they were in
full cry,<br>
and going fast, we were a little behind. A thought therefore
struck me<br>
that, by appearing to take a short cut upon the hounds, I should
come down<br>
upon the river where its breadth was greatest, and thus, at one
coup, might<br>
try my friend's mettle and his horse's performance at the same
time. On<br>
we went, our speed increasing, till the roar of the river we were
now<br>
approaching was plainly audible. I looked half around, and now
perceived<br>
the captain was standing in his stirrups, as if to obtain a view
of what<br>
was before him; otherwise his countenance was calm and unmoved,
and not<br>
a muscle betrayed that he was not cantering on a parade. I fixed
myself<br>
firmly in my seat, shook my horse a little together, and with a
shout whose<br>
import every Galway hunter well knows rushed him at the river. I
saw the<br>
water dashing among the large stones; I heard it splash; I felt a
bound<br>
like the <i>ricochet</i> of a shot; and we were over, but so
narrowly that the<br>
bank had yielded beneath his hind legs, and it needed a bold
effort of the<br>
noble animal to regain his footing. Scarcely was he once more
firm, when<br>
Hammersley flew by me, taking the lead, and sitting quietly in
his saddle,<br>
as if racing. I know of little in my after-life like the agony of
that<br>
moment; for although I was far, very far, from wishing real ill
to him, yet<br>
I would gladly have broken my leg or my arm if he could not have
been<br>
able to follow me. And now, there he was, actually a length and a
half in<br>
advance! and worse than all, Miss Dashwood must have witnessed
the whole,<br>
and doubtless his leap over the river was better and bolder than
mine.<br>
One consolation yet remained, and while I whispered it to myself
I felt<br>
comforted again. "His is an English mare. They understand these
leaps; but<br>
what can he make of a Galway wall?" The question was soon to be
solved.<br>
Before us, about three fields, were the hounds still in full cry;
a large<br>
stone-wall lay between, and to it we both directed our course
together.<br>
"Ha!" thought I, "he is floored at last," as I perceived that the
captain<br>
held his course rather more in hand, and suffered me to lead.
"Now, then,<br>
for it!" So saying, I rode at the largest part I could find, well
knowing<br>
that Badger's powers were here in their element. One spring, one
plunge,<br>
and away we were, galloping along at the other side. Not so the
captain;<br>
his horse had refused the fence, and he was now taking a circuit
of the<br>
field for another trial of it.</p>

<p>"Pounded, by Jove!" said I, as I turned round in my saddle to
observe him.<br>
Once more she came at it, and once more balked, rearing up, at
the same<br>
time, almost so as to fall backward.</p>

<p>My triumph was complete; and I again was about to follow the
hounds, when,<br>
throwing a look back, I saw Hammersley clearing the wall in a
most splendid<br>
manner, and taking a stretch of at least thirteen feet beyond it.
Once<br>
more he was on my flanks, and the contest renewed. Whatever might
be the<br>
sentiments of the riders (mine I confess to), between the horses
it now<br>
became a tremendous struggle. The English mare, though evidently
superior<br>
in stride and strength, was slightly overweighted, and had not,
besides,<br>
that cat-like activity an Irish horse possesses; so that the
advantages and<br>
disadvantages on either side were about equalized. For about half
an hour<br>
now the pace was awful. We rode side by side, taking our leaps
at<br>
exactly the same instant, and not four feet apart. The hounds
were still<br>
considerably in advance, and were heading towards the Shannon,
when<br>
suddenly the fox doubled, took the hillside, and made for Dangan.
"Now,<br>
then, comes the trial of strength," I said, half aloud, as I
threw my eye<br>
up a steep and rugged mountain, covered with wild furze and tall
heath,<br>
around the crest of which ran, in a zigzag direction, a broken
and<br>
dilapidated wall, once the enclosure of a deer park. This wall,
which<br>
varied from four to six feet in height, was of solid masonry, and
would, in<br>
the most favorable ground, have been a bold leap. Here, at the
summit of a<br>
mountain, with not a yard of footing, it was absolutely
desperation.</p>

<p>By the time that we reached the foot of the hill, the fox,
followed closely<br>
by the hounds, had passed through a breach in the wall; while
Matthew<br>
Blake, with the huntsmen and whipper-in, was riding along in
search of a<br>
gap to lead the horses through. Before I put spurs to Badger to
face the<br>
hill, I turned one look towards Hammersley. There was a slight
curl,<br>
half-smile, half-sneer, upon his lip that actually maddened me,
and had a<br>
precipice yawned beneath my feet, I should have dashed at it
after that.<br>
The ascent was so steep that I was obliged to take the hill in a
slanting<br>
direction; and even thus, the loose footing rendered it dangerous
in the<br>
extreme.</p>

<p>At length I reached the crest, where the wall, more than five
feet in<br>
height, stood frowning above and seeming to defy me. I turned my
horse full<br>
round, so that his very chest almost touched the stones, and with
a bold<br>
cut of the whip and a loud halloo, the gallant animal rose, as if
rearing,<br>
pawed for an instant to regain his balance, and then, with a
frightful<br>
struggle, fell backwards, and rolled from top to bottom of the
hill,<br>
carrying me along with him; the last object that crossed my
sight, as I lay<br>
bruised and motionless, being the captain as he took the wall in
a flying<br>
leap, and disappeared at the other side. After a few scrambling
efforts to<br>
rise, Badger regained his legs and stood beside me; but such was
the shock<br>
and concussion of my fall that all the objects around seemed
wavering and<br>
floating before me, while showers of bright sparks fell in
myriads before<br>
my eyes. I tried to rise, but fell back helpless. Cold
perspiration broke<br>
over my forehead, and I fainted. From that moment I can remember
nothing,<br>
till I felt myself galloping along at full speed upon a level
table-land,<br>
with the hounds about three fields in advance, Hammersley riding
foremost,<br>
and taking all his leaps coolly as ever. As I swayed to either
side upon my<br>
saddle, from weakness, I was lost to all thought or recollection,
save a<br>
flickering memory of some plan of vengeance, which still urged me
forward.<br>
The chase had now lasted above an hour, and both hounds and
horses began to<br>
feel the pace at which they were going. As for me, I rode
mechanically; I<br>
neither knew nor cared for the dangers before me. My eye rested
on but one<br>
object; my whole being was concentrated upon one vague and
undefined sense<br>
of revenge. At this instant the huntsman came alongside of
me.</p>

<p>"Are you hurted, Misther Charles? Did you fall? Your cheek is
all blood,<br>
and your coat is torn in two; and, Mother o' God! his boot is
ground to<br>
powder; he does not hear me! Oh, pull up! pull up, for the love
of the<br>
Virgin! There's the clover-field and the sunk fence before you,
and you'll<br>
be killed on the spot!"</p>

<p>"Where?" cried I, with the cry of a madman. "Where's the
clover-field;<br>
where's the sunk fence? Ha! I see it; I see it now."</p>

<p>So saying, I dashed the rowels into my horse's flanks, and in
an instant<br>
was beyond the reach of the poor fellow's remonstances. Another
moment I<br>
was beside the captain. He turned round as I came up; the same
smile was<br>
upon his mouth; I could have struck him. About three hundred
yards before<br>
us lay the sunk fence; its breadth was about twenty feet, and a
wall of<br>
close brickwork formed its face. Over this the hounds were now
clambering;<br>
some succeeded in crossing, but by far the greater number fell
back,<br>
howling, into the ditch.</p>

<p>I turned towards Hammersley. He was standing high in his
stirrups, and as<br>
he looked towards the yawning fence, down which the dogs were
tumbling in<br>
masses, I thought (perhaps it was but a thought) that his cheek
was paler.<br>
I looked again; he was pulling at his horse. Ha! it was true
then; he would<br>
not face it. I turned round in my saddle, looked him full in the
face, and<br>
as I pointed with my whip to the leap, called out in a voice
hoarse with<br>
passion, "Come on!" I saw no more. All objects were lost to me
from that<br>
moment. When next my senses cleared, I was standing amidst the
dogs, where<br>
they had just killed. Badger stood blown and trembling beside me,
his head<br>
drooping and his flanks gored with spur-marks. I looked about,
but all<br>
consciousness of the past had fled; the concussion of my fall had
shaken<br>
my intellect, and I was like one but half-awake. One glimpse,
short and<br>
fleeting, of what was taking place shot through my brain, as old
Brackely<br>
whispered to me, "By my soul, ye did for the captain there." I
turned a<br>
vague look upon him, and my eyes fell upon the figure of a man
that lay<br>
stretched and bleeding upon a door before me. His pale face was
crossed<br>
with a purple stream of blood that trickled from a wound beside
his<br>
eyebrow; his arms lay motionless and heavily at either side. I
knew him<br>
not. A loud report of a pistol aroused me from my stupor; I
looked back. I<br>
saw a crowd that broke suddenly asunder and fled right and left.
I heard<br>
a heavy crash upon the ground; I pointed with my finger, for I
could not<br>
utter a word.</p>

<p>"It is the English mare, yer honor; she was a beauty this
morning, but<br>
she's broke her shoulder-bone and both her legs, and it was best
to put her<br>
out of pain."</p>

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

<p>THE DRAWING-ROOM.</p>

<p>On the fourth day following the adventure detailed in the last
chapter, I<br>
made my appearance in the drawing-room, my cheek well blanched by
copious<br>
bleeding, and my step tottering and uncertain. On entering the
room, I<br>
looked about in vain for some one who might give me an insight
into the<br>
occurrences of the four preceding days; but no one was to be met
with. The<br>
ladies, I learned, were out riding; Matthew was buying a new
setter, Mr.<br>
Blake was canvassing, and Captain Hammersley was in bed. Where
was Miss<br>
Dashwood?&mdash;in her room; and Sir George?&mdash;he was with Mr.
Blake.</p>

<p>"What! Canvassing, too?"</p>

<p>"Troth, that same was possible," was the intelligent reply of
the old<br>
butler, at which I could not help smiling. I sat down, therefore,
in the<br>
easiest chair I could find, and unfolding the county paper,
resolved upon<br>
learning how matters were going on in the political world. But
somehow,<br>
whether the editor was not brilliant or the fire was hot or that
my own<br>
dreams were pleasanter to indulge in than his fancies, I fell
sound asleep.</p>

<p>How differently is the mind attuned to the active, busy world
of thought<br>
and action when awakened from sleep by any sudden and rude
summons to arise<br>
and be stirring, and when called into existence by the sweet and
silvery<br>
notes of softest music stealing over the senses, and while they
impart<br>
awakening thoughts of bliss and beauty, scarcely dissipating the
dreamy<br>
influence of slumber! Such was my first thought, as, with closed
lids, the<br>
thrilling chords of a harp broke upon my sleep and aroused me to
a feeling<br>
of unutterable pleasure. I turned gently round in my chair and
beheld Miss<br>
Dashwood. She was seated in a recess of an old-fashioned window;
the pale<br>
yellow glow of a wintry sun at evening fell upon her beautiful
hair, and<br>
tinged it with such a light as I have often since then seen in
Rembrandt's<br>
pictures; her head leaned upon the harp, and as she struck its
chords at<br>
random, I saw that her mind was far away from all around her. As
I looked,<br>
she suddenly started from her leaning attitude, and parting back
her curls<br>
from her brow, she preluded a few chords, and then sighed forth,
rather<br>
than sang, that most beautiful of Moore's melodies,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "She is far from the land where her young hero
sleeps."</p>

<p>Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling,
met my<br>
astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell one
by one down<br>
my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and when she ceased, I hid my
head<br>
between my hands and sobbed aloud. In an instant, she was beside
me, and<br>
placing her hand upon my shoulder, said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Poor dear boy, I never suspected you of being there, or I
should not have<br>
sung that mournful air."</p>

<p>I started and looked up; and from what I know not, but she
suddenly<br>
crimsoned to her very forehead, while she added in a less assured
tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I hope, Mr. O'Malley, that you are much better; and I trust
there is no<br>
imprudence in your being here."</p>

<p>"For the latter, I shall not answer," said I, with a sickly
smile; "but<br>
already I feel your music has done me service."</p>

<p>"Then let me sing more for you."</p>

<p>"If I am to have a choice, I should say, Sit down, and let me
hear you talk<br>
to me. My illness and the doctor together have made wild work of
my poor<br>
brain; but if you will talk to me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, then, what shall it be about? Shall I tell you a fairy
tale?"</p>

<p>"I need it not; I feel I am in one this instant."</p>

<p>"Well, then, what say you to a legend; for I am rich in my
stores of them?"</p>

<p>"The O'Malleys have their chronicles, wild and barbarous
enough without the<br>
aid of Thor and Woden."</p>

<p>"Then, shall we chat of every-day matters? Should you like to
hear how the<br>
election and the canvass go on?"</p>

<p>"Yes; of all things."</p>

<p>"Well, then, most favorably. Two baronies, with most
unspeakable names,<br>
have declared for us, and confidence is rapidly increasing among
our party.<br>
This I learned, by chance, yesterday; for papa never permits us
to know<br>
anything of these matters,&mdash;not even the names of the
candidates."</p>

<p>"Well, that was the very point I was coming to; for the
government were<br>
about to send down some one just as I left home, and I am most
anxious to<br>
learn who it is."</p>

<p>"Then am I utterly valueless; for I really can't say what
party the<br>
government espouses, and only know of our own."</p>

<p>"Quite enough for me that you wish it success," said I,
gallantly. "Perhaps<br>
you can tell me if my uncle has heard of my accident?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes; but somehow he has not been here himself, but sent a
friend,&mdash;a<br>
Mr. Considine, I think; a very strange person he seemed. He
demanded to see<br>
papa, and it seems, asked him if your misfortune had been a thing
of his<br>
contrivance, and whether he was ready to explain his conduct
about it; and,<br>
in fact, I believe he is mad."</p>

<p>"Heaven confound him!" I muttered between my teeth.</p>

<p>"And then he wished to have an interview with Captain
Hammersley. However,<br>
he is too ill; but as the doctor hoped he might be down-stairs in
a week,<br>
Mr. Considine kindly hinted that he should wait."</p>

<p>"Oh, then, do tell me how is the captain."</p>

<p>"Very much bruised, very much disfigured, they say," said she,
half<br>
smiling; "but not so much hurt in body as in mind."</p>

<p>"As how, may I ask?" said I, with an appearance of
innocence.</p>

<p>"I don't exactly understand it; but it would appear that there
was<br>
something like rivalry among you gentlemen <i>chasseurs</i> on
that luckless<br>
morning, and that while you paid the penalty of a broken head, he
was<br>
destined to lose his horse and break his arm."</p>

<p>"I certainly am sorry,&mdash;most sincerely sorry for any share I
might have had<br>
in the catastrophe; and my greatest regret, I confess, arises
from the fact<br>
that I should cause <i>you</i> unhappiness."</p>

<p>"<i>Me</i>? Pray explain."</p>

<p>"Why, as Captain Hammersley&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, you are too young now to mate me suspect you
have an<br>
intention to offend; but I caution you, never repeat this."</p>

<p>I saw that I had transgressed, but how, I most honestly
confess, I could<br>
not guess; for though I certainly was the senior of my fair
companion in<br>
years, I was most lamentably her junior in tact and
discretion.</p>

<p>The gray dusk of evening had long fallen as we continued to
chat together<br>
beside the blazing wood embers,&mdash;she evidently amusing herself
with the<br>
original notions of an untutored, unlettered boy, and I drinking
deep<br>
those draughts of love that nerved my heart through many a breach
and<br>
battlefield.</p>

<p>Our colloquy was at length interrupted by the entrance of Sir
George, who<br>
shook me most cordially by the hand, and made the kindest
inquiries about<br>
my health.</p>

<p>"They tell me you are to be a lawyer. Mr. O'Malley," said he;
"and if so, I<br>
must advise you to take better care of your headpiece."</p>

<p>"A lawyer, Papa; oh dear me! I should never have thought of
his being<br>
anything so stupid."</p>

<p>"Why, silly girl, what would you have a man be?"</p>

<p>"A dragoon, to be sure, Papa," said the fond girl, as she
pressed her arm<br>
around his manly figure, and looked up in his face with an
expression of<br>
mingled pride and affection.</p>

<p>That word sealed my destiny.</p>

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

<p>THE DINNER.</p>

<p>When I retired to my room to dress for dinner, I found my
servant waiting<br>
with a note from my uncle, to which, he informed me, the
messenger expected<br>
an answer.</p>

<p>I broke the seal and read:&mdash;</p>

<p>    DEAR CHARLEY,&mdash;Do not lose a moment in securing old
Blake,&mdash;if<br>
    you have not already done so,&mdash;as information has just
reached<br>
    me that the government party has promised a cornetcy to
young<br>
    Matthew if he can bring over his father. And these are the
people<br>
    I have been voting with&mdash;a few private cases excepted&mdash;for
thirty<br>
    odd years!</p>

<p>    I am very sorry for your accident. Considine informs me
that it<br>
    will need explanation at a later period. He has been in
Athlone<br>
    since Tuesday, in hopes to catch the new candidate on his way
down,<br>
    and get him into a little private quarrel before the day; if
he<br>
    succeeds, it will save the county much expense, and conduce
greatly to<br>
    the peace and happiness of all parties. But "these things,"
as Father<br>
    Roach says, "are in the hands of Providence." You must also
persuade<br>
    old Blake to write a few lines to Simon Mallock, about
the<br>
    Coolnamuck mortgage. We can give him no satisfaction at
present,<br>
    at least such as he looks for; and don't be philandering any
longer<br>
    where you are, when your health permits a change of
quarters.</p>

<p>    Your affectionate uncle,<br>
    GODFREY O'MALLEY.</p>

<p>    P.S. I have just heard from Considine. He was out this
morning<br>
    and shot a fellow in the knee; but finds that after all he
was<br>
    not the candidate, but a tourist that was writing a book
about<br>
    Connemara.</p>

<p>    P.S. No. 2. Bear the mortgage in mind, for old Mallock is
a<br>
    spiteful fellow, and has a grudge against me, since I
horsewhipped<br>
    his son in Banagher. Oh, the world, the world! G. O'M.</p>

<p>Until I read this very clear epistle to the end, I had no very
precise<br>
conception how completely I had forgotten all my uncle's
interests, and<br>
neglected all his injunctions. Already five days had elapsed, and
I had not<br>
as much as mooted the question to Mr. Blake, and probably all
this time my<br>
uncle was calculating on the thing as concluded; but, with one
hole in my<br>
head and some half-dozen in my heart, my memory was none of the
best.</p>

<p>Snatching up the letter, therefore, I resolved to lose no more
time, and<br>
proceeded at once to Mr. Blake's room, expecting that I should,
as the<br>
event proved, find him engaged in the very laborious duty of
making his<br>
toilet.</p>

<a name="0055"></a>
<img alt="0055.jpg (139K)" src="0055.jpg" height="560" width="671">

<p>[MR. BLAKE'S DRESSING ROOM.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Come in, Charley," said he, as I tapped gently at the door.
"It's only<br>
Charley, my darling. Mrs. B. won't mind you."</p>

<p>"Not the least in life," responded Mrs. B., disposing at the
same time a<br>
pair of her husband's corduroys tippet fashion across her ample
shoulders,<br>
which before were displayed in the plenitude and breadth of
coloring we<br>
find in a Rubens. "Sit down, Charley, and tell us what's the
matter."</p>

<p>As until this moment I was in perfect ignorance of the
Adam-and-Eve-like<br>
simplicity in which the private economy of Mr. Blake's household
was<br>
conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a
mutual<br>
territory of dressing-room had not Mr. Blake's injunctions been
issued<br>
somewhat like an order to remain.</p>

<p>"It's only a letter, sir," said I, stuttering, "from my uncle
about the<br>
election. He says that as his majority is now certain, he should
feel<br>
better pleased in going to the poll with all the family, you
know, sir,<br>
along with him. He wishes me just to sound your intentions,&mdash;to
make out<br>
how you feel disposed towards him; and&mdash;and, faith, as I am but a
poor<br>
diplomatist, I thought the best way was to come straight to the
point and<br>
tell you so."</p>

<p>"I perceive," said Mr. Blake, giving his chin at the moment an
awful gash<br>
with the razor,&mdash;"I perceive; go on."</p>

<p>"Well, sir, I have little more to say. My uncle knows what
influence you<br>
have in Scariff, and expects you'll do what you can there."</p>

<p>"Anything more?" said Blake, with a very dry and quizzical
expression I<br>
didn't half like,&mdash;"anything more?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes; you are to write a line to old Mallock."</p>

<p>"I understand; about Coolnamuck, isn't it?"</p>

<p>"Exactly; I believe that's all."</p>

<p>"Well, now, Charley, you may go down-stairs, and we'll talk it
over after<br>
dinner."</p>

<p>"Yes, Charley dear, go down, for I'm going to draw on my
stockings," said<br>
the fair Mrs. Blake, with a look of very modest
consciousness.</p>

<p>When I had left the room I couldn't help muttering a "Thank
God!" for the<br>
success of a mission I more than once feared for, and hastened to
despatch<br>
a note to my uncle, assuring him of the Blake interest, and
adding that for<br>
propriety's sake I should defer my departure for a day or two
longer.</p>

<p>This done, with a heart lightened of its load and in high
spirits at my<br>
cleverness, I descended to the drawing-room. Here a very large
party were<br>
already assembled, and at every opening of the door a new relay
of Blakes,<br>
Burkes, and Bodkins was introduced. In the absence of the host,
Sir George<br>
Dashwood was "making the agreeable" to the guests, and shook
hands with<br>
every new arrival with all the warmth and cordiality of old
friendship.<br>
While thus he inquired for various absent individuals, and asked
most<br>
affectionately for sundry aunts and uncles not forthcoming, a
slight<br>
incident occurred which by its ludicrous turn served to shorten
the long<br>
half-hour before dinner. An individual of the party, a Mr. Blake,
had, from<br>
certain peculiarities of face, obtained in his boyhood the
sobriquet of<br>
"Shave-the-wind." This hatchet-like conformation had grown with
his growth,<br>
and perpetuated upon him a nickname by which alone was he ever
spoken of<br>
among his friends and acquaintances; the only difference being
that as he<br>
came to man's estate, brevity, that soul of wit, had curtailed
the epithet<br>
to mere "Shave." Now, Sir George had been hearing frequent
reference made<br>
to him always by this name, heard him ever so addressed, and
perceived him<br>
to reply to it; so that when he was himself asked by some one
what sport he<br>
had found that day among the woodcocks, he answered at once, with
a bow of<br>
very grateful acknowledgment, "Excellent, indeed; but entirely
owing to<br>
where I was placed in the copse. Had it not been for Mr. Shave
there&mdash;"</p>

<p>I need not say that the remainder of his speech, being heard
on all sides,<br>
became one universal shout of laughter, in which, to do him
justice, the<br>
excellent Shave himself heartily joined. Scarcely were the sounds
of mirth<br>
lulled into an apparent calm, when the door opened and the host
and hostess<br>
appeared. Mrs. Blake advanced in all the plenitude of her charms,
arrayed<br>
in crimson satin, sorely injured in its freshness by a patch of
grease<br>
upon the front about the same size and shape as the continent of
Europe in<br>
Arrowsmith's Atlas. A swan's-down tippet covered her shoulders;
massive<br>
bracelets ornamented her wrists; while from her ears descended
two Irish<br>
diamond ear-rings, rivalling in magnitude and value the glass
pendants of<br>
a lustre. Her reception of her guests made ample amends, in
warmth and<br>
cordiality, for any deficiency of elegance; and as she disposed
her ample<br>
proportions upon the sofa, and looked around upon the company,
she appeared<br>
the very impersonation of hospitality.</p>

<p>After several openings and shuttings of the drawing-room door,
accompanied<br>
by the appearance of old Simon the butler, who counted the party
at least<br>
five times before he was certain that the score was correct,
dinner was<br>
at length announced. Now came a moment of difficulty, and one
which, as<br>
testing Mr. Blake's tact, he would gladly have seen devolve upon
some other<br>
shoulders; for he well knew that the marshalling a room full of
mandarins,<br>
blue, green, and yellow, was "cakes and gingerbread" to ushering
a Galway<br>
party in to dinner.</p>

<p>First, then, was Mr. Miles Bodkin, whose grandfather would
have been a lord<br>
if Cromwell had not hanged him one fine morning. Then Mrs. Mosey
Blake's<br>
first husband was promised the title of Kilmacud if it was ever
restored;<br>
whereas Mrs. French of Knocktunmor's mother was then at law for a
title.<br>
And lastly, Mrs. Joe Burke was fourth cousin to Lord Clanricarde,
as is or<br>
will be every Burke from this to the day of judgment. Now,
luckily for her<br>
prospects, the lord was alive; and Mr. Blake, remembering a very
sage adage<br>
about "dead lions," etc., solved the difficulty at once by
gracefully<br>
tucking the lady under his arm and leading the way. The others
soon<br>
followed, the priest of Portumna and my unworthy self bringing up
the rear.</p>

<p>When, many a year afterwards, the hard ground of a mountain
bivouac,<br>
with its pitiful portion of pickled cork-tree yclept mess-beef,
and that<br>
pyroligneous aquafortis they call corn-brandy have been my hard
fare,<br>
I often looked back to that day's dinner with a most
heart-yearning<br>
sensation,&mdash;a turbot as big as the Waterloo shield, a sirloin
that seemed<br>
cut from the sides of a rhinoceros, a sauce-boat that contained
an<br>
oyster-bed. There was a turkey, which singly would have formed
the main<br>
army of a French dinner, doing mere outpost duty, flanked by a
picket of<br>
ham and a detached squadron of chickens carefully ambushed in a
forest<br>
of greens; potatoes, not disguised &agrave; la ma&icirc;tre
d'h&ocirc;tel and tortured to<br>
resemble bad macaroni, but piled like shot in an ordnance-yard,
were posted<br>
at different quarters; while massive decanters of port and sherry
stood<br>
proudly up like standard bearers amidst the goodly array. This
was none<br>
of your austere "great dinners," where a cold and chilling
<i>plateau</i> of<br>
artificial nonsense cuts off one-half of the table from
intercourse with<br>
the other; when whispered sentences constitute the conversation,
and all<br>
the friendly recognition of wine-drinking, which renews
acquaintance and<br>
cements an intimacy, is replaced by the ceremonious filling of
your glass<br>
by a lackey; where smiles go current in lieu of kind speeches,
and epigram<br>
and smartness form the substitute for the broad jest and merry
story. Far<br>
from it. Here the company ate, drank, talked, laughed,&mdash;did all
but sing,<br>
and certainly enjoyed themselves heartily. As for me, I was
little more<br>
than a listener; and such was the crash of plates, the jingle of
glasses,<br>
and the clatter of voices, that fragments only of what was
passing<br>
around reached me, giving to the conversation of the party a
character<br>
occasionally somewhat incongruous. Thus such sentences as the
following ran<br>
foul of each other every instant:&mdash;</p>

<p>"No better land in Galway"&mdash;"where could you find such
facilities"&mdash;"for<br>
shooting Mr. Jones on his way home"&mdash;"the truth, the whole truth,
and<br>
nothing but the truth"&mdash;"kiss"&mdash;"Miss Blake, she's the girl with
a foot and<br>
ankle"&mdash;"Daly has never had wool on his sheep"&mdash;"how could
he"&mdash;"what<br>
does he pay for the mountain"&mdash;"four and tenpence a yard"&mdash;"not a
penny<br>
less"&mdash;"all the cabbage-stalks and potato-skins"&mdash;"with some bog
stuff<br>
through it"&mdash;"that's the thing to"&mdash;"make soup, with a red
herring in it<br>
instead of salt"&mdash;"and when he proposed for my niece, ma'am, says
he"&mdash;"mix<br>
a strong tumbler, and I'll make a shake-down for you on the
floor"&mdash;"and<br>
may the Lord have mercy on your soul"&mdash;"and now, down the middle
and<br>
up again"&mdash;"Captain Magan, my dear, he is the man"&mdash;"to shave a
pig<br>
properly"&mdash;"it's not money I'm looking for, says he, the girl of
my<br>
heart"&mdash;"if she had not a wind-gall and two spavins"&mdash;"I'd have
given her<br>
the rights of the church, of coorse," said Father Roach, bringing
up the<br>
rear of this ill-assorted jargon.</p>

<p>Such were the scattered links of conversation I was condemned
to listen to,<br>
till a general rise on the part of the ladies left us alone to
discuss our<br>
wine and enter in good earnest upon the more serious duties of
the evening.</p>

<p>Scarcely was the door closed when one of the company, seizing
the<br>
bell-rope, said, "With your leave, Blake, we'll have the 'dew'
now."</p>

<p>"Good claret,&mdash;no better," said another; "but it sits mighty
cold on the<br>
stomach."</p>

<p>"There's nothing like the groceries, after all,&mdash;eh, Sir
George?" said an<br>
old Galway squire to the English general, who acceded to the
fact, which he<br>
understood in a very different sense.</p>

<p>"Oh, punch, you are my darlin'," hummed another, as a large,
square,<br>
half-gallon decanter of whiskey was placed on the table, the
various<br>
decanters of wine being now ignominiously sent down to the end of
the board<br>
without any evidence of regret on any face save Sir George
Dashwood's, who<br>
mixed his tumbler with a very rebellious conscience.</p>

<p>Whatever were the noise and clamor of the company before, they
were nothing<br>
to what now ensued. As one party were discussing the approaching
contest,<br>
another was planning a steeple-chase, while two individuals,
unhappily<br>
removed from each other the entire length of the table, were what
is called<br>
"challenging each other's effects" in a very remarkable
manner,&mdash;the<br>
process so styled being an exchange of property, when each party,
setting<br>
an imaginary value upon some article, barters it for another, the
amount<br>
of boot paid and received being determined by a third person, who
is the<br>
umpire. Thus a gold breast-pin was swopped, as the phrase is,
against a<br>
horse; then a pair of boots, then a Kerry bull, etc.,&mdash;every
imaginable<br>
species of property coming into the market. Sometimes, as matters
of very<br>
dubious value turned up, great laughter was the result. In this
very<br>
national pastime, a Mr. Miles Bodkin, a noted fire-eater of the
west, was<br>
a great proficient; and it is said he once so completely
succeeded in<br>
despoiling an uninitiated hand, that after winning in succession
his horse,<br>
gig, harness, etc., he proceeded <i>seriatim</i> to his watch,
ring, clothes,<br>
and portmanteau, and actually concluded by winning all he
possessed, and<br>
kindly lent him a card-cloth to cover him on his way to the
hotel.<br>
His success on the present occasion was considerable, and his
spirits<br>
proportionate. The decanter had thrice been replenished, and the
flushed<br>
faces and thickened utterance of the guests evinced that from the
cold<br>
properties of the claret there was but little to dread. As for
Mr. Bodkin,<br>
his manner was incapable of any higher flight, when under the
influence of<br>
whiskey, than what it evinced on common occasions; and as he sat
at the end<br>
of the table fronting Mr. Blake, he assumed all the dignity of
the ruler of<br>
the feast, with an energy no one seemed disposed to question. In
answer to<br>
some observations of Sir George, he was led into something like
an oration<br>
upon the peculiar excellences of his native country, which ended
in a<br>
declaration that there was nothing like Galway.</p>

<p>"Why don't you give us a song, Miles? And may be the general
would learn<br>
more from it than all your speech-making."</p>

<p>"To be sure," cried the several voices together,&mdash;"to be sure;
let us hear<br>
the 'Man for Galway'!"</p>

<p>Sir George having joined most warmly in the request, Mr.
Bodkin filled up<br>
his glass to the brim, bespoke a chorus to his chant, and
clearing his<br>
voice with a deep hem, began the following ditty, to the air
which Moore<br>
has since rendered immortal by the beautiful song, "Wreath the
Bowl," etc.<br>
And, although the words are well known in the west, for the
information of<br>
less-favored regions, I here transcribe&mdash;</p>

<p>                 THE MAN FOR GALWAY.</p>

<p>              To drink a toast,<br>
              A proctor roast,<br>
                Or bailiff as the case is;<br>
              To kiss your wife,<br>
              Or take your life<br>
                At ten or fifteen paces;<br>
              To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,<br>
                To drink in punch the Solway,<br>
              With debts galore, but fun far more,&mdash;<br>
                Oh, that's "the man for Galway."<br>
                          CHORUS: With debts, etc.</p>

<p>              The King of Oude<br>
              Is mighty proud,<br>
                And so were onst the <i>Caysars</i>;<br>
              But ould Giles Eyre<br>
              Would make them stare,<br>
                Av he had them with the Blazers.<br>
              To the devil I fling&mdash;ould Runjeet Sing,<br>
                He's only a prince in a small way,<br>
              And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall;<br>
                Oh, he'd never "do for Galway."<br>
                          CHORUS: With debts, etc.</p>

<p>              Ye think the Blakes<br>
              Are no "great shakes;"<br>
                They're all his blood relations.<br>
              And the Bodkins sneeze<br>
              At the grim Chinese,<br>
                For they come from the <i>Phenaycians</i>.<br>
              So fill the brim, and here's to him<br>
                Who'd drink in punch the Solway,<br>
              With debts galore, but fun far more,&mdash;<br>
                Oh, that's "the man for Galway."<br>
                          CHORUS: With debts, etc.</p>

<p>I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would
not be as<br>
favorable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first
heard it;<br>
for certainly the applause was almost deafening, and even Sir
George, the<br>
defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out
of his<br>
reach, was highly amused, and laughed heartily.</p>

<p>The conversation once more reverted to the election; and
although I was too<br>
far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear
much, I could<br>
catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one.
This was<br>
gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long
neglecting my<br>
uncle's cause.</p>

<p>"We have Scariff to a man," said Bodkin.</p>

<p>"And Mosey's tenantry," said another. "I swear, though there's
not a<br>
freehold registered on the estate, that they'll vote, every
mother's son<br>
of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they'll leave
standing on<br>
another."</p>

<p>"And may the Lord look to the returning officer!" said a
third, throwing up<br>
his eyes.</p>

<p>"Mosey's tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord,
more by token,<br>
they never pay any rent."</p>

<p>"And what for shouldn't they vote?" said a dry-looking little
old fellow in<br>
a red waistcoat; "when I was the dead agent&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The dead agent!" interrupted Sir George, with a start.</p>

<p>"Just so," said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles
from his<br>
forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what
he had<br>
suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.</p>

<p>"The general does not know, may be, what that is," said some
one.</p>

<p>"You have just anticipated me," said Sir George; "I really am
in most<br>
profound ignorance."</p>

<p>"It is the dead agent," says Mr. Blake, "who always provides
substitutes<br>
for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very
important<br>
fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of
this county,<br>
which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,&mdash;a
freeholder has not<br>
died in it for the last fifty years."</p>

<p>"The 'Kiltopher boys' won't come this time; they say there's
no use trying<br>
to vote when so many were transported last assizes for
perjury."</p>

<p>"They're poor-spirited creatures," said another.</p>

<p>"Not they,&mdash;they are as decent boys as any we have; they're
willing to<br>
wreck the town for fifty shillings' worth of spirits. Besides, if
they<br>
don't vote for the county, they will for the borough."</p>

<p>This declaration seemed to restore these interesting
individuals to favor;<br>
and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was
detailing the plan<br>
of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by
himself. By this<br>
time, all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given
way; whiskey<br>
was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy,
every<br>
cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and
applauded in<br>
a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable
gift of<br>
"mountain dew."</p>

<p>The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles
Bodkin, who<br>
had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a
telegraphic<br>
signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing
should<br>
prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his
hand,<br>
delivered himself as follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, no, Phil Blake, ye needn't be winkin' at me that way;
it's little I<br>
care for the spawn of the ould serpent. [Here great cheers
greeted the<br>
speaker, in which, without well knowing why, I heartily joined.]
I'm going<br>
to give a toast, boys,&mdash;a real good toast, none of your
sentimental things<br>
about wall-flowers or the vernal equinox, or that kind of thing,
but a<br>
sensible, patriotic, manly, intrepid toast,&mdash;toast you must drink
in the<br>
most universal, laborious, and awful manner: do ye see now? [Loud
cheers.]<br>
If any man of you here present doesn't drain this toast to the
bottom [here<br>
the speaker looked fixedly at me, as did the rest of the
company]&mdash;then, by<br>
the great-gun of Athlone, I'll make him eat the decanter,
glass-stopper and<br>
all, for the good of his digestion: d'ye see now?"</p>

<p>The cheering at this mild determination prevented my hearing
what followed;<br>
but the peroration consisted in a very glowing eulogy upon some
person<br>
unknown, and a speedy return to him as member for Galway. Amidst
all the<br>
noise and tumult at this critical moment, nearly every eye at the
table was<br>
turned upon me; and as I concluded that they had been drinking my
uncle's<br>
health, I thundered away at the mahogany with all my energy. At
length the<br>
hip-hipping over, and comparative quiet restored, I rose from my
seat to<br>
return thanks; but, strange enough, Sir George Dashwood did so
likewise.<br>
And there we both stood, amidst an uproar that might well have
shaken the<br>
courage of more practised orators; while from every side came
cries of<br>
"Hear, hear!"&mdash;"Go on, Sir George!"&mdash;"Speak out, General!"&mdash;"Sit
down,<br>
Charley!"&mdash;"Confound the boy!"&mdash;"Knock the legs from under him!"
etc. Not<br>
understanding why Sir George should interfere with what I
regarded as my<br>
peculiar duty, I resolved not to give way, and avowed this
determination in<br>
no very equivocal terms. "In that case," said the general, "I am
to suppose<br>
that the young gentleman moves an amendment to your proposition;
and as the<br>
etiquette is in his favor, I yield." Here he resumed his place
amidst a<br>
most terrific scene of noise and tumult, while several humane
proposals as<br>
to my treatment were made around me, and a kind suggestion thrown
out to<br>
break my neck by a near neighbor. Mr. Blake at length prevailed
upon the<br>
party to hear what I had to say,&mdash;for he was certain I should not
detain<br>
them above a minute. The commotion having in some measure
subsided, I<br>
began: "Gentlemen, as the adopted son of the worthy man whose
health you<br>
have just drunk&mdash;" Heaven knows how I should have continued; but
here my<br>
eloquence was met by such a roar of laughing as I never before
listened to.<br>
From one end of the board to the other it was one continued
shout, and went<br>
on, too, as if all the spare lungs of the party had been kept in
reserve<br>
for the occasion. I turned from one to the other; I tried to
smile, and<br>
seemed to participate in the joke, but failed; I frowned; I
looked savagely<br>
about where I could see enough to turn my wrath
thitherward,&mdash;and, as it<br>
chanced, not in vain; for Mr. Miles Bodkin, with an intuitive
perception of<br>
my wishes, most suddenly ceased his mirth, and assuming a look of
frowning<br>
defiance that had done him good service upon many former
occasions, rose<br>
and said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, sir, I hope you're proud of yourself. You've made a
nice beginning<br>
of it, and a pretty story you'll have for your uncle. But if
you'd like to<br>
break the news by a letter the general will have great pleasure
in franking<br>
it for you; for, by the rock of Cashel, we'll carry him in
against all the<br>
O'Malley's that ever cheated the sheriff."</p>

<p>Scarcely were the words uttered, when I seized my wineglass,
and hurled it<br>
with all my force at his head; so sudden was the act, and so true
the aim,<br>
that Mr. Bodkin measured his length upon the floor ere his
friends could<br>
appreciate his late eloquent effusion. The scene now became
terrific;<br>
for though the redoubted Miles was <i>hors-de-combat</i>, his
friends made a<br>
tremendous rush at, and would infallibly have succeeded in
capturing me,<br>
had not Blake and four or five others interposed. Amidst a
desperate<br>
struggle, which lasted for some minutes, I was torn from the
spot, carried<br>
bodily up-stairs, and pitched headlong into my own room; where,
having<br>
doubly locked the door on the outside, they left me to my own
cool and not<br>
over-agreeable reflections.</p>

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

<p>THE FLIGHT FROM GURT-NA-MORRA.</p>

<p>It was by one of those sudden and inexplicable revulsions
which<br>
occasionally restore to sense and intellect the maniac of years
standing,<br>
that I was no sooner left alone in my chamber than I became
perfectly<br>
sober. The fumes of the wine&mdash;and I had drunk deeply&mdash;were
dissipated at<br>
once; my head, which but a moment before was half wild with
excitement, was<br>
now cool, calm, and collected; and stranger than all, I, who had
only an<br>
hour since entered the dining-room with all the unsuspecting
freshness of<br>
boyhood, became, by a mighty bound, a man,&mdash;a man in all my
feelings of<br>
responsibility, a man who, repelling an insult by an outrage, had
resolved<br>
to stake his life upon the chance. In an instant a new era in
life had<br>
opened before me; the light-headed gayety which fearlessness and
youth<br>
impart was replaced by one absorbing thought,&mdash;one
all-engrossing,<br>
all-pervading impression, that if I did not follow up my quarrel
with<br>
Bodkin, I was dishonored and disgraced, my little knowledge of
such matters<br>
not being sufficient to assure me that I was now the aggressor,
and that<br>
any further steps in the affair should come from his side.</p>

<p>So thoroughly did my own griefs occupy me, that I had no
thought for the<br>
disappointment my poor uncle was destined to meet with in hearing
that the<br>
Blake interest was lost to him, and the former breach between the
families<br>
irreparably widened by the events of the evening. Escape was my
first<br>
thought; but how to accomplish it? The door, a solid one of Irish
oak,<br>
doubly locked and bolted, defied all my efforts to break it open;
the<br>
window was at least five-and-twenty feet from the ground, and not
a tree<br>
near to swing into. I shouted, I called aloud, I opened the sash,
and tried<br>
if any one outside were within hearing; but in vain. Weary and
exhausted,<br>
I sat down upon my bed and ruminated over my fortunes.
Vengeance&mdash;quick,<br>
entire, decisive vengeance&mdash;I thirsted and panted for; and every
moment<br>
I lived under the insult inflicted on me seemed an age of
torturing and<br>
maddening agony. I rose with a leap; a thought had just occurred
to me.<br>
I drew the bed towards the window, and fastening the sheet to one
of the<br>
posts with a firm knot, I twisted it into a rope, and let myself
down to<br>
within about twelve feet of the ground, when I let go my hold,
and dropped<br>
upon the grass beneath safe and uninjured. A thin, misty rain was
falling,<br>
and I now perceived, for the first time, that in my haste I had
forgotten<br>
my hat; this thought, however, gave me little uneasiness, and I
took my way<br>
towards the stable, resolving, if I could, to saddle my horse and
get off<br>
before any intimation of my escape reached the family.</p>

<p>When I gained the yard, all was quiet and deserted; the
servants were<br>
doubtless enjoying themselves below stairs, and I met no one on
the way. I<br>
entered the stable, threw the saddle upon "Badger," and before
five minutes<br>
from my descent from the window, was galloping towards O'Malley
Castle at a<br>
pace that defied pursuit, had any one thought of it.</p>

<p>It was about five o'clock on a dark, wintry morning as I led
my horse<br>
through the well-known defiles of out-houses and stables which
formed the<br>
long line of offices to my uncle's house. As yet no one was
stirring; and<br>
as I wished to have my arrival a secret from the family,
after<br>
providing for the wants of my gallant gray, I lifted the latch of
the<br>
kitchen-door&mdash;no other fastening being ever thought necessary,
even at<br>
night&mdash;and gently groped my way towards the stairs; all was
perfectly<br>
still, and the silence now recalled me to reflection as to what
course I<br>
should pursue. It was all-important that my uncle should know
nothing of my<br>
quarrel, otherwise he would inevitably make it his own, and by
treating<br>
me like a boy in the matter, give the whole affair the very turn
I most<br>
dreaded. Then, as to Sir Harry Boyle, he would most certainly
turn the<br>
whole thing into ridicule, make a good story, perhaps a song out
of it, and<br>
laugh at my notions of demanding satisfaction. Considine, I knew,
was my<br>
man; but then he was at Athlone,&mdash;at least so my uncle's letter
mentioned.<br>
Perhaps he might have returned; if not, to Athlone I should set
off at<br>
once. So resolving, I stole noiselessly up-stairs, and reached
the door of<br>
the count's chamber; I opened it gently and entered; and though
my step<br>
was almost imperceptible to myself, it was quite sufficient to
alarm the<br>
watchful occupant of the room, who, springing up in his bed,
demanded<br>
gruffly, "Who's there?"</p>

<p>"Charles, sir," said I, shutting the door carefully, and
approaching his<br>
bedside. "Charles O'Malley, sir. I'm come to have a bit of your
advice; and<br>
as the affair won't keep, I have been obliged to disturb
you."</p>

<p>"Never mind, Charley," said the count; "sit down, there's a
chair somewhere<br>
near the bed,&mdash;have you found it? There! Well now, what is it?
What news of<br>
Blake?"</p>

<p>"Very bad; no worse. But it is not exactly <i>that</i> I came
about; I've got<br>
into a scrape, sir."</p>

<p>"Run off with one of the daughters," said Considine. "By
jingo, I knew what<br>
those artful devils would be after."</p>

<p>"Not so bad as that," said I, laughing. "It's just a row, a
kind of<br>
squabble; something that must come&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ay, ay," said the count, brightening up; "say you so,
Charley? Begad, the<br>
young ones will beat us all out of the field. Who is it
with,&mdash;not old<br>
Blake himself; how was it? Tell me all."</p>

<p>I immediately detailed the whole events of the preceding
chapter, as well<br>
as his frequent interruptions would permit, and concluded by
asking what<br>
farther step was now to be taken, as I was resolved the matter
should be<br>
concluded before it came to my uncle's ears.</p>

<p>"There you are all right; quite correct, my boy. But there are
many points<br>
I should have wished otherwise in the conduct of the affair
hitherto."</p>

<p>Conceiving that he was displeased at my petulance and
boldness, I was about<br>
to commence a kind of defence, when he added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Because, you see," said he, assuming an oracular tone of
voice, "throwing<br>
a wine-glass, with or without wine, in a man's face is merely, as
you may<br>
observe, a mark of denial and displeasure at some observation he
may have<br>
made,&mdash;not in any wise intended to injure him, further than in
the wound to<br>
his honor at being so insulted, for which, of course, he must
subsequently<br>
call you out. Whereas, Charley, in the present case, the view I
take<br>
is different; the expression of Mr. Bodkin, as regards your
uncle, was<br>
insulting to a degree,&mdash;gratuitously offensive,&mdash;and warranting a
blow.<br>
Therefore, my boy, you should, under such circumstances, have
preferred<br>
aiming at him with a decanter: a cut-glass decanter, well aimed
and low, I<br>
have seen do effective service. However, as you remark it was
your first<br>
thing of the kind, I am pleased with you&mdash;very much pleased with
you. Now,<br>
then, for the next step." So saying, he arose from his bed, and
striking a<br>
light with a tinder-box, proceeded to dress himself as leisurely
as if for<br>
a dinner party, talking all the while.</p>

<p>"I will just take Godfrey's tax-cart and the roan mare on to
Meelish, put<br>
them up at the little inn,&mdash;it is not above a mile from Bodkin's;
and I'll<br>
go over and settle the thing for you. You must stay quiet till I
come<br>
back, and not leave the house on any account. I've got a case of
old broad<br>
barrels there that will answer you beautifully; if you were
anything of<br>
a shot, I'd give you my own cross handles, but they'd only spoil
your<br>
shooting."</p>

<p>"I can hit a wine-glass in the stem at fifteen paces," said I,
rather<br>
nettled at the disparaging tone in which he spoke of my
performance.</p>

<p>"I don't care sixpence for that; the wine-glass had no pistol
in his hand.<br>
Take the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus,&mdash;no
finger on<br>
the guard there, these two on the trigger. They are not
hair-triggers; drop<br>
the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man
outside<br>
your arm,&mdash;outside, mind,&mdash;and take him in the hip, and if
anywhere higher,<br>
no matter."</p>

<p>By this time the count had completed his toilet, and taking
the small<br>
mahogany box which contained his peace-makers under his arm, led
the way<br>
towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person
stirring<br>
there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house,
was<br>
employed to run of messages from the servants, walk a stranger's
horse, or<br>
to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics
contrive always<br>
to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a
stone step<br>
formerly used for mounting, and though the day was scarcely
breaking, and<br>
the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing an
Irish song,<br>
in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between his
hands with<br>
some sand. As we came near he started up, and as he pulled off
his cap to<br>
salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the count, then at
me,<br>
then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were turned
to the<br>
brass-bound box beneath his arm,&mdash;when, as if seized with a
sudden impulse,<br>
he started on his feet, and set off towards the house with the
speed of a<br>
greyhound, not, however, before Considine's practised eye had
anticipated<br>
his plan; for throwing down the pistol-case, he dashed after him,
and in an<br>
instant had seized him by the collar.</p>

<p>"It won't do, Patsey," said the count; "you can't double on
me."</p>

<p>"Oh, Count, darlin', Mister Considine avick, don't do it,
don't now," said<br>
the poor fellow, falling on his knees, and blubbering like an
infant.</p>

<p>"Hold your tongue, you villain, or I'll cut it out of your
head," said<br>
Considine.</p>

<p>"And so I will; but don't do it, don't for the love of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Don't do what, you whimpering scoundrel? What does he think
I'll do?"</p>

<p>"Don't I know very well what you're after, what you're always
after too?<br>
Oh, wirra, wirra!" Here he wrung his hands, and swayed himself
backwards<br>
and forwards, a true picture of Irish grief.</p>

<p>"I'll stop his blubbering," said Considine, opening the box
and taking out<br>
a pistol, which he cocked leisurely, and pointed at the poor
fellow's head;<br>
"another syllable now, and I'll scatter your brains upon that
pavement."</p>

<p>"And do, and divil thank you; sure, it's your trade."</p>

<p>The coolness of the reply threw us both off our guard so
completely that we<br>
burst out into a hearty fit of laughing.</p>

<p>"Come, come," said the count, at last, "this will never do; if
he goes on<br>
this way, we'll have the whole house about us. Come, then,
harness the roan<br>
mare; and here's half a crown for you."</p>

<p>"I wouldn't touch the best piece in your purse," said the poor
boy; "sure<br>
it's blood-money, no less."</p>

<p>The words were scarcely spoken, when Considine seized him by
the collar<br>
with one hand, and by the wrist with the other, and carried him
over the<br>
yard to the stable, where, kicking open the door, he threw him on
a heap of<br>
stones, adding, "If you stir now, I'll break every bone in your
body;" a<br>
threat that seemed certainly considerably increased in its
terrors, from<br>
the rough gripe he had already experienced, for the lad rolled
himself up<br>
like a ball, and sobbed as if his heart were breaking.</p>

<p>Very few minutes sufficed us now to harness the mare in the
tax-cart, and<br>
when all was ready, Considine seized the whip, and locking the
stable-door<br>
upon Patsey, was about to get up, when a sudden thought struck
him.<br>
"Charley," said he, "that fellow will find some means to give the
alarm; we<br>
must take him with us." So saying, he opened the door, and taking
the poor<br>
fellow by the collar, flung him at my feet in the tax-cart.</p>

<p>We had already lost some time, and the roan mare was put to
her fastest<br>
speed to make up for it. Our pace became, accordingly, a sharp
one; and as<br>
the road was bad, and the tax-cart no "patent inaudible," neither
of us<br>
spoke. To me this was a great relief. The events of the last few
days had<br>
given them the semblance of years, and all the reflection I could
muster<br>
was little enough to make anything out of the chaotic
mass,&mdash;love,<br>
mischief, and misfortune,&mdash;in which I had been involved since my
leaving<br>
O'Malley Castle.</p>

<p>"Here we are, Charley," said Considine, drawing up short at
the door of a<br>
little country ale-house, or, in Irish parlance, <i>shebeen</i>,
which stood at<br>
the meeting of four bleak roads, in a wild and barren mountain
tract beside<br>
the Shannon. "Here we are, my boy! Jump out and let us be
stirring."</p>

<p>"Here, Patsey, my man," said the count, unravelling the
prostrate and<br>
doubly knotted figure at our feet; "lend a hand, Patsey." Much to
my<br>
astonishment, he obeyed the summons with alacrity, and proceeded
to<br>
unharness the mare with the greatest despatch. My attention was,
however,<br>
soon turned from him to my own more immediate concerns, and I
followed my<br>
companion into the house.</p>

<p>"Joe," said the count to the host, "is Mr. Bodkin up at the
house this<br>
morning?"</p>

<p>"He's just passed this way, sir, with Mr. Malowney of
Tillnamuck, in the<br>
gig, on their way from Mr. Blake's. They stopped here to order
horses to go<br>
over to O'Malley Castle, and the gossoon is gone to look for a
pair."</p>

<p>"All right," said Considine, and added, in a whisper, "we've
done it well,<br>
Charley, to be beforehand, or the governor would have found it
all out and<br>
taken the affair into his own hands. Now all you have to do is to
stay<br>
quietly here till I come back, which will not be above an hour at
farthest.<br>
Joe, send me the pony; keep an eye on Patsey, that he doesn't
play us a<br>
trick. The short way to Mr. Bodkin's is through Scariff. Ay, I
know it<br>
well; good-by, Charley. By the Lord, we'll pepper him!"</p>

<p>These were the last words of the worthy count as he closed the
door behind<br>
him, and left me to my own not very agreeable reflections.
Independently of<br>
my youth and perfect ignorance of the world, which left me unable
to form<br>
any correct judgment on my conduct, I knew that I had taken a
great deal<br>
of wine, and was highly excited when my unhappy collision with
Mr. Bodkin<br>
occurred. Whether, then, I had been betrayed into anything which
could<br>
fairly have provoked his insulting retort or not, I could not
remember; and<br>
now my most afflicting thought was, what opinion might be
entertained of me<br>
by those at Blake's table; and above all, what Miss Dashwood
herself would<br>
think, and what narrative of the occurrence would reach her. The
great<br>
effort of my last few days had been to stand well in her
estimation, to<br>
appear something better in feeling, something higher in
principle, than the<br>
rude and unpolished squirearchy about me; and now here was the
end of<br>
it! What would she, what could she, think, but that I was the
same<br>
punch-drinking, rowing, quarrelling bumpkin as those whom I had
so lately<br>
been carefully endeavoring to separate myself from? How I hated
myself for<br>
the excess to which passion had betrayed me, and how I detested
my opponent<br>
as the cause of all my present misery. "How very differently,"
thought<br>
I, "her friend the captain would have conducted himself. His
quiet and<br>
gentlemanly manner would have done fully as much to wipe out any
insult on<br>
his honor as I could do, and after all, would neither have
disturbed the<br>
harmony of a dinner-table, nor made himself, as I shuddered to
think I<br>
had, a subject of rebuke, if not of ridicule." These harassing,
torturing<br>
reflections continued to press on me, and I paced the room with
my hands<br>
clasped and the perspiration upon my brow. "One thing is
certain,&mdash;I can<br>
never see her again," thought I; "this disgraceful business must,
in some<br>
shape or other, become known to her, and all I have been saying
these<br>
last three days rise up in judgment against this one act, and
stamp me an<br>
impostor! I that decried&mdash;nay, derided&mdash;our false notion of
honor. Would<br>
that Considine were come! What can keep him now?" I walked to the
door; a<br>
boy belonging to the house was walking the roan before the door.
"What had,<br>
then, become of Pat?" I inquired; but no one could tell. He had
disappeared<br>
shortly after our arrival, and had not been seen afterwards. My
own<br>
thoughts were, however, too engrossing to permit me to think more
of this<br>
circumstance, and I turned again to enter the house, when I saw
Considine<br>
advancing up the road at the full speed of his pony.</p>

<p>"Out with the mare, Charley! Be alive, my boy!&mdash;all's
settled." So saying,<br>
he sprang from the pony and proceeded to harness the roan with
the greatest<br>
haste, informing me in broken sentences, as he went on with all
the<br>
arrangements.</p>

<p>"We are to cross the bridge of Portumna. They won the ground,
and it seems<br>
Bodkin likes the spot; he shot Peyton there three years ago.
Worse luck<br>
now, Charley, you know; by all the rule of chance, he can't
expect the same<br>
thing twice,&mdash;never four by honors in two deals. Didn't say that,
though. A<br>
sweet meadow, I know it well; small hillocks, like molehills; all
over it.<br>
Caught him at breakfast; I don't think he expected the message to
come from<br>
us, but said it was a very polite attention,&mdash;and so it was, you
know."</p>

<p>So he continued to ramble on as we once more took our seats in
the tax-cart<br>
and set out for the ground.</p>

<p>"What are you thinking of, Charley?" said the count, as I kept
silent for<br>
some minutes.</p>

<p>"I'm thinking, sir, if I were to kill him, what I must do
after."</p>

<p>"Right, my boy; nothing like that, but I'll settle all for
you. Upon my<br>
conscience, if it wasn't for the chance of his getting into
another quarrel<br>
and spoiling the election, I'd go back for Godfrey; he'd like to
see you<br>
break ground so prettily. And you say you're no shot?"</p>

<p>"Never could do anything with the pistol to speak of, sir,"
said I,<br>
remembering his rebuke of the morning.</p>

<p>"I don't mind that. You've a good eye; never take it off him
after you're<br>
on the ground,&mdash;follow him everywhere. Poor Callaghan, that's
gone, shot<br>
his man always that way. He had a way of looking without winking
that was<br>
very fatal at a short distance; a very good thing to learn,
Charley, when<br>
you have a little spare time."</p>

<p>Half-an-hour's sharp driving brought us to the river side,
where a boat<br>
had been provided by Considine to ferry us over. It was now about
eight<br>
o'clock, and a heavy, gloomy morning. Much rain had fallen
overnight, and<br>
the dark and lowering atmosphere seemed charged with more. The
mountains<br>
looked twice their real size, and all the shadows were increased
to<br>
an enormous extent. A very killing kind of light it was, as the
count<br>
remarked.</p>

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

<p>THE DUEL.</p>

<p>As the boatmen pulled in towards the shore we perceived, a few
hundred<br>
yards off, a group of persons standing, whom we soon recognized
as our<br>
opponents. "Charley," said the count, grasping my arm tightly, as
I stood<br>
up to spring on the land,&mdash;"Charley, although you are only a boy,
as I may<br>
say, I have no fear for your courage; but still more than that is
needful<br>
here. This Bodkin is a noted duellist, and will try to shake your
nerve.<br>
Now, mind that you take everything that happens quite with an air
of<br>
indifference; don't let him think that he has any advantage over
you, and<br>
you'll see how the tables will be turned in your favor."</p>

<p>"Trust to me, Count" said I; "I'll not disgrace you."</p>

<p>He pressed my hand tightly, and I thought that I discerned
something like<br>
a slight twitch about the corners of his grim mouth, as if some
sudden and<br>
painful thought had shot across his mind; but in a moment he was
calm, and<br>
stern-looking as ever.</p>

<p>"Twenty minutes late, Mr. Considine," said a short, red-faced
little<br>
man, with a military frock and foraging cap, as he held out his
watch in<br>
evidence.</p>

<p>"I can only say, Captain Malowney, that we lost no time since
we parted. We<br>
had some difficulty in finding a boat; but in any case, we are
here <i>now</i>,<br>
and that, I opine, is the important part of the matter."</p>

<p>"Quite right,&mdash;very just indeed. Will you present me to your
young friend.<br>
Very proud to make your acquaintance, sir; your uncle and I met
more than<br>
once in this kind of way. I was out with him in '92,&mdash;was it? no,
I think<br>
it was '93,&mdash;when he shot Harry Burgoyne, who, by-the-bye, was
called the<br>
crack shot of our mess; but, begad, your uncle knocked his pistol
hand to<br>
shivers, saying, in his dry way, 'He must try the left hand this
morning.'<br>
Count, a little this side, if you please."</p>

<p>While Considine and the captain walked a few paces apart from
where I<br>
stood, I had leisure to observe my antagonist, who stood among a
group of<br>
his friends, talking and laughing away in great spirits. As the
tone they<br>
spoke in was not of the lowest, I could catch much of their
conversation at<br>
the distance I was from them. They were discussing the last
occasion that<br>
Bodkin had visited this spot, and talking of the fatal event
which happened<br>
then.</p>

<p>"Poor devil," said Bodkin, "it wasn't his fault; but you see
some of the<br>
&mdash;th had been showing white feathers before that, and he was
obliged to go<br>
out. In fact, the colonel himself said, 'Fight, or leave the
corps.' Well,<br>
out he came; it was a cold morning in February, with a frost the
night<br>
before going off in a thin rain. Well, it seems he had the
consumption or<br>
something of that sort, with a great cough and spitting of blood,
and this<br>
weather made him worse; and he was very weak when he came to the
ground.<br>
Now, the moment I got a glimpse of him, I said to myself, 'He's
pluck<br>
enough, but as nervous as a lady;' for his eye wandered all
about, and his<br>
mouth was constantly twitching. 'Take off your great-coat, Ned,'
said one<br>
of his people, when they were going to put him up; 'take it off,
man.' He<br>
seemed to hesitate for an instant, when Michael Blake remarked,
'Arrah, let<br>
him alone; it's his mother makes him wear it, for the cold he
has.' They<br>
all began to laugh at this; but I kept my eye upon him, and I saw
that his<br>
cheek grew quite livid and a kind of gray color, and his eyes
filled up. 'I<br>
have you now,' said I to myself, and I shot him through the
lung."</p>

<p>"And this poor fellow," thought I, "was the only son of a
widowed mother."<br>
I walked from the spot to avoid hearing further, and felt, as I
did so,<br>
something like a spirit of vengeance rising within me, for the
fate of one<br>
so untimely cut off.</p>

<p>"Here we are, all ready," said Malowney, springing over a
small fence into<br>
the adjoining field. "Take your ground, gentlemen."</p>

<p>Considine took my arm and walked forward. "Charley," said he,
"I am to give<br>
the signal; I'll drop my glove when you are to fire, but don't
look at me<br>
at all. I'll manage to catch Bodkin's eye; and do you watch him
steadily,<br>
and fire when he does."</p>

<p>"I think that the ground we are leaving behind us is rather
better," said<br>
some one.</p>

<p>"So it is," said Bodkin; "but it might be troublesome to carry
the young<br>
gentleman down that way,&mdash;here all is fair and easy."</p>

<p>The next instant we were placed; and I well remember the first
thought that<br>
struck me was, that there could be no chance of either of us
escaping.</p>

<p>"Now then," said the count, "I'll walk twelve paces, turn and
drop this<br>
glove; at which signal you fire, and <i>together</i> mind. The
man who reserves<br>
his shot falls by my hand." This very summary denunciation seemed
to meet<br>
general approbation, and the count strutted forth.
Notwithstanding the<br>
advice of my friend, I could not help turning my eyes from Bodkin
to watch<br>
the retiring figure of the count. At length he stopped; a second
or two<br>
elapsed; he wheeled rapidly round, and let fall the glove. My eye
glanced<br>
towards my opponent; I raised my pistol and fired. My hat turned
half round<br>
upon my head, and Bodkin fell motionless to the earth. I saw the
people<br>
around me rush forward; I caught two or three glances thrown at
me with an<br>
expression of revengeful passion; I felt some one grasp me round
the waist,<br>
and hurry me from the spot; and it was at least ten minutes
after, as we<br>
were skimming the surface of the broad Shannon, before I could
well collect<br>
my scattered faculties to remember all that was passing, as
Considine,<br>
pointing to the two bullet-holes in my hat, remarked, "Sharp
practice,<br>
Charley; it was the overcharge saved you."</p>

<p>"Is he killed, sir?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Not quite, I believe, but as good. You took him just above
the hip."</p>

<p>"Can he recover?" said I, with a voice tremulous from
agitation, which I<br>
vainly endeavored to conceal from my companion.</p>

<p>"Not if the doctor can help it," said Considine; "for the fool
keeps poking<br>
about for the ball. But now let's think of the next step,&mdash;you'll
have to<br>
leave this, and at once, too."</p>

<p>Little more passed between us. As we rowed towards the shore,
Considine<br>
was following up his reflections, and I had mine,&mdash;alas! too many
and too<br>
bitter to escape from.</p>

<p>As we neared the land a strange spectacle caught our eye. For
a<br>
considerable distance along the coast crowds of country people
were<br>
assembled, who, forming in groups and breaking into parties of
two and<br>
three, were evidently watching with great anxiety what was taking
place at<br>
the opposite side. Now, the distance was at least a mile, and
therefore any<br>
part of the transaction which had been enacting there must have
been quite<br>
beyond their view. While I was wondering at this, Considine cried
out<br>
suddenly, "Too infamous, by Jove! We're murdered men!"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" said I.</p>

<p>"Don't you see that?" said he, pointing to something black
which floated<br>
from a pole at the opposite side of the river.</p>

<p>"Yes; what is it?"</p>

<p>"It's his coat they've put upon an oar to show the people
he's<br>
killed,&mdash;that's all. Every man here's his tenant; and
look&mdash;there! They're<br>
not giving us much doubt as to their intention."</p>

<p>Here a tremendous yell burst forth from the mass of people
along the shore,<br>
which rising to a terrific cry sunk gradually down to a low
wailing, then<br>
rose and fell again several times as the Irish death-cry filled
the air and<br>
rose to Heaven, as if imploring vengeance on a murderer.</p>

<p>The appalling influence of the <i>keen</i>, as it is called,
had been familiar<br>
to me from my infancy; but it needed the awful situation I was
placed in to<br>
consummate its horrors. It was at once my accusation and my doom.
I knew<br>
well&mdash;none better&mdash;the vengeful character of the Irish peasant of
the west,<br>
and that my death was certain I had no doubt. The very crime that
sat upon<br>
my heart quailed its courage and unnerved my arm. As the
boatmen<br>
looked from us towards the shore and again at our faces, they, as
if<br>
instinctively, lay upon their oars, and waited for our decision
as to what<br>
course to pursue.</p>

<p>"Rig the spritsail, my boys," said Considine, "and let her
head lie up the<br>
river; and be alive, for I see they're bailing a boat below the
little reef<br>
there, and will be after us in no time."</p>

<p>The poor fellows, who, although strangers to us, sympathizing
in what they<br>
perceived to be our imminent danger, stepped the light spar which
acted<br>
as mast, and shook out their scanty rag of canvas in a minute.
Considine<br>
meanwhile went aft, and steadying her head with an oar, held the
small<br>
craft up to the wind till she lay completely over, and as she
rushed<br>
through the water, ran dipping her gun-wale through the white
foam.</p>

<p>"Where can we make without tacking, boys?" inquired the
count.</p>

<p>"If it blows on as fresh, sir, we'll run you ashore within
half a mile of<br>
the Castle."</p>

<p>"Put an oar to leeward," said Considine, "and keep her up more
to the wind,<br>
and I promise you, my lads, you will not go home fresh and
fasting if you<br>
land us where you say."</p>

<p>"Here they come," said the other boatman, as he pointed back
with his<br>
finger towards a large yawl which shot suddenly from the shore,
with six<br>
sturdy fellows pulling at their oars, while three or four others
were<br>
endeavoring to get up their rigging, which appeared tangled and
confused at<br>
the bottom of the boat; the white splash of water which fell each
moment<br>
beside her showing that the process of bailing was still
continued.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, may I never&mdash;av it isn't the ould 'Dolphin' they
have launched<br>
for the cruise," said one of our fellows.</p>

<p>"What's the 'Dolphin,' then?"</p>

<p>"An ould boat of the Lord's [Lord Clanricarde's] that didn't
see water,<br>
except when it rained, these four years, and is sun-cracked from
stem to<br>
stern."</p>

<p>"She can sail, however," said Considine, who watched with a
painful anxiety<br>
the rapidity of her course through the water.</p>

<p>"Nabocklish, she was a smuggler's jolly-boat, and well used to
it. Look<br>
how they're pulling. God pardon them, but they're in no blessed
humor this<br>
morning."</p>

<p>"Lay out upon your oars, boys; the wind's failing us," cried
the count, as<br>
the sail flapped lazily against the mast.</p>

<p>"It's no use, yer honor," said the elder. "We'll be only
breaking our<br>
hearts to no purpose. They're sure to catch us."</p>

<p>"Do as I bade you, at all events. What's that ahead of us
there?"</p>

<p>"The Oat Rock, sir. A vessel with grain struck there and went
down with<br>
all aboard, four years last winter. There's no channel between it
and the<br>
shore,&mdash;all sunk rocks, every inch of it. There's the
breeze."</p>

<p>The canvas fell over as he spoke, and the little craft lay
down to it till<br>
the foaming water bubbled over her lee bow.</p>

<p>"Keep her head up, sir; higher&mdash;higher still."</p>

<p>But Considine little heeded the direction, steering straight
for the narrow<br>
channel the man alluded to.</p>

<p>"Tear and ages, but you're going right for the cloch na
quirka!"</p>

<p>"Arrah, an' the devil a taste I'll be drowned for your
devarsion!" said the<br>
other, springing up.</p>

<p>"Sit down there, and be still," roared Considine, as he drew a
pistol from<br>
the case at his feet, "if you don't want some leaden ballast to
keep you<br>
so! Here, Charley, take this, and if that fellow stirs hand or
foot&mdash;you<br>
understand me."</p>

<p>The two men sat sulkily in the bottom of the boat, which now
was actually<br>
flying through the water. Considine's object was a clear one. He
saw that<br>
in sailing we were greatly overmatched, and that our only chance
lay in<br>
reaching the narrow and dangerous channel between Oat Rock and
the shore,<br>
by which we should distance the pursuit, the long reef of rocks
that ran<br>
out beyond requiring a wide berth to escape from. Nothing but the
danger<br>
behind us could warrant so rash a daring. The whole channel was
dotted with<br>
patches of white and breaking foam,&mdash;the sure evidence of the
mischief<br>
beneath,&mdash;while here and there a dash of spurting spray flew up
from the<br>
dark water, where some cleft rock lay hid below the flood. Escape
seemed<br>
impossible; but who would not have preferred even so slender a
chance with<br>
so frightful an alternative behind him? As if to add terror to
the scene,<br>
Considine had scarcely turned the boat ahead of the channel when
a<br>
tremendous blackness spread over all around, the thunder pealed
forth, and<br>
amidst the crashing of the hail and the bright glare of lightning
a squall<br>
struck us and laid us nearly keel uppermost for several minutes.
I well<br>
remember we rushed through the dark and blackened water, our
little craft<br>
more than half filled, the oars floating off to leeward, and we
ourselves<br>
kneeling on the bottom planks for safety. Roll after roll of loud
thunder<br>
broke, as it were, just above our heads; while in the swift
dashing rain<br>
that seemed to hiss around us every object was hidden, and even
the other<br>
boat was lost to our view. The two poor fellows&mdash;I shall never
forget their<br>
expression. One, a devout Catholic, had placed a little leaden
image of a<br>
saint before him in the bow, and implored its intercession with a
torturing<br>
agony of suspense that wrung my very heart. The other, apparently
less<br>
alive to such consolations as his Church afforded, remained with
his hands<br>
clasped, his mouth compressed, his brows knitted, and his dark
eyes bent<br>
upon me with the fierce hatred of a deadly enemy; his eyes were
sunken and<br>
bloodshot, and all told of some dreadful conflict within. The
wild ferocity<br>
of his look fascinated my gaze, and amidst all the terrors of the
scene I<br>
could not look from him. As I gazed, a second and more awful
squall struck<br>
the boat; the mast went over, and with a loud report like a
pistol-shot<br>
smashed at the thwart and fell over, trailing the sail along the
milky sea<br>
behind us. Meanwhile the water rushed clean over us, and the boat
seemed<br>
settling. At this dreadful moment the sailor's eye was bent upon
me, his<br>
lips parted, and he muttered, as if to himself, "This it is to go
to sea<br>
with a murderer." Oh, God! the agony of that moment! the
heartfelt and<br>
accusing conscience that I was judged and doomed! that the brand
of Cain<br>
was upon my brow! that my fellow-men had ceased forever to regard
me as a<br>
brother! that I was an outcast and a wanderer forever! I bent
forward till<br>
my forehead fell upon my knees, and I wept. Meanwhile the boat
flew through<br>
the water, and Considine, who alone among us seemed not to lose
his<br>
presence of mind, cut away the mast and sent it overboard. The
storm began<br>
now to abate; and as the black mass of cloud broke from around us
we beheld<br>
the other boat, also dismasted, far behind us, while all on board
of<br>
her were employed in bailing out the water with which she seemed
almost<br>
sinking. The curtain of mist that had hidden us from each other
no sooner<br>
broke than they ceased their labors for a moment, and looking
towards us,<br>
burst forth into a yell so wild, so savage, so dreadful, my very
heart<br>
quailed as its cadence fell upon my ear.</p>

<p>"Safe, my boy," said Considine, clapping me on the shoulder,
as he steered<br>
the boat forth from its narrow path of danger, and once more
reached the<br>
broad Shannon,&mdash;"safe, Charley; though we've had a brush for it."
In a<br>
minute more we reached the land, and drawing our gallant little
craft on<br>
shore, set out for O'Malley Castle.</p>

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

<p>THE RETURN.</p>

<p>O'Malley Castle lay about four miles from the spot we landed
at, and<br>
thither accordingly we bent our steps without loss of time. We
had not,<br>
however, proceeded far, when, before us on the road, we perceived
a mixed<br>
assemblage of horse and foot, hurrying along at a tremendous
rate. The mob,<br>
which consisted of some hundred country people, were armed with
sticks,<br>
scythes, and pitchforks, and although not preserving any very
military<br>
aspect in their order of march, were still a force quite
formidable enough<br>
to make us call a halt, and deliberate upon what we were to
do.</p>

<p>"They've outflanked us, Charley," said Considine; "however,
all is not yet<br>
lost. But see, they've got sight of us; here they come."</p>

<p>At these words, the vast mass before us came pouring along,
splashing the<br>
mud on every side, and huzzaing like so many Indians. In the
front ran a<br>
bare-legged boy, waving his cap to encourage the rest, who
followed him at<br>
about fifty yards behind.</p>

<p>"Leave that fellow for me," said the count, coolly examining
the lock of<br>
his pistol; "I'll pick him out, and load again in time for his
friends'<br>
arrival. Charley, is that a gentleman I see far back in the
crowd? Yes,<br>
to be sure it is? He's on a large horse&mdash;now he's pressing
forward; so<br>
let&mdash;no&mdash;oh&mdash;ay, it's Godfrey O'Malley himself, and these are our
own<br>
people." Scarcely were the words out when a tremendous cheer
arose from<br>
the multitude, who, recognizing us at the same instant, sprang
from their<br>
horses and ran forward to welcome us. Among the foremost was the
scarecrow<br>
leader, whom I at once perceived as poor Patsey, who, escaping in
the<br>
morning, had returned at full speed to O'Malley Castle, and
raised the<br>
whole country to my rescue. Before I could address one word to my
faithful<br>
followers I was in my uncle's arms.</p>

<p>"Safe, my boy, quite safe?"</p>

<p>"Quite safe, sir."</p>

<p>"No scratch anywhere?"</p>

<p>"Nothing but a hat the worse, sir," said I, showing the two
bullet-holes in<br>
my headpiece.</p>

<p>His lip quivered as he turned and whispered something into
Considine's ear,<br>
which I heard not; but the count's reply was, "Devil a bit, as
cool as you<br>
see him this minute."</p>

<p>"And Bodkin, what of him?"</p>

<p>"This day's work's his last," said Considine; "the ball
entered here. But<br>
come along, Godfrey; Charley's new at this kind of thing, and we
had better<br>
discuss matters in the house."</p>

<p>Half-an-hour's brisk trot&mdash;for we were soon supplied with
horses&mdash;brought<br>
us back to the Castle, much to the disappointment of our cortege,
who had<br>
been promised a <i>scrimmage</i>, and went back in very ill-humor
at the breach<br>
of contract.</p>

<p>The breakfast-room, as we entered, was filled with my uncle's
supporters,<br>
all busily engaged over poll-books and booth tallies, in
preparation for<br>
the eventful day of battle. These, however, were immediately
thrown aside<br>
to hasten round me and inquire all the details of my duel.
Considine,<br>
happily for me, however, assumed all the dignity of an historian,
and<br>
recounted the events of the morning so much to my honor and
glory, that I,<br>
who only a little before felt crushed and bowed down by the
misery of my<br>
late duel, began, amidst the warm congratulations and eulogiums
about me,<br>
to think I was no small hero, and in fact, something very much
resembling<br>
"the man for Galway." To this feeling a circumstance that
followed assisted<br>
in contributing. While we were eagerly discussing the various
results<br>
likely to arise from the meeting, a horse galloped rapidly to the
door and<br>
a loud voice called out, "I can't get off, but tell him to come
here." We<br>
rushed out and beheld Captain Malowney, Mr. Bodkin's second,
covered with<br>
mud from head to foot, and his horse reeking with foam and sweat.
"I am<br>
hurrying on to Athlone for another doctor; but I've called to
tell you<br>
that the wound is not supposed to be mortal,&mdash;he may recover
yet." Without<br>
waiting for another word, he dashed spurs into his nag and
rattled down the<br>
avenue at full gallop. Mr. Bodkin's dearest friend on earth could
not have<br>
received the intelligence with more delight; and I now began to
listen to<br>
the congratulations of my friends with a more tranquil spirit. My
uncle,<br>
too, seemed much relieved by the information, and heard with
great good<br>
temper my narrative of the few days at Gurt-na-Morra. "So then,"
said he,<br>
as I concluded, "my opponent is at least a gentleman; that is a
comfort."</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood," said I, "from all I have seen, is a
remarkably nice<br>
person, and I am certain you will meet with only the fair and
legitimate<br>
opposition of an opposing candidate in him,&mdash;no mean or
unmanly<br>
subterfuge."</p>

<p>"All right, Charley. Well, now, your affair of this morning
must keep you<br>
quiet for a few days, come what will; by Monday next, when the
election<br>
takes place, Bodkin's fate will be pretty clear, one way or the
other, and<br>
if matters go well, you can come into town; otherwise, I have
arranged with<br>
Considine to take you over to the Continent for a year or so; but
we'll<br>
discuss all this in the evening. Now I must start on a canvass.
Boyle<br>
expects to meet you at dinner to-day; he is coming from Athlone
on purpose.<br>
Now, good-by!"</p>

<p>When my uncle had gone, I sank into a chair and fell into a
musing fit over<br>
all the changes a few hours had wrought in me. From a mere boy
whose most<br>
serious employment was stocking the house with game or inspecting
the<br>
kennel, I had sprung at once into man's estate, was complimented
for my<br>
coolness, praised for my prowess, lauded for my discretion, by
those<br>
who were my seniors by nearly half a century; talked to in a tone
of<br>
confidential intimacy by my uncle, and, in a word, treated in all
respects<br>
as an equal,&mdash;and such was all the work of a few hours. But so it
is; the<br>
eras in life are separated by a narrow boundary,&mdash;some trifling
accident,<br>
some casual <i>rencontre</i> impels us across the Rubicon, and we
pass from<br>
infancy to youth, from youth to manhood, from manhood to age,
less by<br>
the slow and imperceptible step of time than by some one decisive
act<br>
or passion which, occurring at a critical moment, elicits a long
latent<br>
feeling, and impresses our existence with a color that tinges us
for many<br>
a long year. As for me, I had cut the tie which bound me to the
careless<br>
gayety of boyhood with a rude gash. In three short days I had
fallen<br>
deeply, desperately in love, and had wounded, if not killed, an
antagonist<br>
in a duel. As I meditated on these things, I was aroused by the
noise of<br>
horses' feet in the yard beneath. I opened the window and beheld
no less a<br>
person than Captain Hammersley. He was handing a card to a
servant, which<br>
he was accompanying by a verbal message; the impression of
something like<br>
hostility on the part of the captain had never left my mind, and
I hastened<br>
down-stairs just in time to catch him as he turned from the
door.</p>

<p>"Ah, Mr. O'Malley!" said he, in a most courteous tone. "They
told me you<br>
were not at home."</p>

<p>I apologized for the blunder, and begged of him to alight and
come in.</p>

<p>"I thank you very much, but, in fact, my hours are now
numbered here. I<br>
have just received an order to join my regiment; we have been
ordered for<br>
service, and Sir George has most kindly permitted my giving up my
staff<br>
appointment. I could not, however, leave the country without
shaking hands<br>
with you. I owe you a lesson in horsemanship, and I'm only sorry
that we<br>
are not to have another day together."</p>

<p>"Then you are going out to the Peninsula?" said I.</p>

<p>"Why, we hope so; the commander-in-chief, they say, is in
great want of<br>
cavalry, and we scarcely less in want of something to do. I'm
sorry you are<br>
not coming with us."</p>

<p>"Would to Heaven I were!" said I, with an earnestness that
almost made my<br>
brain start.</p>

<p>"Then, why not?"</p>

<p>"Unfortunately, I am peculiarly situated. My worthy uncle, who
is all to me<br>
in this world, would be quite alone if I were to leave him; and
although he<br>
has never said so, I know he dreads the possibility of my
suggesting such<br>
a thing to him: so that, between his fears and mine, the matter
is never<br>
broached by either party, nor do I think ever can be."</p>

<p>"Devilish hard&mdash;but I believe you are right; something,
however, may turn<br>
up yet to alter his mind, and if so, and if you do take to
dragooning,<br>
don't forget George Hammersley will be always most delighted to
meet you;<br>
and so good-by, O'Malley, good-by."</p>

<p>He turned his horse's head and was already some paces off,
when he returned<br>
to my side, and in a lower tone of voice said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I ought to mention to you that there has been much discussion
on your<br>
affair at Blake's table, and only one opinion on the matter among
all<br>
parties,&mdash;that you acted perfectly right. Sir George
Dashwood,&mdash;no mean<br>
judge of such things,&mdash;quite approves of your conduct, and, I
believe,<br>
wishes you to know as much; and now, once more, good-by."</p>

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

<p>THE ELECTION.</p>

<p>The important morning at length arrived, and as I looked from
my bed-room<br>
window at daybreak, the crowd of carriages of all sorts and
shapes<br>
decorated with banners and placards; the incessant bustle; the
hurrying<br>
hither and thither; the cheering as each new detachment of voters
came up,<br>
mounted on jaunting-cars, or on horses whose whole caparison
consisted in<br>
a straw rope for a bridle, and a saddle of the same frail
material,&mdash;all<br>
informed me that the election day was come. I lost no further
time, but<br>
proceeded to dress with all possible despatch. When I appeared in
the<br>
breakfast-room, it was already filled with some seventy or eighty
persons<br>
of all ranks and ages, mingled confusedly together, and enjoying
the<br>
hospitable fare of my uncle's house, while they discussed all the
details<br>
and prospects of the election. In the hall, the library, the
large<br>
drawing-room, too, similar parties were also assembled, and as
newcomers<br>
arrived, the servants were busy in preparing tables before the
door and up<br>
the large terrace that ran the entire length of the building.
Nothing could<br>
be more amusing than the incongruous mixture of the guests, who,
with every<br>
variety of eatable that chance or inclination provided, were thus
thrown<br>
into close contact, having only this in common,&mdash;the success of
the cause<br>
they were engaged in. Here was the old Galway squire, with an
ancestry that<br>
reached to Noah, sitting side by side with the poor cotter, whose
whole<br>
earthly possession was what, in Irish phrase, is called a
"potato<br>
garden,"&mdash;meaning the exactly smallest possible patch of ground
out of<br>
which a very Indian-rubber conscience could presume to vote. Here
sat the<br>
old simple-minded, farmer-like man, in close conversation with a
little<br>
white-foreheaded, keen-eyed personage, in a black coat and
eye-glass,&mdash;a<br>
flash attorney from Dublin, learned in flaws of the registry, and
deep in<br>
the subtleties of election law. There was an Athlone
horse-dealer, whose<br>
habitual daily practices in imposing the halt, the lame, and the
blind upon<br>
the unsuspecting, for beasts of blood and mettle, well qualified
him for<br>
the trickery of a county contest. Then there were scores of
squireen<br>
gentry, easily recognized on common occasions by a green coat,
brass<br>
buttons, dirty cords, and dirtier top-boots, a lash-whip, and a
half-bred<br>
fox-hound; but now, fresh-washed for the day, they presented
something the<br>
appearance of a swell mob, adjusted to the meridian of Galway. A
mass of<br>
frieze-coated, brow-faced, bullet-headed peasantry filled up the
large<br>
spaces, dotted here and there with a sleek, roguish-eyed priest,
or some<br>
low electioneering agent detailing, for the amusement of the
company, some<br>
of those cunning practices of former times which if known to the
proper<br>
authorities would in all likelihood cause the talented narrator
to be<br>
improving the soil of Sidney, or fishing on the banks of the Swan
river;<br>
while at the head and foot of each table sat some personal friend
of my<br>
uncle, whose ready tongue, and still readier pistol, made him a
personage<br>
of some consequence, not more to his own people than to the
enemy. While of<br>
such material were the company, the fare before them was no less
varied:<br>
here some rubicund squire was deep in amalgamating the contents
of a<br>
venison pasty with some of Sneyd's oldest claret; his neighbor,
less<br>
ambitious, and less erudite in such matters, was devouring
rashers of<br>
bacon, with liberal potations of potteen; some pale-cheeked scion
of the<br>
law, with all the dust of the Four Courts in his throat, was
sipping<br>
his humble beverage of black tea beside four sturdy
cattle-dealers from<br>
Ballinasloe, who were discussing hot whiskey punch and
<i>spoleaion</i> (boiled<br>
beef) at the very primitive hour of eight in the morning. Amidst
the clank<br>
of decanters, the crash of knives and plates, and the jingling of
glasses,<br>
the laughter and voices of the guests were audibly increasing;
and the<br>
various modes of "running a buck" (<i>Anglic&eacute;</i>,
substituting a vote), or<br>
hunting a badger, were talked over on all sides, while the price
of a<br>
<i>veal</i> (a calf), or a voter, was disputed with all the
energy of debate.</p>

<p>Refusing many an offered place, I went through the different
rooms in<br>
search of Considine, to whom circumstances of late had somehow
greatly<br>
attached me.</p>

<p>"Here, Charley," cried a voice I was very familiar
with,&mdash;"here's a place<br>
I've been keeping for you."</p>

<p>"Ah, Sir Harry, how do you do? Any of that grouse-pie to
spare?"</p>

<p>"Abundance, my boy; but I'm afraid I can't say as much for the
liquor.<br>
I have been shouting for claret this half-hour in vain,&mdash;do get
us some<br>
nutriment down here, and the Lord will reward you. What a pity it
is," he<br>
added, in a lower tone, to his neighbor&mdash;"what a pity a
quart-bottle won't<br>
hold a quart; but I'll bring it before the House one of these
days." That<br>
he kept his word in this respect, a motion on the books of the
Honorable<br>
House will bear me witness.</p>

<p>"Is this it?" said he, turning towards a farmer-like old man,
who had put<br>
some question to him across the table; "is it the apple-pie
you'll have?"</p>

<p>"Many thanks to your honor,&mdash;I'd like it, av it was
wholesome."</p>

<p>"And why shouldn't it be wholesome?" said Sir Harry.</p>

<p>"Troth, then, myself does not know; but my father, I heerd
tell, died of an<br>
apple-plexy, and I'm afeerd of it."</p>

<p>I at length found Considine, and learned that, as a very good
account of<br>
Bodkin had arrived, there was no reason why I should not proceed
to the<br>
hustings; but I was secretly charged not to take any prominent
part in the<br>
day's proceedings. My uncle I only saw for an instant,&mdash;he begged
me to<br>
be careful, avoid all scrapes, and not to quit Considine. It was
past ten<br>
o'clock when our formidable procession got under way, and headed
towards<br>
the town of Galway. The road was, for miles, crowded with our
followers;<br>
banners flying and music playing, we presented something of the
spectacle<br>
of a very ragged army on its march. At every cross-road a
mountain-path<br>
reinforcement awaited us, and as we wended along, our numbers
were<br>
momentarily increasing; here and there along the line, some
energetic<br>
and not over-sober adherent was regaling his auditory with a
speech in<br>
laudation of the O'Malleys since the days of Moses, and more than
one<br>
priest was heard threatening the terrors of his Church in aid of
a cause<br>
to whose success he was pledged and bound. I rode beside the
count, who,<br>
surrounded by a group of choice spirits, recounted the various
happy<br>
inventions by which he had, on divers occasions, substituted a
personal<br>
quarrel for a contest. Boyle also contributed his share of
election<br>
anecdote, and one incident he related, which, I remember, amused
me much at<br>
the time.</p>

<a name="0091"></a>
<img alt="0091.jpg (116K)" src="0091.jpg" height="523" width="645">

<p>[THE ELECTION.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Do you remember Billy Calvert, that came down to contest
Kilkenny?"<br>
inquired Sir Harry.</p>

<p>"What, ever forget him!" said Considine, "with his
well-powdered wig and<br>
his hessians. There never was his equal for lace ruffles and
rings."</p>

<p>"You never heard, may be, how he lost the election?"</p>

<p>"He resigned, I believe, or something of that sort."</p>

<p>"No, no," said another; "he never came forward at all. There's
some secret<br>
in it; for Tom Butler was elected without a contest."</p>

<p>"Jack, I'll tell you how it happened. I was on my way up from
Cork, having<br>
finished my own business, and just carried the day, not without a
push for<br>
it. When we reached,&mdash;Lady Mary was with me,&mdash;when we reached
Kilkenny, the<br>
night before the election, I was not ten minutes in town till
Butler<br>
heard of it, and sent off express to see me; I was at my dinner
when the<br>
messenger came, and promised to go over when I'd done. But faith,
Tom<br>
didn't wait, but came rushing up-stairs himself, and dashed into
the room<br>
in the greatest hurry.</p>

<p>"'Harry,' says he, 'I'm done for; the corporation of free
smiths, that were<br>
always above bribery, having voted for myself and my father
before, for<br>
four pounds ten a man, won't come forward under six guineas and
whiskey.<br>
Calvert has the money; they know it. The devil a farthing we
have; and<br>
we've been paying all our fellows that can't read in Hennesy's
notes, and<br>
you know the bank's broke this three weeks.'</p>

<p>"On he went, giving me a most disastrous picture of his cause,
and<br>
concluded by asking if I could suggest anything under the
circumstances.</p>

<p>"'You couldn't get a decent mob and clear the poll?'</p>

<p>"'I am afraid not,' said he, despondingly.</p>

<p>"'Then I don't see what's to be done, if you can't pick a
fight with<br>
himself. Will he go out?'</p>

<p>"'Lord knows! They say he's so afraid of that, that it has
prevented him<br>
coming down till the very day. But he is arrived now; he came in
the<br>
evening, and is stopping at Walsh's in Patrick Street.'</p>

<p>"'Then I'll see what can be done,' said I.</p>

<p>"'Is that Calvert, the little man that blushes when the
Lady-Lieutenant<br>
speaks to him?' said Lady Mary.</p>

<p>"'The very man.'</p>

<p>"'Would it be of any use to you if he could not come on the
hustings<br>
to-morrow?' said she, again.</p>

<p>"''Twould gain us the day. Half the voters don't believe he's
here at all,<br>
and his chief agent cheated all the people on the last election;
and if<br>
Calvert didn't appear, he wouldn't have ten votes to register.
But why do<br>
you ask?'</p>

<p>"'Why, that, if you like, I'll bet you a pair of diamond
ear-rings he<br>
sha'n't show.'</p>

<p>"'Done!' said Butler. 'And I promise a necklace into the
bargain, if you<br>
win; but I'm afraid you're only quizzing me.'</p>

<p>"'Here's my hand on it,' said she. 'And now let's talk of
something else.'"</p>

<p>As Lady Mary never asked my assistance, and as I knew she was
very well<br>
able to perform whatever she undertook, you may be sure I gave
myself very<br>
little trouble about the whole affair; and when they came, I went
off to<br>
breakfast with Tom's committee, not knowing anything that was to
be done.</p>

<p>Calvert had given orders that he was to be called at eight
o'clock, and so<br>
a few minutes before that time a gentle knock came to the
door.</p>

<p>'Come in,' said he, thinking it was the waiter, and covering
himself up in<br>
the clothes; for he was the most bashful creature ever was
seen,&mdash;'come<br>
in.'</p>

<p>The door opened, and what was his horror to find that a lady
entered in her<br>
dressing-gown, her hair on her shoulders, very much tossed and
dishevelled.<br>
The moment she came in, she closed the door and locked it, and
then sat<br>
leisurely down upon a chair.</p>

<p>Billy's teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled; for this was
an adventure<br>
of a very novel kind for him. At last he took courage to
speak.</p>

<p>'I am afraid, madam,' said he, 'that you are under some
unhappy mistake,<br>
and that you suppose this chamber is&mdash;'</p>

<p>'Mr. Calvert's,' said the lady, with a solemn voice, 'is it
not?'</p>

<p>'Yes, madam, I am that person.'</p>

<p>'Thank God!' said the lady, with a very impressive tone. 'Here
I am safe.'</p>

<p>Billy grew very much puzzled at these words; but hoping that
by his silence<br>
the lady would proceed to some explanation, he said no more. She,
however,<br>
seemed to think that nothing further was necessary, and sat still
and<br>
motionless, with her hands before her and her eyes fixed on
Billy.</p>

<p>"'You seem to forget me, sir?' said she, with a faint
smile.</p>

<p>"'I do, indeed, madam; the half-light, the novelty of your
costume, and the<br>
strangeness of the circumstance altogether must plead for me, if
I appear<br>
rude enough.'</p>

<p>"'I am Lady Mary Boyle,' said she.</p>

<p>"'I do remember you, madam; but may I ask&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Yes, yes; I know what you would ask. You would say, Why are
you here? How<br>
comes it that you have so far outstepped the propriety of which
your whole<br>
life is an example, that alone, at such a time, you appear in the
chamber<br>
of a man whose character for gallantry&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Oh, indeed&mdash;indeed, my lady, nothing of the kind!'</p>

<p>"'Ah, alas! poor defenceless women learn, too late, how
constantly<br>
associated is the retiring modesty which decries, with the
pleasing powers<br>
which ensure success&mdash;'</p>

<p>"Here she sobbed, Billy blushed, and the clock struck
nine.</p>

<p>"'May I then beg, madam&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Yes, yes, you shall hear it all; but my poor scattered
faculties will<br>
not be the clearer by your hurrying me. You know, perhaps,'
continued<br>
she, 'that my maiden name was Rogers?' He of the blankets bowed,
and she<br>
resumed, 'It is now eighteen years since, that a young,
unsuspecting, fond<br>
creature, reared in all the care and fondness of doting parents,
tempted<br>
her first step in life, and trusted her fate to another's
keeping. I am<br>
that unhappy person; the other, that monster in human guise that
smiled but<br>
to betray, that won but to ruin and destroy, is he whom you know
as Sir<br>
Harry Boyle.'</p>

<p>"Here she sobbed for some minutes, wiped her eyes, and resumed
her<br>
narrative. Beginning at the period of her marriage, she detailed
a number<br>
of circumstances in which poor Calvert, in all his anxiety to
come <i>au<br>
fond</i> at matters, could never perceive bore upon the question
in any way;<br>
but as she recounted them all with great force and precision,
entreating<br>
him to bear in mind certain circumstances to which she should
recur by and<br>
by, his attention was kept on the stretch, and it was only when
the clock<br>
struck ten that he was fully aware how his morning was passing,
and what<br>
surmises his absence might originate.</p>

<p>"'May I interrupt you for a moment, dear madam? Was it nine or
ten o'clock<br>
which struck last?'</p>

<p>"'How should I know?' said she, frantically. 'What are hours
and minutes to<br>
her who has passed long years of misery?'</p>

<p>"'Very true, very true,' replied he, timidly, and rather
fearing for the<br>
intellect of his fair companion.</p>

<p>She continued. The narrative, however, so far from becoming
clearer, grew<br>
gradually more confused and intricate; and as frequent references
were made<br>
by the lady to some previous statement, Calvert was more than
once rebuked<br>
for forgetfulness and inattention, where in reality nothing less
than<br>
short-hand could have borne him through.</p>

<p>"'Was it in '93 I said that Sir Harry left me at Tuam?'</p>

<p>"'Upon my life, madam, I am afraid to aver; but it strikes
me&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Gracious powers! and this is he whom I fondly trusted to
make the<br>
depository of my woes! Cruel, cruel man!'</p>

<p>"Here she sobbed considerably for several minutes, and spoke
not. A loud<br>
cheer of 'Butler forever!' from the mob without now burst upon
their<br>
hearing, and recalled poor Calvert at once to the thought that
the hours<br>
were speeding fast and no prospect of the everlasting tale coming
to an<br>
end.</p>

<p>"'I am deeply, most deeply grieved, my dear madam,' said the
little man,<br>
sitting up in a pyramid of blankets; 'but hours, minutes, are
most precious<br>
to me this morning. I am about to be proposed as member for
Kilkenny.'</p>

<p>"At these words the lady straightened her figure out, threw
her arms at<br>
either side, and burst into a fit of laughter which poor Calvert
knew<br>
at once to be hysterics. Here was a pretty situation! The
bell-rope lay<br>
against the opposite wall; and even if it did not, would he be
exactly<br>
warranted in pulling it?</p>

<p>"'May the devil and all his angels take Sir Harry Boyle and
his whole<br>
connection to the fifth generation!' was his sincere prayer as he
sat like<br>
a Chinese juggler under his canopy.</p>

<p>"At length the violence of the paroxysm seemed to subside; the
sobs became<br>
less frequent, the kicking less forcible, and the lady's eyes
closed, and<br>
she appeared to have fallen asleep.</p>

<p>"'Now is the moment,' said Billy. 'If I could only get as far
as my<br>
dressing-gown.' So saying, he worked himself down noiselessly to
the foot<br>
of his bed, looked fixedly at the fallen lids of the sleeping
lady, and<br>
essayed one leg from the blanket. 'Now or never,' said he,
pushing aside<br>
the curtain and preparing for a spring. One more look he cast at
his<br>
companion, and then leaped forth; but just as he lit upon the
floor she<br>
again roused herself, screaming with horror. Billy fell upon the
bed, and<br>
rolling himself in the bedclothes, vowed never to rise again till
she was<br>
out of the visible horizon.</p>

<p>"'What is all this? What do you mean, sir?' said the lady,
reddening with<br>
indignation.</p>

<p>"'Nothing, upon my soul, madam; it was only my
dressing-gown.'</p>

<p>"'Your dressing-gown!' said she, with an emphasis worthy of
Siddons; 'a<br>
likely story for Sir Harry to believe, sir! Fie, fie, sir!'</p>

<p>"This last allusion seemed a settler; for the luckless Calvert
heaved a<br>
profound sigh, and sunk down as if all hope had left him. 'Butler
forever!'<br>
roared the mob. 'Calvert forever!' cried a boy's voice from
without. 'Three<br>
groans for the runaway!' answered this announcement; and a very
tender<br>
inquiry of, 'Where is he?' was raised by some hundred mouths.</p>

<p>"'Madam,' said the almost frantic listener,&mdash;'madam, I must
get up! I must<br>
dress! I beg of you to permit me!'</p>

<p>"'I have nothing to refuse, sir. Alas, disdain has long been
my only<br>
portion! Get up, if you will.'</p>

<p>"'But,' said the astonished man, who was well-nigh deranged at
the coolness<br>
of this reply,&mdash;'but how am I to do so if you sit there?'</p>

<p>"'Sorry for any inconvenience I may cause you; but in the
crowded state of<br>
the hotel I hope you see the impropriety of my walking about the
passages<br>
in this costume?'</p>

<p>"'And, great God! madam, why did you come out in it?'</p>

<p>"A cheer from the mob prevented her reply being audible. One
o'clock tolled<br>
out from the great bell of the cathedral.</p>

<p>"'There's one o'clock, as I live!'</p>

<p>"'I heard it,' said the lady.</p>

<p>"'The shouts are increasing. What is that I hear? "Butler is
in!" Gracious<br>
mercy! is the election over?'</p>

<p>"The lady stepped to the window, drew aside the curtain, and
said, 'Indeed,<br>
it would appear so. The mob are cheering Mr. Butler.' A deafening
shout<br>
burst from the street. 'Perhaps you'd like to see the fun, so
I'll not<br>
detain you any longer. So, good-by, Mr. Calvert; and as your
breakfast will<br>
be cold, in all likelihood, come down to No. 4, for Sir Harry's a
late man,<br>
and will be glad to see you.'"</p>

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

<p>AN ADVENTURE.</p>

<p>As thus we lightened the road with chatting, the increasing
concourse of<br>
people, and the greater throng of carriages that filled the road,
announced<br>
that we had nearly reached our destination.</p>

<p>"Considine," said my uncle, riding up to where we were, "I
have just got a<br>
few lines from Davern. It seems Bodkin's people are afraid to
come in; they<br>
know what they must expect, and if so, more than half of that
barony is<br>
lost to our opponent."</p>

<p>"Then he has no chance whatever."</p>

<p>"He never had, in my opinion," said Sir Harry.</p>

<p>"We'll see soon," said my uncle, cheerfully, and rode to the
post.</p>

<p>The remainder of the way was occupied in discussing the
various<br>
possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find
that<br>
defeat never entered.</p>

<p>In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very
different thing<br>
indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that
name:<br>
where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as
assessor; a few<br>
drunken voters, a radical O'Connellite grocer, a demagogue
priest, a deputy<br>
grand-purple-something from the Trinity College lodge, with some
half-dozen<br>
followers, shouting, "To the Devil with Peel!" or "Down with
Dens!" form<br>
the whole <i>corp-de-ballet</i>. No, no; in the times I refer to
the voters were<br>
some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took the field,
far less<br>
dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise made them
than upon<br>
the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth, like a general
to battle,<br>
surrounded by a numerous and well-chosen staff,&mdash;one party of
friends,<br>
acting as commissariat, attended to the victualling of the
voters, that<br>
they obtained a due, or rather undue allowance of liquor, and
came properly<br>
drunk to the poll; others, again, broke into skirmishing parties,
and<br>
scattered over the country, cut off the enemy's supplies,
breaking<br>
down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting-cars, stealing
their<br>
poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were
secret-service<br>
people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and
lastly, there<br>
was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false
documents,<br>
denied the identity of the opposite party's people, and when hard
pushed,<br>
provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave
evidence<br>
afterwards on a petition. Amidst all these encounters of wit and
ingenuity,<br>
the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle
brigade,<br>
picking out the enemy's officers, and doing sore damage to their
tactics<br>
by shooting a proposer or wounding a seconder,&mdash;a considerable
portion of<br>
every leading agent's fee being intended as compensation for the
duels he<br>
might, could, would, should, or ought to fight during the
election. Such,<br>
in brief, was a contest in the olden time. And when it is taken
into<br>
consideration that it usually lasted a fortnight or three weeks;
that a<br>
considerable military force was always engaged (for our Irish law
permits<br>
this), and which, when nothing pressing was doing, was regularly
assailed<br>
by both parties; that far more dependence was placed in a
bludgeon than a<br>
pistol; and that the man who registered a vote without a cracked
pate was<br>
regarded as a kind of natural phenomenon,&mdash;some faint idea may be
formed<br>
how much such a scene must have contributed to the peace of the
county, and<br>
the happiness and welfare of all concerned in it.</p>

<p>As we rode along, a loud cheer from a road that ran parallel
to the one we<br>
were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the
cort&eacute;ge of<br>
the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could
distinguish<br>
the Blake girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in
undress, and<br>
saw something like a bonnet in the carriage-and-four which headed
the<br>
procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George Dashwood.
My heart<br>
beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss Dashwood was
there; but<br>
I could not discern her, and it was with a sense of relief that I
reflected<br>
on the possibility of our not meeting under circumstances wherein
our<br>
feelings and interests were so completely opposed. While I was
engaged in<br>
making this survey, I had accidentally dropped behind my
companions; my<br>
eyes were firmly fixed upon that carriage, and in the faint hope
that it<br>
contained the object of all my wishes, I forgot everything else.
At length<br>
the cort&eacute;ge entered the town, and passing beneath a heavy
stone gateway,<br>
was lost to my view. I was still lost in revery, when an
under-agent of my<br>
uncle's rode up.</p>

<p>"Oh, Master Charles!" said he, "what's to be done? They've
forgotten Mr.<br>
Holmes at Woodford, and we haven't a carriage, chaise, or even a
car left<br>
to send for him."</p>

<p>"Have you told Mr. Considine?" inquired I.</p>

<p>"And sure you know yourself how little Mr. Considine thinks of
a lawyer.<br>
It's small comfort he'd give me if I went to tell him. If it was
a case of<br>
pistols or a bullet mould he'd ride back the whole way himself
for them."</p>

<p>"Try Sir Harry Boyle, then."</p>

<p>"He's making a speech this minute before the court-house."</p>

<p>This had sufficed to show me how far behind my companions I
had been<br>
loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my
eyes in that<br>
direction; it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving
Sir George<br>
at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was
now<br>
closed, and I could not make out if any one were inside.</p>

<p>"Devil a doubt of it," said the agent, in answer to some
question of a<br>
farmer who rode beside him; "will you stand to me?"</p>

<p>"Troth, to be sure I will."</p>

<p>"Here goes, then," said he, gathering up his reins and turning
his horse<br>
towards the fence at the roadside; "follow me now, boys."</p>

<p>The order was well obeyed; for when he had cleared the ditch,
a dozen<br>
stout country fellows, well mounted, were beside him. Away they
went, at a<br>
hunting pace, taking every leap before them, and heading towards
the road<br>
before us.</p>

<p>Without thinking further of the matter, I was laughing at the
droll effect<br>
the line of frieze coats presented as they rode side by side over
the<br>
stone-walls, when an observation near me aroused my
attention.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, av they know anything of Tim Finucane, they'll give
it up<br>
peaceably; it's little he'd think of taking the coach from under
the judge<br>
himself."</p>

<p>"What are they about, boys?" said I.</p>

<p>"Goin' to take the chaise-and-four forninst ye, yer honor,"
said the man.</p>

<p>I waited not to hear more, but darting spurs into my horse's
sides, cleared<br>
the fence in one bound. My horse, a strong-knit half-breed, was
as fast as<br>
a racer for a short distance; so that when the agent and his
party had come<br>
up with the carriage, I was only a few hundred yards behind. I
shouted out<br>
with all my might, but they either heard not or heeded not, for
scarcely<br>
was the first man over the fence into the road when the postilion
on the<br>
leader was felled to the ground, and his place supplied by his
slayer; the<br>
boy on the wheeler shared the same fate, and in an instant, so
well managed<br>
was the attack, the carriage was in possession of the assailants.
Four<br>
stout fellows had climbed into the box and the rumble, and six
others were<br>
climbing to the interior, regardless of the aid of steps. By this
time the<br>
Dashwood party had got the alarm, and returned in full force,
not, however,<br>
before the other had laid whip to the horses and set out in full
gallop;<br>
and now commenced the most terrific race I ever witnessed.</p>

<p>The four carriage-horses, which were the property of Sir
George, were<br>
English thorough-breds of great value, and, totally unaccustomed
to the<br>
treatment they experienced, dashed forward at a pace that
threatened<br>
annihilation to the carriage at every bound. The pursuers, though
well<br>
mounted, were speedily distanced, but followed at a pace that in
the end<br>
was certain to overtake the carriage. As for myself, I rode on
beside<br>
the road at the full speed of my horse, shouting, cursing,
imploring,<br>
execrating, and beseeching at turns, but all in vain; the yells
and shouts<br>
of the pursuers and pursued drowned all other sounds, except when
the<br>
thundering crash of the horses' feet rose above all. The road,
like most<br>
western Irish roads until the present century, lay straight as an
arrow<br>
for miles, regardless of every opposing barrier, and in the
instance in<br>
question, crossed a mountain at its very highest point. Towards
this<br>
pinnacle the pace had been tremendous; but owing to the higher
breeding of<br>
the cattle, the carriage party had still the advance, and when
they reached<br>
the top they proclaimed the victory by a cheer of triumph and
derision. The<br>
carriage disappeared beneath the crest of the mountain, and the
pursuers<br>
halted as if disposed to relinquish the chase.</p>

<p>"Come on, boys; never give up," cried I, springing over into
the road, and<br>
heading the party to which by every right I was opposed.</p>

<p>It was no time for deliberation, and they followed me with a
hearty cheer<br>
that convinced me I was unknown. The next instant we were on the
mountain<br>
top, and beheld the carriage half way down beneath us, still
galloping at<br>
full stretch.</p>

<p>"We have them now," said a voice behind me; "they'll never
turn Lurra<br>
Bridge, if we only press on."</p>

<p>The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at
a perfect<br>
right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a
mountain<br>
torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath. On we went,
gaining at<br>
every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what
was before<br>
them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell
of victory<br>
arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a
cheer of<br>
defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between
us, when the<br>
head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once
recognized<br>
as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most
reckless fellows<br>
in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding,&mdash;gracious
Heavens!<br>
it was true,&mdash;holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure
of Miss<br>
Dashwood.</p>

<p>"Hold in!" shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high
above all the<br>
other sounds. "Hold in! or by the Eternal, I'll throw her, body
and bones,<br>
into the Lurra Gash!" for such was the torrent called that boiled
and<br>
foamed a few yards before us.</p>

<a name="0103"></a>
<img alt="0103.jpg (229K)" src="0103.jpg" height="1072" width="701">

<p>[THE RESCUE.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and
held the<br>
drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant's
grasp.</p>

<p>"For the love of God!" said I, "pull up. I know him well;
he'll do it to a<br>
certainty if you press on."</p>

<p>"And we know you, too," said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark
whisker<br>
meeting beneath his chin, "and have some scores to settle ere we
part&mdash;"</p>

<p>But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my
horse forward.<br>
The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out
of sight,<br>
another moment I was behind it.</p>

<p>"Stop!" I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The
horses, maddened<br>
and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to
turn them<br>
the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and
hanging for a<br>
second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent
beneath.<br>
By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now
clambered to the<br>
box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his
murderous<br>
object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent
backwards<br>
as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my
lash around<br>
my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his
head. The<br>
weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he
staggered, his<br>
hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same
instant I was<br>
felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.</p>

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

<p>MICKEY FREE.</p>

<p>Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere
I again was<br>
restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled&mdash;from
what hand<br>
coming it was never after discovered&mdash;had brought on concussion
of the<br>
brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow
steps I<br>
advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss
Dashwood,<br>
whose life was saved by my interference, had testified, in the
warmest<br>
manner, her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period
of his<br>
leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and
inquire<br>
for me.</p>

<p>"You know, of course," said the count, supposing such news was
the most<br>
likely to interest me,&mdash;"you know we beat them?"</p>

<p>"No. Pray tell me all. They've not let me hear anything
hitherto."</p>

<p>"One day finished the whole affair. We polled man for man till
past two<br>
o'clock, when our fellows lost all patience and beat their
tallies out<br>
of the town. The police came up, but they beat the police; then
they got<br>
soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them, too. Sir
George<br>
witnessed it all, and knowing besides how little chance he had of
success,<br>
deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o'clock
he<br>
resigned. I must say no man could behave better. He came across
the<br>
hustings and shook hands with Godfrey; and as the news of the
<i>scrimmage</i><br>
with his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his
prospect of<br>
success had not been greater, that in resigning he might testify
how deeply<br>
he felt the debt the O'Malleys had laid him under."</p>

<p>"And my uncle, how did he receive his advances?"</p>

<p>"Like his own honest self,&mdash;grasped his hand firmly; and upon
my soul, I<br>
think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he
took a<br>
mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old general's.
Faith,<br>
Charley, if he was some twenty years younger, I would not say
but&mdash;Come,<br>
come, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been
staying here too<br>
long. I'll send up Mickey to sit with you. Mind and don't be
talking too<br>
much to him."</p>

<p>So saying, the worthy count left the room fully impressed that
in hinting<br>
at the possibility of my uncle's marrying again, he had said
something to<br>
ruffle my temper.</p>

<p>For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most
tiresome<br>
monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to
avoid<br>
exciting me; and consequently, every one that came in walked on
tiptoe,<br>
spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was
absolutely<br>
forbidden; and with a sombre half-light to sit in, and chicken
broth to<br>
support nature, I dragged out as dreary an existence as any
gentleman west<br>
of Athlone.</p>

<p>Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my
companion was my<br>
own servant, Michael, or as he was better known, "Mickey Free."
Now, had<br>
Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the
time would<br>
not have hung so heavily; for among Mike's manifold gifts he was
possessed<br>
of a very great flow of gossiping conversation. He knew all that
was<br>
doing in the county, and never was barren in his information
wherever his<br>
imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in
the barony,<br>
no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero
of "Tatter<br>
Jack Walsh" in a way that charmed more than one soft heart
beneath a red<br>
woolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy
devil-may-care<br>
kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst
of his<br>
wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and
cunning fellow<br>
all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.</p>

<p>He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion;
and growing<br>
daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the
honors of<br>
the kitchen and the prerogatives of cast clothes, without ever
having been<br>
actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer,
as, in<br>
fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated
among the<br>
ship's company, though no one could say at what precise period he
changed<br>
his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords
and<br>
tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked
about<br>
the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had
made his<br>
fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the
fact that he<br>
made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he
entered<br>
it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to
me. Mike<br>
informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn't
go out,<br>
and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey
of<br>
partridge quicker than the "Morning Post" does of a noble family
from the<br>
Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately.
But<br>
his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he
was the<br>
faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or
christening for<br>
miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very
national<br>
pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude
this<br>
brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that
he was<br>
enthusiastic about anything,&mdash;that is, he believed and obeyed
exactly as<br>
far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness.
Beyond<br>
<i>that</i>, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from
inconvenience; and<br>
though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to
a rubric,<br>
still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such,
in short,<br>
was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions
been laid on<br>
him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my
weary hours.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, Misther Charles!" said he, with a half-suppressed
yawn at the<br>
long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in
silence,&mdash;"ah,<br>
then, but ye were mighty near it!"</p>

<p>"Near what?" said I.</p>

<p>"Faith, then, myself doesn't well know. Some say it's
purgathory; but it's<br>
hard to tell."</p>

<p>"I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any
doubts on the<br>
matter?"</p>

<p>"May be I am; may be I ain't," was the cautious reply.</p>

<p>"Wouldn't Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for
you, if you<br>
went over to him?"</p>

<p>"Faix, it's little I'd mind his explainings."</p>

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

<p>"Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does
he be doing<br>
with all the powther and shot, wouldn't he tell you he's shooting
the<br>
rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows
he sells<br>
it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes,
Father Roach<br>
may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all
this time<br>
are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye
understand."</p>

<p>"And you think that's the way of it, Mickey?"</p>

<p>"Troth, it's likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they
make it out."</p>

<p>"Why, how do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Well, then, I'll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not
be saying<br>
anything about it afther, for I don't like to talk about these
kind of<br>
things."</p>

<p>Having pledged myself to the requisite silence and secrecy,
Mickey began:&mdash;</p>

<p>"May be you heard tell of the way my father, rest his soul
wherever he is,<br>
came to his end. Well, I needn't mind particulars, but, in short,
he was<br>
murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin' the whole
town with<br>
a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was
stuck at<br>
the end of it,&mdash;a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to;
but those<br>
murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for
diversion of<br>
any kind, fell on him and broke his skull.</p>

<p>"Well, we had a very agreeable wake, and plenty of the best of
everything,<br>
and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though
I paid<br>
Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he
always gave<br>
me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat,
he'd turn<br>
away his head displeased like.</p>

<p>"'Murder and ages,' says I, 'what's this for?' But as I've a
light heart,<br>
I bore up, and didn't think more about it. One day, however, I
was coming<br>
home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father
Roach overtook<br>
me. 'Devil a one a me 'ill take any notice of you now,' says I,
'and we'll<br>
see what'll come out of it.' So the priest rid up and looked me
straight in<br>
the face.</p>

<p>"'Mickey,' says he,&mdash;'Mickey.'</p>

<p>"'Father,' says I.</p>

<p>"'Is it that way you salute your clargy,' says he, 'with your
caubeen on<br>
your head?'</p>

<p>"'Faix,' says I, 'it's little ye mind whether it's an or aff;
for you never<br>
take the trouble to say, "By your leave," or "Damn your soul!" or
any other<br>
politeness when we meet.'</p>

<p>"'You're an ungrateful creature,' says he; 'and if you only
knew, you'd be<br>
trembling in your skin before me, this minute.'</p>

<p>"'Devil a tremble,' says I, 'after walking six miles this
way.'</p>

<p>"'You're an obstinate, hard-hearted sinner,' says he; 'and
it's no use in<br>
telling you.'</p>

<p>"'Telling me what?' says I; for I was getting curious to make
out what he<br>
meant.</p>

<p>"'Mickey,' says he, changing his voice, and putting his head
down close to<br>
me,&mdash;'Mickey, I saw your father last night.'</p>

<p>"'The saints be merciful to us!' said I, 'did ye?'</p>

<p>"'I did,' says he.</p>

<p>"'Tear an ages,' says I, 'did he tell you what he did with the
new<br>
corduroys he bought in the fair?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, then, you are a could-hearted creature!' says he, 'and
I'll not lose<br>
time with you.' With that he was going to ride away, when I took
hold of<br>
the bridle.</p>

<p>"'Father, darling,' says I, 'God pardon me, but them breeches
is goin'<br>
between me an' my night's rest; but tell me about my father?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, then, he's in a melancholy state!'</p>

<p>"'Whereabouts is he?' says I.</p>

<p>"'In purgathory,' says he; 'but he won't be there long.'</p>

<p>"'Well,' says I, 'that's a comfort, anyhow.'</p>

<p>"'I am glad you think so,' says he; 'but there's more of the
other<br>
opinion.'</p>

<p>"'What's <i>that?</i>' says I.</p>

<p>"'That hell's worse.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, melia-murther!' says I, 'is that it?'</p>

<p>"'Ay, that's it.'</p>

<p>"Well, I was so terrified and frightened, I said nothing for
some time, but<br>
trotted along beside the priest's horse.</p>

<p>"'Father,' says I, 'how long will it be before they send him
where you<br>
know?'</p>

<p>"'It will not be long now,' says he, 'for they're tired
entirely with him;<br>
they've no peace night or day,' says he. 'Mickey, your father is
a mighty<br>
hard man.'</p>

<p>"'True for you, Father Roach,' says I to myself; 'av he had
only the ould<br>
stick with the scythe in it, I wish them joy of his company.'</p>

<p>"'Mickey,' says he, 'I see you're grieved, and I don't wonder;
sure, it's a<br>
great disgrace to a decent family.'</p>

<p>"'Troth, it is,' says I; 'but my father always liked low
company. Could<br>
nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?' says I, looking up in
the<br>
priest's face.</p>

<p>"'I'm greatly afraid, Mickey, he was a bad man, a very bad
man.'</p>

<p>"'And ye think he'll go there?' says I.</p>

<p>"'Indeed, Mickey, I have my fears.'</p>

<p>"'Upon my conscience,' says I, 'I believe you're right; he was
always a<br>
restless crayture.'</p>

<p>"'But it doesn't depind on him,' says the priest, crossly.</p>

<p>"'And, then, who then?' says I.</p>

<p>"'Upon yourself, Mickey Free,' says he, 'God pardon you for
it, too!'</p>

<p>"'Upon me?' says I.</p>

<p>"'Troth, no less,' says he; 'how many Masses was said for your
father's<br>
soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.'</p>

<p>"'Devil a one of me knows!&mdash;may be twenty.'</p>

<p>"'Twenty, twenty!&mdash;no, nor one.'</p>

<p>"'And why not?' says I; 'what for wouldn't you be helping a
poor crayture<br>
out of trouble, when it wouldn't cost you more nor a handful of
prayers?'</p>

<p>"'Mickey, I see,' says he, in a solemn tone, 'you're worse nor
a haythen;<br>
but ye couldn't be other, ye never come to yer duties.'</p>

<p>"'Well, Father,' says I, Looking very penitent, 'how many
Masses would get<br>
him out?'</p>

<p>"'Now you talk like a sensible man,' says he. 'Now, Mickey,
I've hopes for<br>
you. Let me see,' here he went countin' upon his fingers, and
numberin' to<br>
himself for five minutes. 'Mickey,' says he, 'I've a batch coming
out on<br>
Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps
your father<br>
could come with them; that is, av they have made no
objections.'</p>

<p>"'And what for would they?' says I; 'he was always the hoith
of company,<br>
and av singing's allowed in them parts&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,' says
he, sighing.</p>

<p>"'Well,' says I, 'how'll we get him out on Tuesday week? For
that's<br>
bringing things to a focus.'</p>

<p>"'Two Masses in the morning, fastin',' says Father Roach, half
aloud, 'is<br>
two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is
six,' says he;<br>
'six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses,&mdash;say
sixty,' says<br>
he; 'and they'll cost you&mdash;mind, Mickey, and don't be telling it
again, for<br>
it's only to yourself I'd make them so cheap&mdash;a matter of three
pounds.'</p>

<p>"'Three pounds!' says I; 'be-gorra ye might as well ax me to
give you the<br>
rock of Cashel.'</p>

<p>"'I'm sorry for ye, Mickey,' says he, gatherin' up the reins
to ride<br>
off,&mdash;'I'm sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect
of your<br>
poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.'</p>

<p>"'Wait a bit, your reverence,' says I,&mdash;'wait a bit. Would
forty shillings<br>
get him out?'</p>

<p>"'Av course it wouldn't,' says he.</p>

<p>"'May be,' says I, coaxing,&mdash;'may be, av you said that his son
was a poor<br>
boy that lived by his indhustry, and the times was bad&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Not the least use,' says he.</p>

<p>"'Arrah, but it's hard-hearted they are,' thinks I. 'Well, see
now, I'll<br>
give you the money, but I can't afford it all at onst; but I'll
pay five<br>
shillings a week. Will that do?'</p>

<p>"'I'll do my endayvors,' says Father Roach; 'and I'll speak to
them to<br>
treat him peaceably in the meantime.'</p>

<p>"'Long life to yer reverence, and do. Well, here now, here's
five hogs to<br>
begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I'd be spending my
loose change<br>
that way.'</p>

<p>"Father Roach put the six tinpinnies in the pocket of his
black leather<br>
breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode
off.</p>

<p>"Well, to make my story short, I worked late and early to pay
the five<br>
shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular; then I
brought<br>
four and fourpence; then it came down to one and tenpence
halfpenny, then<br>
ninepence, and at last I had nothing at all to bring.</p>

<p>"'Mickey Free,' says the priest, 'ye must stir yourself. Your
father is<br>
mighty displeased at the way you've been doing of late; and av ye
kept yer<br>
word, he'd be near out by this time.'</p>

<p>"'Troth,' says I, 'it's a very expensive place.'</p>

<p>"'By coorse it is,' says he; 'sure all the quality of the
land's there.<br>
But, Mickey, my man, with a little exertion, your father's
business is<br>
done. What are you jingling in your pocket there?'</p>

<p>"'It's ten shillings, your reverence, I have to buy seed
potatoes.'</p>

<p>"'Hand it here, my son. Isn't it better your father would be
enjoying<br>
himself in paradise, than if ye were to have all the potatoes in
Ireland?'</p>

<p>"'And how do ye know,' says I, 'he's so near out?'</p>

<p>"'How do I know,&mdash;how do I know, is it? Didn't I see him?'</p>

<p>"'See him! Tear an ages, was you down there again?'</p>

<p>"'I was,' says he; 'I was down there for three quarters of an
hour<br>
yesterday evening, getting out Luke Kennedy's mother. Decent
people the<br>
Kennedy's; never spared expense.'</p>

<p>"'And ye seen my father?' says I.</p>

<p>'I did,' says he; 'he had an ould flannel waistcoat on, and a
pipe sticking<br>
out of the pocket av it.'</p>

<p>"'That's him,' says I. 'Had he a hairy cap?'</p>

<p>"'I didn't mind the cap,' says he; 'but av coorse he wouldn't
have it on<br>
his head in that place.'</p>

<p>"'Thrue for you,' says I. 'Did he speak to you?'</p>

<p>"'He did,' says Father Roach; 'he spoke very hard about the
way he was<br>
treated down there; that they was always jibin' and jeerin' him
about<br>
<i>drink</i>, and fightin', and the course he led up here, and
that it was a<br>
queer thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he was to be kept
there so<br>
long.'</p>

<p>"'Well,' says I, taking out the ten shillings and counting it
with one<br>
hand, 'we must do our best, anyhow; and ye think this'll get him
out<br>
surely?'</p>

<p>"'I know it will,' says he; 'for when Luke's mother was
leaving the place,<br>
and yer father saw the door open, he made a rush at it, and,
be-gorra,<br>
before it was shut he got his head and one shoulder outside av
it,&mdash;so<br>
that, ye see, a thrifle more'll do it.'</p>

<p>"'Faix, and yer reverence,' says I, 'you've lightened my heart
this<br>
morning.' And I put my money back again in my pocket.</p>

<p>"'Why, what do you mean?' says he, growing very red, for he
was angry.</p>

<p>"'Just this,' says I, 'that I've saved my money; for av it was
my father<br>
you seen, and that he got his head and one shoulder outside the
door, oh,<br>
then, by the powers!' says I, 'the devil a jail or jailer from
hell to<br>
Connaught id hould him. So, Father Roach, I wish you the top of
the<br>
morning.' And I went away laughing; and from that day to this I
never heard<br>
more of purgathory; and ye see, Master Charles, I think I was
right."</p>

<p>Scarcely had Mike concluded when my door was suddenly burst
open, and Sir<br>
Harry Boyle, without assuming any of his usual precautions
respecting<br>
silence and quiet, rushed into the room, a broad grin upon his
honest<br>
features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed
me<br>
something had occurred to amuse him.</p>

<p>"By Jove, Charley, I mustn't keep it from you; it's too good a
thing not<br>
to tell you. Do you remember that very essenced young gentleman
who<br>
accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of
electioneering<br>
friend?"</p>

<p>"Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?"</p>

<p>"The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in
some government<br>
department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor
savages as<br>
much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry, as
though we<br>
had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble
Galwayans with<br>
some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual resolved to
record<br>
them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his appetite
for<br>
wonders I know not; but he was peaceably taking his departure
from the west<br>
on Saturday last, when Phil Macnamara met him, and pressed him to
dine that<br>
day with a few friends at his house. You know Phil; so that when
I tell you<br>
Sam Burke, of Greenmount, and Roger Doolan were of the party, I
need<br>
not say that the English traveller was not left to his own
unassisted<br>
imagination for his facts. Such anecdotes of our habits and
customs as they<br>
crammed him with, it would appear, never were heard before;
nothing was<br>
too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who, when not
sipping<br>
his claret, was faithfully recording in his tablet the mems. for
a very<br>
brilliant and very original work on Ireland.</p>

<p>"Fine country, splendid country; glorious people,&mdash;gifted,
brave,<br>
intelligent, but not happy,&mdash;alas! Mr. Macnamara, not happy. But
we don't<br>
know you, gentlemen,&mdash;we don't indeed,&mdash;at the other side of the
Channel.<br>
Our notions regarding you are far, very far from just."</p>

<p>"I hope and trust," said old Burke, "you'll help them to a
better<br>
understanding ere long."</p>

<p>"Such, my dear sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The
facts I have<br>
heard here this evening have made so profound an impression upon
me that I<br>
burn for the moment when I can make them known to the world at
large. To<br>
think&mdash;just to think that a portion of this beautiful island
should be<br>
steeped in poverty; that the people not only live upon the mere
potatoes,<br>
but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr.
Doolan has<br>
just mentioned to me!"</p>

<p>"'Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,' added Mr.
Doolan, 'they<br>
being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for
wearing<br>
apparel.'</p>

<p>"'I should deem myself culpable&mdash;indeed I should&mdash;did I not
inform my<br>
countrymen upon the real condition of this great country.'</p>

<p>"'Why, after your great opportunities for judging,' said Phil,
'you ought<br>
to speak out. You've seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few
Englishmen<br>
have, and heard more.'</p>

<p>"'That's it,&mdash;that's the very thing, Mr. Macnamara. I've
looked at you more<br>
closely; I've watched you more narrowly; I've witnessed what the
French<br>
call your <i>vie intime</i>.'</p>

<p>"'Begad you have,' said old Burke, with a grin, 'and profited
by it to the<br>
utmost.'</p>

<p>"'I've been a spectator of your election contests; I've
partaken of your<br>
hospitality; I've witnessed your popular and national sports;
I've<br>
been present at your weddings, your fairs, your wakes; but no,&mdash;I
was<br>
forgetting,&mdash;I never saw a wake.'</p>

<p>"'Never saw a wake?' repeated each of the company in turn, as
though the<br>
gentleman was uttering a sentiment of very dubious veracity.</p>

<p>"'Never,' said Mr. Prettyman, rather abashed at this proof of
his<br>
incapacity to instruct his English friends upon <i>all</i>
matters of Irish<br>
interest.</p>

<p>"'Well, then,' said Macnamara, 'with a blessing, we'll show
you one.<br>
Lord forbid that we shouldn't do the honors of our poor country
to an<br>
intelligent foreigner when he's good enough to come among
us.'</p>

<p>"'Peter,' said he, turning to the servant behind him, 'who's
dead<br>
hereabouts?'</p>

<p>"'Sorra one, yer honor. Since the scrimmage at Portumna the
place is<br>
peaceable.'</p>

<p>"'Who died lately in the neighborhood?'</p>

<p>"'The widow Macbride, yer honor.'</p>

<p>"'Couldn't they take her up again, Peter? My friend here never
saw a wake.'</p>

<p>"'I'm afeered not; for it was the boys roasted her, and she
wouldn't be a<br>
decent corpse for to show a stranger,' said Peter, in a
whisper.</p>

<p>"Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the
neighborhood,<br>
and said nothing.</p>

<p>"'Well, then, Peter, tell Jimmy Divine to take the old musket
in my<br>
bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh bog,&mdash;he can't go wrong.
There's twelve<br>
families there that never pay a halfpenny rent; and <i>when it's
done</i>, let<br>
him give notice to the neighborhood, and we'll have a rousing
wake.'</p>

<p>"'You don't mean, Mr. Macnamara,&mdash;you don't mean to say&mdash;'
stammered out<br>
the cockney, with a face like a ghost.</p>

<p>"'I only mean to say,' said Phil, laughing, 'that you're
keeping the<br>
decanter very long at your right hand.'</p>

<p>"Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask
any<br>
explanation of what he had just heard,&mdash;and for some minutes he
could only<br>
wait in impatient anxiety,&mdash;when a loud report of a gun close
beside the<br>
house attracted the attention of the guests. The next moment old
Peter<br>
entered, his face radiant with smiles.</p>

<p>"'Well, what's that?' said Macnamara.</p>

<p>"''T was Jimmy, yer honor. As the evening was rainy, he said
he'd take one<br>
of the neighbors; and he hadn't to go far, for Andy Moore was
going home,<br>
and he brought him down at once.'</p>

<p>"'Did he shoot him?' said Mr. Prettyman, while cold
perspiration broke over<br>
his forehead. 'Did he murder the man?'</p>

<p>"'Sorra murder,' said Peter, disdainfully. 'But why shouldn't
he shoot him<br>
when the master bid him?'</p>

<p>"I needn't tell you more, Charley; but in ten minutes after,
feigning some<br>
excuse to leave the room, the terrified cockney took flight, and
offering<br>
twenty guineas for a horse to convey him to Athlone, he left
Galway, fully<br>
convinced that they don't yet know us on the other side of the
Channel."</p>

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

<p>THE JOURNEY.</p>

<p>The election concluded, the turmoil and excitement of the
contest over, all<br>
was fast resuming its accustomed routine around us, when one
morning my<br>
uncle informed me that I was at length to leave my native county
and enter<br>
upon the great world as a student of Trinity College, Dublin.
Although long<br>
since in expectation of this eventful change, it was with no
slight feeling<br>
of emotion I contemplated the step which, removing me at once
from all my<br>
early friends and associations, was to surround me with new
companions and<br>
new influences, and place before me very different objects of
ambition from<br>
those I had hitherto been regarding.</p>

<p>My destiny had been long ago decided. The army had had its
share of the<br>
family, who brought little more back with them from the wars than
a short<br>
allowance of members and shattered constitutions; the navy had
proved, on<br>
more than one occasion, that the fate of the O'Malleys did not
incline to<br>
hanging; so that, in Irish estimation, but one alternative
remained, and<br>
that was the bar. Besides, as my uncle remarked, with great truth
and<br>
foresight, "Charley will be tolerably independent of the public,
at all<br>
events; for even if they never send him a brief, there's law
enough in the<br>
family to last <i>his</i> time,"&mdash;a rather novel reason,
by-the-bye, for making<br>
a man a lawyer, and which induced Sir Harry, with his usual
clearness, to<br>
observe to me:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience, boy, you are in luck. If there had been a
Bible in the<br>
house, I firmly believe he'd have made you a parson."</p>

<p>Considine alone, of all my uncle's advisers, did not concur in
this<br>
determination respecting me. He set forth, with an eloquence that
certainly<br>
converted <i>me</i>, that my head was better calculated for
bearing hard knocks<br>
than unravelling knotty points, that a shako would become it
infinitely<br>
better than a wig; and declared, roundly, that a boy who began so
well and<br>
had such very pretty notions about shooting was positively thrown
away<br>
in the Four Courts. My uncle, however, was firm, and as old Sir
Harry<br>
supported him, the day was decided against us, Considine
murmuring as he<br>
left the room something that did not seem quite a brilliant
anticipation of<br>
the success awaiting me in my legal career. As for myself, though
only a<br>
silent spectator of the debate, all my wishes were with the
count. Prom my<br>
earliest boyhood a military life had been my strongest desire;
the roll of<br>
the drum, and the shrill fife that played through the little
village,<br>
with its ragged troop of recruits following, had charms for me I
cannot<br>
describe; and had a choice been allowed me, I would infinitely
rather have<br>
been a sergeant in the dragoons than one of his Majesty's learned
in the<br>
law. If, then, such had been the cherished feeling of many a
year, how much<br>
more strongly were my aspirations heightened by the events of the
last few<br>
days. The tone of superiority I had witnessed in Hammersley,
whose conduct<br>
to me at parting had placed him high in my esteem; the quiet
contempt of<br>
civilians implied in a thousand sly ways; the exalted estimate of
his own<br>
profession,&mdash;at once wounded my pride and stimulated my ambition;
and<br>
lastly, more than all, the avowed preference that Lucy Dashwood
evinced for<br>
a military life, were stronger allies than my own conviction
needed to make<br>
me long for the army. So completely did the thought possess me
that I felt,<br>
if I were not a soldier, I cared not what became of me. Life had
no other<br>
object of ambition for me than military renown, no other success
for<br>
which I cared to struggle, or would value when obtained. "<i>Aut
Caesar aut<br>
nullus</i>," thought I; and when my uncle determined I should be
a lawyer,<br>
I neither murmured nor objected, but hugged myself in the
prophecy of<br>
Considine that hinted pretty broadly, "the devil a stupider
fellow ever<br>
opened a brief; but he'd have made a slashing light dragoon."</p>

<p>The preliminaries were not long in arranging. It was settled
that I should<br>
be immediately despatched to Dublin to the care of Dr. Mooney,
then a<br>
junior fellow in the University, who would take me into his
especial<br>
charge; while Sir Harry was to furnish me with a letter to his
old friend,<br>
Doctor Barret, whose advice and assistance he estimated at a very
high<br>
price. Provided with such documents I was informed that the gates
of<br>
knowledge were more than half ajar for me, without an effort upon
my<br>
part. One only portion of all the arrangements I heard with
anything like<br>
pleasure; it was decided that my man Mickey was to accompany me
to Dublin,<br>
and remain with me during my stay.</p>

<p>It was upon a clear, sharp morning in January, of the year
18&mdash;, that I<br>
took my place upon the box-seat of the old Galway mail and set
out on my<br>
journey. My heart was depressed, and my spirits were miserably
low. I had<br>
all that feeling of sadness which leave-taking inspires, and no
sustaining<br>
prospect to cheer me in the distance. For the first time in my
life, I had<br>
seen a tear glisten in my poor uncle's eye, and heard his voice
falter as<br>
he said, "Farewell!" Notwithstanding the difference of age, we
had been<br>
perfectly companions together; and as I thought now over all the
thousand<br>
kindnesses and affectionate instances of his love I had received,
my heart<br>
gave way, and the tears coursed slowly down my cheeks. I turned
to give one<br>
last look at the tall chimneys and the old woods, my earliest
friends; but<br>
a turn of the road had shut out the prospect, and thus I took my
leave of<br>
Galway.</p>

<p>My friend Mickey, who sat behind with the guard, participated
but little in<br>
my feelings of regret. The potatoes in the metropolis could
scarcely be as<br>
wet as the lumpers in Scariff; he had heard that whiskey was not
dearer,<br>
and looked forward to the other delights of the capital with a
longing<br>
heart. Meanwhile, resolved that no portion of his career should
be lost, he<br>
was lightening the road by anecdote and song, and held an
audience of four<br>
people, a very crusty-looking old guard included, in roars of
laughter.<br>
Mike had contrived, with his usual <i>savoir faire</i>, to make
himself very<br>
agreeable to an extremely pretty-looking country girl, around
whose waist<br>
he had most lovingly passed his arm under pretence of keeping her
from<br>
falling, and to whom, in the midst of all his attentions to the
party at<br>
large, he devoted himself considerably, pressing his suit with
all the aid<br>
of his native minstrelsy.</p>

<p>"Hould me tight, Miss Matilda, dear."</p>

<p>"My name's Mary Brady, av ye plase."</p>

<p>"Ay, and I do plase.</p>

<p>    'Oh, Mary Brady, you are my darlin',<br>
    You are my looking-glass from night till morning;<br>
    I'd rayther have ye without one farthen,<br>
    Nor Shusey Gallagher and her house and garden.'</p>

<p>May I never av I wouldn't then; and ye needn't be
laughing."</p>

<p>"Is his honor at home?"</p>

<p>This speech was addressed to a gaping country fellow that
leaned on his<br>
spade to see the coach pass.</p>

<p>"Is his honor at home? I've something for him from Mr.
Davern."</p>

<p>Mickey well knew that few western gentlemen were without
constant<br>
intercourse with the Athlone attorney. The poor countryman
accordingly<br>
hastened through the fence and pursued the coach with all speed
for above<br>
a mile, Mike pretending all the time to be in the greatest
anxiety for his<br>
overtaking them, until at last, as he stopped in despair, a
hearty roar of<br>
laughter told him that, in Mickey's <i>parlance</i>, he was
"sould."</p>

<p>"Taste it, my dear; devil a harm it'll do ye. It never paid
the king<br>
sixpence."</p>

<p>Here he filled a little horn vessel from a black bottle he
carried,<br>
accompanying the action with a song, the air to which, if any of
my<br>
readers feel disposed to sing it, I may observe, bore a
resemblance to the<br>
well-known, "A Fig for Saint Denis of France."</p>

<p>    POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.</p>

<p>    Av I was a monarch in state,<br>
      Like Romulus or Julius Caysar,<br>
    With the best of fine victuals to eat,<br>
      And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar,<br>
    A rasher of bacon I'd have,<br>
      And potatoes the finest was seen, sir,<br>
    And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave,<br>
      But a keg of ould Mullens's potteen, sir,<br>
               With the smell of the smoke on it still.</p>

<p>    They talk of the Romans of ould,<br>
      Whom they say in their own times was frisky;<br>
    But trust me, to keep out the cowld,<br>
      The Romans at home here like whiskey.<br>
    Sure it warms both the head and the heart,<br>
      It's the soul of all readin' and writin';<br>
    It teaches both science and art,<br>
      And disposes for love or for fightin'.<br>
               Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.</p>

<p>This very classic production, and the black bottle which
accompanied it,<br>
completely established the singer's pre-eminence in the company;
and I<br>
heard sundry sounds resembling drinking, with frequent good
wishes to the<br>
provider of the feast,&mdash;"Long life to ye, Mr. Free," "Your health
and<br>
inclinations, Mr. Free," etc.; to which Mr. Free responded by
drinking<br>
those of the company, "av they were vartuous." The amicable
relations thus<br>
happily established promised a very lasting reign, and would
doubtless have<br>
enjoyed such, had not a slight incident occurred which for a
brief season<br>
interrupted them. At the village where we stopped to breakfast,
three very<br>
venerable figures presented themselves for places in the inside
of the<br>
coach; they were habited in black coats, breeches, and gaiters,
wore hats<br>
of a very ecclesiastic breadth in their brim, and had altogether
the<br>
peculiar air and bearing which distinguishes their calling, being
no less<br>
than three Roman Catholic prelates on their way to Dublin to
attend a<br>
convocation. While Mickey and his friends, with the ready tact
which every<br>
low Irishman possesses, immediately perceived who and what these
worshipful<br>
individuals were, another traveller who had just assumed his
place on the<br>
outside participated but little in the feelings of reverence so
manifestly<br>
displayed, but gave a sneer of a very ominous kind as the skirt
of the<br>
last black coat disappeared within the coach. This latter
individual was a<br>
short, thick-set, bandy-legged man of about fifty, with an
enormous nose,<br>
which, whatever its habitual coloring, on the morning in question
was of a<br>
brilliant purple. He wore a blue coat with bright buttons, upon
which some<br>
letters were inscribed; and around his neck was fastened a ribbon
of the<br>
same color, to which a medal was attached. This he displayed with
something<br>
of ostentation whenever an opportunity occurred, and seemed
altogether a<br>
person who possessed a most satisfactory impression of his own
importance.<br>
In fact, had not this feeling been participated in by others, Mr.
Billy<br>
Crow would never have been deputed by No. 13,476 to carry their
warrant<br>
down to the west country, and establish the nucleus of an Orange
Lodge in<br>
the town of Foxleigh; such being, in brief, the reason why he, a
very well<br>
known manufacturer of "leather continuations" in Dublin, had
ventured upon<br>
the perilous journey from which he was now returning. Billy was
going on<br>
his way to town rejoicing, for he had had most brilliant success:
the<br>
brethren had feasted and f&ecirc;ted him; he had made several
splendid orations,<br>
with the usual number of prophecies about the speedy downfall of
Romanism,<br>
the inevitable return of Protestant ascendancy, the pleasing
prospect that<br>
with increased effort and improved organization they should soon
be able<br>
to have everything their own way, and clear the Green Isle of the
horrible<br>
vermin Saint Patrick forgot when banishing the others; and that
if Daniel<br>
O'Connell (whom might the Lord confound!) could only be hanged,
and Sir<br>
Harcourt Lees made Primate of all Ireland, there were still some
hopes of<br>
peace and prosperity to the country.</p>

<p>Mr. Crow had no sooner assumed his place upon the coach than
he saw that he<br>
was in the camp of the enemy. Happily for all parties, indeed, in
Ireland,<br>
political differences have so completely stamped the externals of
each<br>
party that he must be a man of small penetration who cannot, in
the first<br>
five minutes he is thrown among strangers, calculate with
considerable<br>
certainty whether it will be more conducive to his happiness to
sing,<br>
"Croppies Lie Down," or "The Battle of Ross." As for Billy Crow,
long life<br>
to him! you might as well attempt to pass a turkey upon M.
Audubon for a<br>
giraffe, as endeavor to impose a Papist upon him for a true
follower of<br>
King William. He could have given you more generic distinctions
to guide<br>
you in the decision than ever did Cuvier to designate an
antediluvian<br>
mammoth; so that no sooner had he seated himself upon the coach
than he<br>
buttoned up his great-coat, stuck his hands firmly in his
side-pockets,<br>
pursed up his lips, and looked altogether like a man that,
feeling himself<br>
out of his element, resolves to "bide his time" in patience until
chance<br>
may throw him among more congenial associates. Mickey Free, who
was himself<br>
no mean proficient in reading a character, at one glance saw his
man, and<br>
began hammering his brains to see if he could not overreach him.
The<br>
small portmanteau which contained Billy's wardrobe bore the
conspicuous<br>
announcement of his name; and as Mickey could read, this was one
important<br>
step already gained.</p>

<p>He accordingly took the first opportunity of seating himself
beside him,<br>
and opened the conversation by some very polite observation upon
the<br>
other's wearing apparel, which is always in the west considered a
piece of<br>
very courteous attention. By degrees the dialogue prospered, and
Mickey<br>
began to make some very important revelations about himself and
his master,<br>
intimating that the "state of the country" was such that a man of
his way<br>
of thinking had no peace or quiet in it.</p>

<p>"That's him there, forenent ye," said Mickey, "and a better
Protestant<br>
never hated Mass. Ye understand."</p>

<p>"What!" said Billy, unbuttoning the collar of his coat to get
a fairer view<br>
at his companion; "why, I thought you were&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here he made some resemblance of the usual manner of blessing
oneself.</p>

<p>"Me, devil a more nor yourself, Mr. Crow."</p>

<p>"Why, do you know me, too?"</p>

<p>"Troth, more knows you than you think."</p>

<p>Billy looked very much puzzled at all this; at last he
said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And ye tell me that your master there's the right sort?"</p>

<p>"Thrue blue," said Mike, with a wink, "and so is his
uncles."</p>

<p>"And where are they, when they are at home?"</p>

<p>"In Galway, no less; but they're here now."</p>

<p>"Where?"</p>

<p>"Here."</p>

<p>At these words he gave a knock of his heel to the coach, as if
to intimate<br>
their "whereabouts."</p>

<p>"You don't mean in the coach, do ye?"</p>

<p>"To be sure I do; and troth you can't know much of the west,
av ye don't<br>
know the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash!&mdash;them's they."</p>

<p>"You don't say so?"</p>

<p>"Faix, but I do."</p>

<p>"May I never drink the 12th of July if I didn't think they
were priests."</p>

<p>"Priests!" said Mickey, in a roar of laughter,&mdash;"priests!"</p>

<p>"Just priests!"</p>

<p>"Be-gorra, though, ye had better keep that to yourself; for
they're not the<br>
men to have that same said to them."</p>

<p>"Of course I wouldn't offend them," said Mr. Crow; "faith,
it's not me<br>
would cast reflections upon such real out-and-outers as they are.
And where<br>
are they going now?"</p>

<p>"To Dublin straight; there's to be a grand lodge next week.
But sure Mr.<br>
Crow knows better than me."</p>

<p>Billy after this became silent. A moody revery seemed to steal
over him;<br>
and he was evidently displeased with himself for his want of tact
in not<br>
discovering the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash, though he only
caught<br>
sight of their backs.</p>

<p>Mickey Free interrupted not the frame of mind in which he saw
conviction<br>
was slowly working its way, but by gently humming in an undertone
the loyal<br>
melody of "Croppies Lie Down," fanned the flame he had so
dexterously<br>
kindled. At length they reached the small town of Kinnegad. While
the coach<br>
changed horses, Mr. Crow lost not a moment in descending from the
top, and<br>
rushing into the little inn, disappeared for a few moments. When
he again<br>
issued forth, he carried a smoking tumbler of whiskey punch,
which he<br>
continued to stir with a spoon. As he approached the coach-door
he tapped<br>
gently with his knuckles; upon which the reverend prelate of
Maronia, or<br>
Mesopotamia, I forget which, inquired what he wanted.</p>

<p>"I ask your pardon, gentlemen," said Billy, "but I thought I'd
make bold to<br>
ask you to take something warm this cold day."</p>

<p>"Many thanks, my good friend; but we never do," said a bland
voice from<br>
within.</p>

<p>"I understand," said Billy, with a sly wink; "but there are
circumstances<br>
now and then,&mdash;and one might for the honor of the cause, you
know. Just put<br>
it to your lips, won't you?"</p>

<p>"Excuse me," said a very rosy-cheeked little prelate, "but
nothing stronger<br>
than water&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Botheration," thought Billy, as he regarded the speaker's
nose. "But I<br>
thought," said he, aloud, "that you would not refuse this."</p>

<p>Here he made a peculiar manifestation in the air, which,
whatever respect<br>
and reverence it might carry to the honest brethren of 13,476,
seemed only<br>
to increase the wonder and astonishment of the bishops.</p>

<p>"What does he mean?" said one.</p>

<p>"Is he mad?" said another.</p>

<p>"Tear and ages," said Mr. Crow, getting quite impatient at the
slowness of<br>
his friends' perception,&mdash;"tear and ages, I'm one of
yourselves."</p>

<p>"One of us," said the three in chorus,&mdash;"one of us?"</p>

<p>"Ay, to be sure," here he took a long pull at the punch,&mdash;"to
be sure I am;<br>
here's 'No surrender,' your souls! whoop&mdash;" a loud yell
accompanying the<br>
toast as he drank it.</p>

<p>"Do you mean to insult us?" said Father P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;. "Guard, take
the fellow."</p>

<p>"Are we to be outraged in this manner?" chorussed the
priests.</p>

<p>"'July the 1st, in Oldbridge town,'" sang Billy, "and here it
is, 'The<br>
glorious, pious, and immortal memory of the great and
good&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"Guard! Where is the guard?"</p>

<p>"'And good King William, that saved us from Popery&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"Coachman! Guard!" screamed Father &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;.</p>

<p>"'Brass money&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"Policeman! policeman!" shouted the priests.</p>

<p>"'Brass money and wooden shoes;' devil may care who hears me!"
said Billy,<br>
who, supposing that the three Mr. Trenches were skulking the
avowal of<br>
their principles, resolved to assert the pre-eminence of the
great cause<br>
single-handed and alone.</p>

<a name="0126"></a>
<img alt="0126.jpg (152K)" src="0126.jpg" height="588" width="679">

<p>[MR. CROW WELL PLUCKED.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"'Here's the Pope in the pillory, and the Devil pelting him
with priests.'"</p>

<p>At these words a kick from behind apprised the loyal champion
that a very<br>
ragged auditory, who for some time past had not well understood
the gist of<br>
his eloquence, had at length comprehended enough to be angry.
<i>Ce n'est que<br>
le premier pas qui co&ucirc;te</i>, certainly, in an Irish row.
"The merest urchin<br>
may light the train; one handful of mud often ignites a shindy
that ends in<br>
a most bloody battle."</p>

<p>And here, no sooner did the <i>vis-a-tergo</i> impel Billy
forward than a severe<br>
rap of a closed fist in the eye drove him back, and in one
instant he<br>
became the centre to a periphery of kicks, cuffs, pullings, and
haulings<br>
that left the poor deputy-grand not only orange, but blue.</p>

<p>He fought manfully, but numbers carried the day; and when the
coach drove<br>
off, which it did at last without him, the last thing visible to
the<br>
outsides was the figure of Mr. Crow,&mdash;whose hat, minus the crown,
had been<br>
driven over his head down upon his neck, where it remained like a
dress<br>
cravat,&mdash;buffeting a mob of ragged vagabonds who had so
completely<br>
metamorphosed the unfortunate man with mud and bruises that a
committee of<br>
the grand lodge might actually have been unable to identify
him.</p>

<p>As for Mickey and his friends behind, their mirth knew no
bounds; and<br>
except the respectable insides, there was not an individual about
the coach<br>
who ceased to think of and laugh at the incident till we arrived
in Dublin<br>
and drew up at the Hibernian in Dawson Street.</p>

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

<p>DUBLIN.</p>

<p>No sooner had I arrived in Dublin than my first care was to
present myself<br>
to Dr. Mooney, by whom I was received in the most cordial manner.
In fact,<br>
in my utter ignorance of such persons, I had imagined a college
fellow to<br>
be a character necessarily severe and unbending; and as the only
two very<br>
great people I had ever seen in my life were the Archbishop of
Tuam and the<br>
chief-baron when on circuit, I pictured to myself that a
university<br>
fellow was, in all probability, a cross between the two, and
feared him<br>
accordingly.</p>

<p>The doctor read over my uncle's letter attentively, invited me
to partake<br>
of his breakfast, and then entered upon something like an account
of the<br>
life before me; for which Sir Harry Boyle had, however, in some
degree<br>
prepared me.</p>

<p>"Your uncle, I find, wishes you to live in college,&mdash;perhaps
it is better,<br>
too,&mdash;so that I must look out for chambers for you. Let me see:
it will be<br>
rather difficult, just now, to find them." Here he fell for some
moments<br>
into a musing fit, and merely muttered a few broken sentences,
as: "To be<br>
sure, if other chambers could be had&mdash;but then&mdash;and after all,
perhaps, as<br>
he is young&mdash;besides, Frank will certainly be expelled before
long, and<br>
then he will have them all to himself. I say, O'Malley, I believe
I must<br>
quarter you for the present with a rather wild companion; but as
your uncle<br>
says you're a prudent fellow,"&mdash;here he smiled very much, as if
my uncle<br>
had not said any such thing,&mdash;"why, you must only take the better
care of<br>
yourself until we can make some better arrangement. My pupil,
Frank Webber,<br>
is at this moment in want of a 'chum,' as the phrase is,&mdash;his
last three<br>
having only been domesticated with him for as many weeks; so that
until we<br>
find you a more quiet resting-place, you may take up your abode
with him."</p>

<p>During breakfast, the doctor proceeded to inform me that my
destined<br>
companion was a young man of excellent family and good fortune
who, with<br>
very considerable talents and acquirements, preferred a life of
rackety and<br>
careless dissipation to prospects of great success in public
life, which<br>
his connection and family might have secured for him. That he had
been<br>
originally entered at Oxford, which he was obliged to leave; then
tried<br>
Cambridge, from which he escaped expulsion by being
rusticated,&mdash;that<br>
is, having incurred a sentence of temporary banishment; and
lastly, was<br>
endeavoring, with what he himself believed to be a total
reformation, to<br>
stumble on to a degree in the "silent sister."</p>

<p>"This is his third year," said the doctor, "and he is only a
freshman,<br>
having lost every examination, with abilities enough to sweep
the<br>
university of its prizes. But come over now, and I'll present you
to him."</p>

<p>I followed him down-stairs, across the court to an angle of
the old square<br>
where, up the first floor left, to use the college direction,
stood the<br>
name of Mr. Webber, a large No. 2 being conspicuously painted in
the middle<br>
of the door and not over it, as is usually the custom. As we
reached the<br>
spot, the observations of my companion were lost to me in the
tremendous<br>
noise and uproar that resounded from within. It seemed as if a
number of<br>
people were fighting pretty much as a banditti in a melodrama do,
with<br>
considerable more of confusion than requisite; a fiddle and a
French horn<br>
also lent their assistance to shouts and cries which, to say the
best, were<br>
not exactly the aids to study I expected in such a place.</p>

<p>Three times was the bell pulled with a vigor that threatened
its downfall,<br>
when at last, as the jingle of it rose above all other noises,
suddenly<br>
all became hushed and still; a momentary pause succeeded, and the
door was<br>
opened by a very respectable looking servant who, recognizing the
doctor,<br>
at once introduced us into the apartment where Mr. Webber was
sitting.</p>

<p>In a large and very handsomely furnished room, where Brussels
carpeting and<br>
softly cushioned sofas contrasted strangely with the meagre and
comfortless<br>
chambers of the doctor, sat a young man at a small
breakfast-table beside<br>
the fire. He was attired in a silk dressing-gown and black velvet
slippers,<br>
and supported his forehead upon a hand of most lady-like
whiteness, whose<br>
fingers were absolutely covered with rings of great beauty and
price. His<br>
long silky brown hair fell in rich profusion upon the back of his
neck and<br>
over his arm, and the whole air and attitude was one which a
painter might<br>
have copied. So intent was he upon the volume before him that he
never<br>
raised his head at our approach, but continued to read aloud,
totally<br>
unaware of our presence.</p>

<p>"Dr. Mooney, sir," said the servant.</p>

<p>"Ton dapamey bominos, prosephe, crione Agamemnon" repeated the
student,<br>
in an ecstasy, and not paying the slightest attention to the
announcement.</p>

<p>"Dr. Mooney, sir," repeated the servant, in a louder tone,
while the doctor<br>
looked around on every side for an explanation of the late
uproar, with a<br>
face of the most puzzled astonishment.</p>

<p>"Be dakiown para thina dolekoskion enkos" said Mr. Webber,
finishing a<br>
cup of coffee at a draught.</p>

<p>"Well, Webber, hard at work I see," said the doctor.</p>

<p>"Ah, Doctor, I beg pardon! Have you been long here?" said the
most soft and<br>
insinuating voice, while the speaker passed his taper fingers
across his<br>
brow, as if to dissipate the traces of deep thought and
study.</p>

<p>While the doctor presented me to my future companion, I could
perceive, in<br>
the restless and searching look he threw around, that the fracas
he had so<br>
lately heard was still an unexplained and <i>vexata questio</i>
in his mind.</p>

<p>"May I offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. O'Malley?" said the
youth, with an<br>
air of almost timid bashfulness. "The doctor, I know, breakfasts
at a very<br>
early hour."</p>

<p>"I say, Webber," said the doctor, who could no longer restrain
his<br>
curiosity, "what an awful row I heard here as I came up to the
door. I<br>
thought Bedlam was broke loose. What could it have been?"</p>

<p>"Ah, you heard it too, sir," said Mr. Webber, smiling most
benignly.</p>

<p>"Hear it? To be sure I did. O'Malley and I could not hear
ourselves talking<br>
with the uproar."</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed, it is very provoking; but then, what's to be
done? One can't<br>
complain, under the circumstances."</p>

<p>"Why, what do you mean?" said Mooney, anxiously.</p>

<p>"Nothing, sir; nothing. I'd much rather you'd not ask me; for
after all,<br>
I'll change my chambers."</p>

<p>"But why? Explain this at once. I insist upon it."</p>

<p>"Can I depend upon the discretion of your young friend?" said
Mr. Webber,<br>
gravely.</p>

<p>"Perfectly," said the doctor, now wound up to the greatest
anxiety to learn<br>
a secret.</p>

<p>"And you'll promise not to mention the thing except among your
friends?"</p>

<p>"I do," said the doctor.</p>

<p>"Well, then," said he, in a low and confident whisper, "it's
the dean."</p>

<p>"The dean!" said Mooney, with a start. "The dean! Why, how can
it be the<br>
dean?"</p>

<p>"Too true," said Mr. Webber, making a sign of drinking,&mdash;"too
true, Doctor.<br>
And then, the moment he is so, he begins smashing the furniture.
Never was<br>
anything heard like it. As for me, as I am now become a reading
man, I must<br>
go elsewhere."</p>

<p>Now, it so chanced that the worthy dean, who albeit a man of
most<br>
abstemious habits, possessed a nose which, in color and
development, was a<br>
most unfortunate witness to call to character, and as Mooney
heard Webber<br>
narrate circumstantially the frightful excesses of the great
functionary, I<br>
saw that something like conviction was stealing over him.</p>

<p>"You'll, of course, never speak of this except to your most
intimate<br>
friends," said Webber.</p>

<p>"Of course not," said the doctor, as he shook his hand warmly,
and prepared<br>
to leave the room. "O'Malley, I leave you here," said he; "Webber
and you<br>
can talk over your arrangements."</p>

<p>Webber followed the doctor to the door, whispered something in
his ear, to<br>
which the other replied, "Very well, I will write; but if your
father<br>
sends the money, I must insist&mdash;" The rest was lost in
protestations and<br>
professions of the most fervent kind, amidst which the door was
shut, and<br>
Mr. Webber returned to the room.</p>

<p>Short as was the interspace from the door without to the room
within, it<br>
was still ample enough to effect a very thorough and remarkable
change in<br>
the whole external appearance of Mr. Frank Webber; for scarcely
had the<br>
oaken panel shut out the doctor, when he appeared no longer the
shy, timid,<br>
and silvery-toned gentleman of five minutes before, but dashing
boldly<br>
forward, he seized a key-bugle that lay hid beneath a
sofa-cushion and blew<br>
a tremendous blast.</p>

<a name="0132"></a>
<img alt="0132.jpg (153K)" src="0132.jpg" height="565" width="719">

<p>[FRANK WEBBER AT HIS STUDIES.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Come forth, ye demons of the lower world," said he, drawing a
cloth from<br>
a large table, and discovering the figures of three young men
coiled up<br>
beneath. "Come forth, and fear not, most timorous freshmen that
ye are,"<br>
said he, unlocking a pantry, and liberating two others.
"Gentlemen, let<br>
me introduce to your acquaintance Mr. O'Malley. My chum,
gentlemen. Mr.<br>
O'Malley, that is Harry Nesbitt, who has been in college since
the days of<br>
old Perpendicular, and numbers more cautions than any man who
ever had his<br>
name on the books. Here is my particular friend, Cecil Cavendish,
the only<br>
man who could ever devil kidneys. Captain Power, Mr. O'Malley, a
dashing<br>
dragoon, as you see; aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Lord
Lieutenant,<br>
and love-maker-general to Merrion Square West. These," said he,
pointing to<br>
the late denizens of the pantry, "are jibs whose names are
neither known to<br>
the proctor nor the police-office; but with due regard to their
education<br>
and morals, we don't despair."</p>

<p>"By no means," said Power; "but come, let us resume our game."
At these<br>
words he took a folio atlas of maps from a small table, and
displayed<br>
beneath a pack of cards, dealt as if for whist. The two gentlemen
to whom<br>
I was introduced by name returned to their places; the unknown
two put on<br>
their boxing gloves, and all resumed the hilarity which Dr.
Mooney's advent<br>
had so suddenly interrupted.</p>

<p>"Where's Moore?" said Webber, as he once more seated himself
at his<br>
breakfast.</p>

<p>"Making a spatch-cock, sir," said the servant.</p>

<p>At the same instant, a little, dapper, jovial-looking
personage appeared<br>
with the dish in question.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, Mr. Moore, the gentleman who, by repeated
remonstrances to<br>
the board, has succeeded in getting eatable food for the
inhabitants of<br>
this penitentiary, and has the honored reputation of reforming
the commons<br>
of college."</p>

<p>"Anything to Godfrey O'Malley, may I ask, sir?" said
Moore.</p>

<p>"His nephew," I replied.</p>

<p>"Which of you winged the gentleman the other day for not
passing the<br>
decanter, or something of that sort?"</p>

<p>"If you mean the affair with Mr. Bodkin, it was I."</p>

<p>"Glorious, that; begad, I thought you were one of us. I say,
Power, it was<br>
he pinked Bodkin."</p>

<p>"Ah, indeed," said Power, not turning his head from his game,
"a pretty<br>
shot, I heard,&mdash;two by honors,&mdash;and hit him fairly,&mdash;the odd
trick.<br>
Hammersley mentioned the thing to me."</p>

<p>"Oh, is he in town?" said I.</p>

<p>"No; he sailed for Portsmouth yesterday. He is to join the
llth&mdash;game. I<br>
say, Webber, you've lost the rubber."</p>

<p>"Double or quit, and a dinner at Dunleary," said Webber. "We
must show<br>
O'Malley,&mdash;confound the Mister!&mdash;something of the place."</p>

<p>"Agreed."</p>

<p>The whist was resumed; the boxers, now refreshed by a leg of
the<br>
spatch-cock, returned to their gloves; Mr. Moore took up his
violin; Mr.<br>
Webber his French horn; and I was left the only unemployed man in
the<br>
company.</p>

<p>"I say, Power, you'd better bring the drag over here for us;
we can all go<br>
down together."</p>

<p>"I must inform you," said Cavendish, "that, thanks to your
philanthropic<br>
efforts of last night, the passage from Grafton Street to
Stephen's<br>
Green is impracticable." A tremendous roar of laughter followed
this<br>
announcement; and though at the time the cause was unknown to me,
I may as<br>
well mention it here, as I subsequently learned it from my
companions.</p>

<p>Among the many peculiar tastes which distinguished Mr. Francis
Webber was<br>
an extraordinary fancy for street-begging. He had, over and over,
won large<br>
sums upon his success in that difficult walk; and so perfect were
his<br>
disguises,&mdash;both of dress, voice, and manner,&mdash;that he actually
at one time<br>
succeeded in obtaining charity from his very opponent in the
wager. He<br>
wrote ballads with the greatest facility, and sang them with
infinite<br>
pathos and humor; and the old woman at the corner of College
Green was<br>
certain of an audience when the severity of the night would leave
all other<br>
minstrelsy deserted. As these feats of <i>jonglerie</i> usually
terminated in a<br>
row, it was a most amusing part of the transaction to see the
singer's part<br>
taken by the mob against the college men, who, growing impatient
to carry<br>
him off to supper somewhere, would invariably be obliged to have
a fight<br>
for the booty.</p>

<p>Now it chanced that a few evenings before, Mr. Webber was
returning with a<br>
pocket well lined with copper from a musical <i>reunion</i> he
had held at the<br>
corner of York Street, when the idea struck him to stop at the
end of<br>
Grafton Street, where a huge stone grating at that time
exhibited&mdash;perhaps<br>
it exhibits still&mdash;the descent to one of the great main sewers of
the city.</p>

<p>The light was shining brightly from a pastrycook's shop, and
showed the<br>
large bars of stone between which the muddy water was rushing
rapidly down<br>
and plashing in the torrent that ran boisterously several feet
beneath.</p>

<p>To stop in the street of any crowded city is, under any
circumstances, an<br>
invitation to others to do likewise which is rarely unaccepted;
but when<br>
in addition to this you stand fixedly in one spot and regard with
stern<br>
intensity any object near you, the chances are ten to one that
you have<br>
several companions in your curiosity before a minute expires.</p>

<p>Now, Webber, who had at first stood still without any peculiar
thought in<br>
view, no sooner perceived that he was joined by others than the
idea of<br>
making something out of it immediately occurred to him.</p>

<p>"What is it, agra?" inquired an old woman, very much in his
own style of<br>
dress, pulling at the hood of his cloak. "And can't you see for
yourself,<br>
darling?" replied he, sharply, as he knelt down and looked most
intensely<br>
at the sewer.</p>

<p>"Are ye long there, avick?" inquired he of an imaginary
individual below,<br>
and then waiting as if for a reply, said,</p>

<p>"Two hours! Blessed Virgin, he's two hours in the drain!"</p>

<p>By this time the crowd had reached entirely across the street,
and the<br>
crushing and squeezing to get near the important spot was
awful.</p>

<p>"Where did he come from?" "Who is he?" "How did he get there?"
were<br>
questions on every side; and various surmises were afloat till
Webber,<br>
rising from his knees, said, in a mysterious whisper, to those
nearest him,<br>
"He's made his escape to-night out o' Newgate by the big drain,
and lost<br>
his way; he was looking for the Liffey, and took the wrong
turn."</p>

<p>To an Irish mob what appeal could equal this? A culprit at any
time has<br>
his claim upon their sympathy; but let him be caught in the very
act of<br>
cheating the authorities and evading the law, and his popularity
knows<br>
no bounds. Webber knew this well, and as the mob thickened around
him<br>
sustained an imaginary conversation that Savage Landor might have
envied,<br>
imparting now and then such hints concerning the runaway as
raised their<br>
interest to the highest pitch, and fifty different versions were
related on<br>
all sides,&mdash;of the crime he was guilty of, the sentence that was
passed on<br>
him, and the day he was to suffer.</p>

<p>"Do you see the light, dear?" said Webber, as some ingeniously
benevolent<br>
individual had lowered down a candle with a string,&mdash;"do ye see
the light?<br>
Oh, he's fainted, the creature!" A cry of horror burst forth from
the crowd<br>
at these words, followed by a universal shout of, "Break open the
street."</p>

<p>Pickaxes, shovels, spades, and crowbars seemed absolutely the
walking<br>
accompaniments of the crowd, so suddenly did they appear upon the
field of<br>
action; and the work of exhumation was begun with a vigor that
speedily<br>
covered nearly half of the street with mud and paving-stones.
Parties<br>
relieved each other at the task, and ere half an hour a hole
capable<br>
of containing a mail-coach was yawning in one of the most
frequented<br>
thoroughfares of Dublin. Meanwhile, as no appearance of the
culprit could<br>
be had, dreadful conjectures as to his fate began to gain ground.
By this<br>
time the authorities had received intimation of what was going
forward, and<br>
attempted to disperse the crowd; but Webber, who still continued
to conduct<br>
the prosecution, called on them to resist the police and save the
poor<br>
creature. And now began a most terrific fray: the stones, forming
a ready<br>
weapon, were hurled at the unprepared constables, who on their
side fought<br>
manfully, but against superior numbers; so that at last it was
only by the<br>
aid of a military force the mob could be dispersed, and a riot
which had<br>
assumed a very serious character got under. Meanwhile Webber had
reached<br>
his chambers, changed his costume, and was relating over a
supper-table the<br>
narrative of his philanthropy to a very admiring circle of his
friends.</p>

<p>Such was my chum, Frank Webber; and as this was the first
anecdote I had<br>
heard of him, I relate it here that my readers may be in
possession of the<br>
grounds upon which my opinion of that celebrated character was
founded,<br>
while yet our acquaintance was in its infancy.</p>

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

<p>CAPTAIN POWER.</p>

<p>Within a few weeks after my arrival in town I had become a
matriculated<br>
student of the university, and the possessor of chambers within
its walls<br>
in conjunction with the sage and prudent gentleman I have
introduced to my<br>
readers in the last chapter. Had my intentions on entering
college been of<br>
the most studious and regular kind, the companion into whose
society I<br>
was then immediately thrown would have quickly dissipated them.
He voted<br>
morning chapels a bore, Greek lectures a humbug, examinations a
farce,<br>
and pronounced the statute-book, with its attendant train of
fines<br>
and punishment, an "unclean thing." With all my country habits
and<br>
predilections fresh upon me, that I was an easily-won disciple to
his code<br>
need not be wondered at; and indeed ere many days had passed
over, my<br>
thorough indifference to all college rules and regulations had
given me a<br>
high place in the esteem of Webber and his friends. As for
myself, I was<br>
most agreeably surprised to find that what I had looked forward
to as a<br>
very melancholy banishment, was likely to prove a most agreeable
sojourn.<br>
Under Webber's directions there was no hour of the day that hung
heavily<br>
upon our hands. We rose about eleven and breakfasted, after which
succeeded<br>
fencing, sparring, billiards, or tennis in the park; about three,
got on<br>
horseback, and either cantered in the Phoenix or about the
squares till<br>
visiting time; after which, made our calls, and then dressed
for<br>
dinner, which we never thought of taking at commons, but had it
from<br>
Morrison's,&mdash;we both being reported sick in the dean's list, and
thereby<br>
exempt from the routine fare of the fellows' table. In the
evening our<br>
occupations became still more pressing; there were balls,
suppers, whist<br>
parties, rows at the theatre, shindies in the street, devilled
drumsticks<br>
at Hayes's, select oyster parties at the Carlingford,&mdash;in fact,
every known<br>
method of remaining up all night, and appearing both pale and
penitent the<br>
following morning.</p>

<p>Webber had a large acquaintance in Dublin, and soon made me
known to them<br>
all. Among others, the officers of the &mdash;th Light Dragoons, in
which<br>
regiment Power was captain, were his particular friends; and we
had<br>
frequent invitations to dine at their mess. There it was first
that<br>
military life presented itself to me in its most attractive
possible form,<br>
and heightened the passion I had already so strongly conceived
for<br>
the army. Power, above all others, took my fancy. He was a
gay,<br>
dashing-looking, handsome fellow of about eight-and-twenty, who
had already<br>
seen some service, having joined while his regiment was in
Portugal; was in<br>
heart and soul a soldier; and had that species of pride and
enthusiasm in<br>
all that regarded a military career that forms no small part of
the charm<br>
in the character of a young officer.</p>

<p>I sat near him the second day we dined at the mess, and was
much pleased at<br>
many slight attentions in his manner towards me.</p>

<p>"I called on you to-day, Mr. O'Malley," said he, "in company
with a friend<br>
who is most anxious to see you."</p>

<p>"Indeed," said I, "I did not hear of it."</p>

<p>"We left no cards, either of us, as we were determined to make
you out on<br>
another day; my companion has most urgent reasons for seeing you.
I see you<br>
are puzzled," said he; "and although I promised to keep his
secret, I must<br>
blab. It was Sir George Dashwood was with me; he told us of your
most<br>
romantic adventure in the west,&mdash;and faith there is no doubt you
saved the<br>
lady's life."</p>

<p>"Was she worth the trouble of it?" said the old major, whose
conjugal<br>
experiences imparted a very crusty tone to the question.</p>

<p>"I think," said I, "I need only tell her name to convince you
of it."</p>

<p>"Here's a bumper to her," said Power, filling his glass; "and
every true<br>
man will follow my example."</p>

<p>When the hip-hipping which followed the toast was over, I
found myself<br>
enjoying no small share of the attention of the party as the
deliverer of<br>
Lucy Dashwood.</p>

<p>"Sir George is cudgelling his brain to show his gratitude to
you," said<br>
Power.</p>

<p>"What a pity, for the sake of his peace of mind, that you're
not in the<br>
army," said another; "it's so easy to show a man a delicate
regard by a<br>
quick promotion."</p>

<p>"A devil of a pity for his own sake, too," said Power, again;
"they're<br>
going to make a lawyer of as strapping a fellow as ever carried
a<br>
sabretasche."</p>

<p>"A lawyer!" cried out half a dozen together, pretty much with
the same tone<br>
and emphasis as though he had said a twopenny postman; "the devil
they<br>
are."</p>

<p>"Cut the service at once; you'll get no promotion in it," said
the colonel;<br>
"a fellow with a black eye like you would look much better at the
head of<br>
a squadron than of a string of witnesses. Trust me, you'd shine
more in<br>
conducting a picket than a prosecution."</p>

<p>"But if I can't?" said I.</p>

<p>"Then take my plan," said Power, "and make it cut
<i>you</i>."</p>

<p>"Yours?" said two or three in a breath,&mdash;"yours?"</p>

<p>"Ay, mine; did you never know that I was bred to the bar?
Come, come, if<br>
it was only for O'Malley's use and benefit, as we say in the
parchments, I<br>
must tell you the story."</p>

<p>The claret was pushed briskly round, chairs drawn up to fill
any vacant<br>
spaces, and Power began his story.</p>

<p>"As I am not over long-winded, don't be scared at my beginning
my<br>
history somewhat far back. I began life that most unlucky of all
earthly<br>
contrivances for supplying casualties in case anything may befall
the heir<br>
of the house,&mdash;a species of domestic jury-mast, only lugged out
in a gale<br>
of wind,&mdash;a younger son. My brother Tom, a thick-skulled,
pudding-headed<br>
dog, that had no taste for anything save his dinner, took it into
his wise<br>
head one morning that he would go into the army, and although I
had been<br>
originally destined for a soldier, no sooner was his choice made
than<br>
all regard for my taste and inclination was forgotten; and as the
family<br>
interest was only enough for one, it was decided that I should be
put in<br>
what is called a 'learned profession,' and let push my fortune.
'Take<br>
your choice, Dick,' said my father, with a most benign
smile,&mdash;'take your<br>
choice, boy: will you be a lawyer, a parson, or a doctor?'</p>

<p>"Had he said, 'Will you be put in the stocks, the pillory, or
publicly<br>
whipped?' I could not have looked more blank than at the
question.</p>

<p>"As a decent Protestant, he should have grudged me to the
Church; as a<br>
philanthropist, he might have scrupled at making me a physician;
but as he<br>
had lost deeply by law-suits, there looked something very like a
lurking<br>
malice in sending me to the bar. Now, so far, I concurred with
him; for<br>
having no gift for enduring either sermons or senna, I thought
I'd make a<br>
bad administrator of either, and as I was ever regarded in the
family as<br>
rather of a shrewd and quick turn, with a very natural taste for
roguery, I<br>
began to believe he was right, and that Nature intended me for
the circuit.</p>

<p>"From the hour my vocation was pronounced, it had been happy
for the family<br>
that they could have got rid of me. A certain ambition to rise in
my<br>
profession laid hold on me, and I meditated all day and night how
I was to<br>
get on. Every trick, every subtle invention to cheat the enemy
that I could<br>
read of, I treasured up carefully, being fully impressed with the
notion<br>
that roguery meant law, and equity was only another name for odd
and even.</p>

<p>"My days were spent haranguing special juries of housemaids
and<br>
laundresses, cross-examining the cook, charging the under-butler,
and<br>
passing sentence of death upon the pantry boy, who, I may add,
was<br>
invariably hanged when the court rose.</p>

<p>"If the mutton were overdone, or the turkey burned, I drew up
an indictment<br>
against old Margaret, and against the kitchen-maid as accomplice,
and the<br>
family hungered while I harangued; and, in fact, into such
disrepute did I<br>
bring the legal profession, by the score of annoyance of which I
made<br>
it the vehicle, that my father got a kind of holy horror of law
courts,<br>
judges, and crown solicitors, and absented himself from the
assizes the<br>
same year, for which, being a high sheriff, he paid a penalty of
five<br>
hundred pounds.</p>

<p>"The next day I was sent off in disgrace to Dublin to begin my
career in<br>
college, and eat the usual quartos and folios of beef and mutton
which<br>
qualify a man for the woolsack.</p>

<p>"Years rolled over, in which, after an ineffectual effort to
get through<br>
college, the only examination I ever got being a jubilee for the
king's<br>
birthday, I was at length called to the Irish bar, and saluted by
my<br>
friends as Counsellor Power. The whole thing was so like a joke
to me that<br>
it kept me in laughter for three terms; and in fact it was the
best thing<br>
could happen me, for I had nothing else to do. The hall of the
Four Courts<br>
was a very pleasant lounge; plenty of agreeable fellows that
never earned<br>
sixpence or were likely to do so. Then the circuits were so many
country<br>
excursions, that supplied fun of one kind or other, but no
profit. As for<br>
me, I was what was called a good junior. I knew how to look after
the<br>
waiters, to inspect the decanting of the wine and the airing of
the claret,<br>
and was always attentive to the father of the circuit,&mdash;the
crossest old<br>
villain that ever was a king's counsel. These eminent qualities,
and my<br>
being able to sing a song in honor of our own bar, were
recommendations<br>
enough to make me a favorite, and I was one.</p>

<p>"Now, the reputation I obtained was pleasant enough at first,
but I began<br>
to wonder that I never got a brief. Somehow, if it rained civil
bills or<br>
declarations, devil a one would fall upon my head; and it seemed
as if<br>
the only object I had in life was to accompany the circuit, a
kind of<br>
deputy-assistant commissary-general, never expected to come into
action.<br>
To be sure, I was not alone in misfortune; there were several
promising<br>
youths, who cut great figures in Trinity, in the same
predicament, the only<br>
difference being, that they attributed to jealousy what I
suspected was<br>
forgetfulness, for I don't think a single attorney in Dublin knew
one of<br>
us.</p>

<p>"Two years passed over, and then I walked the hall with a bag
filled with<br>
newspapers to look like briefs, and was regularly called by two
or three<br>
criers from one court to the other. It never took. Even when I
used to<br>
seduce a country friend to visit the courts, and get him into an
animated<br>
conversation in a corner between two pillars, devil a one would
believe him<br>
to be a client, and I was fairly nonplussed.</p>

<p>"'How is a man ever to distinguish himself in such a walk as
this?' was my<br>
eternal question to myself every morning, as I put on my wig. 'My
face is<br>
as well known here as Lord Manners's.' Every one says, 'How are
you, Dick?'<br>
'How goes it, Power?' But except Holmes, that said one morning as
he passed<br>
me, 'Eh, always busy?' no one alludes to the possibility of my
having<br>
anything to do.</p>

<p>"'If I could only get a footing,' thought I, 'Lord, how I'd
astonish them!<br>
As the song says:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Perhaps a recruit<br>
    Might chance to shoo<br>
      Great General Buonapart&eacute;."</p>

<p>So,' said I to myself, 'I'll make these halls ring for it some
day or<br>
other, if the occasion ever present itself.' But, faith, it
seemed as if<br>
some cunning solicitor overheard me and told his associates, for
they<br>
avoided me like a leprosy. The home circuit I had adopted for
some time<br>
past, for the very palpable reason that being near town it was
least<br>
costly, and it had all the advantages of any other for me in
getting me<br>
nothing to do. Well, one morning we were in Philipstown; I was
lying awake<br>
in bed, thinking how long it would be before I'd sum up
resolution to cut<br>
the bar, where certainly my prospects were not the most cheering,
when some<br>
one tapped gently at my door.</p>

<p>"'Come in,' said I.</p>

<p>"The waiter opened gently, and held out his hand with a large
roll of paper<br>
tied round with a piece of red tape.</p>

<p>"'Counsellor,' said he, 'handsel.'</p>

<p>"'What do you mean?' said I, jumping out of bed. 'What is it,
you villain?'</p>

<p>"'A brief.'</p>

<p>"'A brief. So I see; but it's for Counsellor Kinshella, below
stairs.' That<br>
was the first name written on it.</p>

<p>"'Bethershin,' said he, 'Mr. M'Grath bid me give it to you
carefully.'</p>

<p>"By this time I had opened the envelope and read my own name
at full length<br>
as junior counsel in the important case of Monaghan <i>v</i>.
M'Shean, to be<br>
tried in the Record Court at Ballinasloe. 'That will do,' said I,
flinging<br>
it on the bed with a careless air, as if it were a very every-day
matter<br>
with me.</p>

<p>"'But Counsellor, darlin', give us a thrifle to dhrink your
health with<br>
your first cause, and the Lord send you plenty of them!'</p>

<p>"'My first,' said I, with a smile of most ineffable compassion
at his<br>
simplicity; 'I'm worn out with them. Do you know, Peter, I was
thinking<br>
seriously of leaving the bar, when you came into the room? Upon
my<br>
conscience, it's in earnest I am.'</p>

<p>"Peter believed me, I think, for I saw him give a very
peculiar look as he<br>
pocketed his half-crown and left the room.</p>

<p>"The door was scarcely closed when I gave way to the free
transport of my<br>
ecstasy; there it lay at last, the long looked-for, long
wished-for object<br>
of all my happiness, and though I well knew that a junior counsel
has about<br>
as much to do in the conducting of a case as a rusty handspike
has in a<br>
naval engagement, yet I suffered not such thoughts to mar the
current of my<br>
happiness. There was my name in conjunction with the two mighty
leaders on<br>
the circuit; and though they each pocketed a hundred, I doubt
very much if<br>
they received their briefs with one half the satisfaction. My joy
at length<br>
a little subdued, I opened the roll of paper and began carefully
to peruse<br>
about fifty pages of narrative regarding a watercourse that once
had turned<br>
a mill; but, from some reasons doubtless known to itself or its
friends,<br>
would do so no longer, and thus set two respectable neighbors
at<br>
loggerheads, and involved them in a record that had been now
heard three<br>
several times.</p>

<p>"Quite forgetting the subordinate part I was destined to fill,
I opened<br>
the case in a most flowery oration, in which I descanted upon the
benefits<br>
accruing to mankind from water-communication since the days of
Noah;<br>
remarking upon the antiquity of mills, and especially of millers,
and<br>
consumed half an hour in a preamble of generalities that I hoped
would make<br>
a very considerable impression upon the court. Just at the
critical moment<br>
when I was about to enter more particularly into the case, three
or four<br>
of the great unbriefed came rattling into my room, and broke in
upon the<br>
oration.</p>

<p>"'I say, Power,' said one, 'come and have an hour's skating on
the canal;<br>
the courts are filled, and we sha'n't be missed.'</p>

<p>"'Skate, my dear friend,' said I, in a most dolorous tone,
'out of the<br>
question; see, I am chained to a devilish knotty case with
Kinshella and<br>
Mills.'</p>

<p>"'Confound your humbugging,' said another, 'that may do very
well in Dublin<br>
for the attorneys, but not with us.'</p>

<p>"'I don't well understand you,' I replied; 'there is the
brief. Hennesy<br>
expects me to report upon it this evening, and I am so
hurried.'</p>

<p>"Here a very chorus of laughing broke forth, in which, after
several vain<br>
efforts to resist, I was forced to join, and kept it up with the
others.</p>

<p>"When our mirth was over, my friends scrutinized the
red-tape-tied packet,<br>
and pronounced it a real brief, with a degree of surprise that
certainly<br>
augured little for their familiarity with such objects of natural
history.</p>

<p>"When they had left the room, I leisurely examined the
all-important<br>
document, spreading it out before me upon the table, and
surveying it as<br>
a newly-anointed sovereign might be supposed to contemplate a map
of his<br>
dominions.</p>

<p>"'At last,' said I to myself,&mdash;'at last, and here is the
footstep to the<br>
woolsack.' For more than an hour I sat motionless, my eyes fixed
upon<br>
the outspread paper, lost in a very maze of revery. The ambition
which<br>
disappointments had crushed, and delay had chilled, came suddenly
back, and<br>
all my day-dreams of legal success, my cherished aspirations
after silk<br>
gowns and patents of precedence, rushed once more upon me, and I
was<br>
resolved to do or die. Alas, a very little reflection showed me
that the<br>
latter was perfectly practicable; but that, as a junior counsel,
five<br>
minutes of very common-place recitation was all my province, and
with the<br>
main business of the day I had about as much to do as the
call-boy of a<br>
playhouse has with the success of a tragedy.</p>

<p>"'My Lord, this is an action brought by Timothy Higgin,' etc.,
and down I<br>
go, no more to be remembered and thought of than if I had never
existed.<br>
How different it would be if I were the leader! Zounds, how I
would worry<br>
the witnesses, browbeat the evidence, cajole the jury, and soften
the<br>
judges! If the Lord were, in His mercy, to remove old Mills and
Kinshella<br>
before Tuesday, who knows but my fortune might be made? This
supposition<br>
once started, set me speculating upon all the possible chances
that might<br>
cut off two king's counsel in three days, and left me fairly
convinced that<br>
my own elevation was certain, were they only removed from my
path.</p>

<p>"For two whole days the thought never left my mind; and on the
evening of<br>
the second day, I sat moodily over my pint of port, in the
Clonbrock Arms,<br>
with my friend Timothy Casey, Captain in the North Cork Militia,
for my<br>
companion.</p>

<p>"'Dick,' said Tim, 'take off your wine, man. When does this
confounded<br>
trial come on?'</p>

<p>"'To-morrow,' said I, with a deep groan.</p>

<p>"'Well, well, and if it does, what matter?' he said; 'you'll
do well<br>
enough, never be afraid.'</p>

<p>"'Alas!' said I, 'you don't understand the cause of my
depression.' I here<br>
entered upon an account of my sorrows, which lasted for above an
hour, and<br>
only concluded just as a tremendous noise in the street without
announced<br>
an arrival. For several minutes such was the excitement in the
house, such<br>
running hither and thither, such confusion, and such hubbub, that
we could<br>
not make out who had arrived.</p>

<p>"At last a door opened quite near us, and we saw the waiter
assisting a<br>
very portly-looking gentleman off with his great-coat, assuring
him the<br>
while that if he would only walk into the coffee-room for ten
minutes, the<br>
fire in his apartment should be got ready. The stranger
accordingly entered<br>
and seated himself at the fireplace, having never noticed that
Casey and<br>
myself, the only persons there, were in the room.</p>

<p>"'I say, Phil, who is he?' inquired Casey of the waiter.</p>

<p>"'Counsellor Mills, Captain,' said the waiter, and left the
room.</p>

<p>"'That's your friend,' said Casey.</p>

<p>"'I see,' said I; 'and I wish with all my heart he was at home
with his<br>
pretty wife, in Leeson Street.'</p>

<p>"'Is she good-looking?' inquired Tim.</p>

<p>"'Devil a better,' said I; 'and he's as jealous as old
Nick.'</p>

<p>"'Hem,' said Tim, 'mind your cue, and I'll give him a start.'
Here he<br>
suddenly changed his whispering tone for one in a louder key, and
resumed:<br>
'I say, Power, it will make some work for you lawyers. But who
can she be?<br>
that's the question.' Here he took a much crumpled letter from
his pocket,<br>
and pretended to read: '"A great sensation was created in the
neighborhood<br>
of Merrion Square, yesterday, by the sudden disappearance from
her house of<br>
the handsome Mrs. &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;." Confound it!&mdash;what's the name? What a
hand he<br>
writes! Hill, or Miles, or something like that,&mdash;"the lady of an
eminent<br>
barrister, now on circuit. The gay Lothario is, they say, the
Hon. George<br>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;."' I was so thunderstruck at the rashness of the stroke, I
could say<br>
nothing; while the old gentleman started as if he had sat down on
a pin.<br>
Casey, meanwhile, went on.</p>

<p>"'Hell and fury!' said the king's counsel, rushing over, 'what
is it you're<br>
saying?'</p>

<p>"'You appear warm, old gentleman,' said Casey, putting up the
letter and<br>
rising from the table.</p>

<p>"'Show me that letter!&mdash;show me that infernal letter, sir,
this instant!'</p>

<p>"'Show you my letter,' said Casey; 'cool, that, anyhow. You
are certainly a<br>
good one.'</p>

<p>"'Do you know me, sir? Answer me that,' said the lawyer,
bursting with<br>
passion.</p>

<p>"'Not at present,' said Tim, quietly; 'but I hope to do so in
the morning<br>
in explanation of your language and conduct.' A tremendous
ringing of the<br>
bell here summoned the waiter to the room.</p>

<p>"'Who is that&mdash;' inquired the lawyer. The epithet he judged it
safe to<br>
leave unsaid, as he pointed to my friend Casey.</p>

<p>"'Captain Casey, sir, the commanding officer here.'</p>

<p>"'Just so,' said Casey. 'And very much, at your service any
hour after five<br>
in the morning.'</p>

<p>"'Then you refuse, sir, to explain the paragraph I have just
heard you<br>
read?'</p>

<p>"'Well done, old gentleman; so you have been listening to a
private<br>
conversation I held with my friend here. In that case we had
better retire<br>
to our room.' So saying, he ordered the waiter to send a fresh
bottle<br>
and glasses to No. 14, and taking my arm, very politely wished
Mr. Mills<br>
good-night, and left the coffee-room.</p>

<p>"Before we had reached the top of the stairs the house was
once more in<br>
commotion. The new arrival had ordered out fresh horses, and was
hurrying<br>
every one in his impatience to get away. In ten minutes the
chaise rolled<br>
off from the door; and Casey, putting his head out of the window,
wished<br>
him a pleasant journey; while turning to me, he said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'There's one of them out of the way for you, if we are even
obliged to<br>
fight the other.'</p>

<p>"The port was soon despatched, and with it went all the
scruples of<br>
conscience I had at first felt for the cruel <i>ruse</i> we had
just practised.<br>
Scarcely was the other bottle called for when we heard the
landlord calling<br>
out in a stentorian voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Two horses for Goran Bridge to meet Counsellor
Kinshella.'</p>

<p>"'That's the other fellow?' said Casey.</p>

<p>"'It is,' said I.</p>

<p>"'Then we must be stirring,' said he. 'Waiter, chaise and pair
in five<br>
minutes,&mdash;d'ye hear? Power, my boy, I don't want you; stay here
and study<br>
your brief. It's little trouble Counsellor Kinshella will give
you in the<br>
morning.'</p>

<p>"All he would tell me of his plans was that he didn't mean any
serious<br>
bodily harm to the counsellor, but that certainly he was not
likely to be<br>
heard of for twenty-four hours.</p>

<p>"'Meanwhile, Power, go in and win, my boy,' said he; 'such
another walk<br>
over may never occur.'</p>

<p>"I must not make my story longer. The next morning the great
record of<br>
Monaghan <i>v</i>. M'Shean was called on; and as the senior
counsel were not<br>
present, the attorney wished a postponement. I, however, was
firm; told<br>
the court I was quite prepared, and with such an air of assurance
that I<br>
actually puzzled the attorney. The case was accordingly opened by
me in a<br>
very brilliant speech, and the witnesses called; but such was my
unlucky<br>
ignorance of the whole matter that I actually broke down the
testimony of<br>
our own, and fought like a Trojan, for the credit and character
of the<br>
perjurers against us! The judge rubbed his eyes; the jury looked
amazed;<br>
and the whole bar laughed outright. However, on I went,
blundering,<br>
floundering, and foundering at every step; and at half-past four,
amidst<br>
the greatest and most uproarious mirth of the whole court, heard
the jury<br>
deliver a verdict against us, just as old Kinshella rushed into
the court<br>
covered with mud and spattered with clay. He had been sent for
twenty miles<br>
to make a will for Mr. Daly, of Daly's Mount, who was supposed to
be at<br>
the point of death, but who, on his arrival, threatened to shoot
him for<br>
causing an alarm to his family by such an imputation.</p>

<p>"The rest is soon told. They moved for a new trial, and I
moved out of the<br>
profession. I cut the bar, for it cut me. I joined the gallant
14th as a<br>
volunteer; and here I am without a single regret, I must confess,
that I<br>
didn't succeed in the great record of Monaghan <i>v</i>.
M'Shean."</p>

<p>Once more the claret went briskly round, and while we
canvassed Power's<br>
story, many an anecdote of military life was told, as every
instant<br>
increased the charm of that career I longed for.</p>

<p>"Another cooper, Major," said Power.</p>

<p>"With all my heart," said the rosy little officer, as he
touched the bell<br>
behind him; "and now let's have a song."</p>

<p>"Yes, Power," said three or four together; "let us have 'The
Irish<br>
Dragoon,' if it's only to convert your friend O'Malley
there."</p>

<p>"Here goes, then," said Dick, taking off a bumper as he began
the following<br>
chant to the air of "Love is the Soul of a gay Irishman":&mdash;</p>

<p>    THE IRISH DRAGOON.</p>

<p>    Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon<br>
    In battle, in bivouac, or in saloon,<br>
      From the tip of his spur to his bright sabretasche.<br>
    With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,<br>
    His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye,<br>
    He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,<br>
    He springs in his saddle and <i>chasses</i> the French,<br>
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.</p>

<p>    His spirits are high, and he little knows care,<br>
    Whether sipping his claret or charging a square,<br>
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.<br>
    As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found,<br>
    To take off his wine or to take up his ground;<br>
    When the bugle may call him, how little he fears<br>
    To charge forth in column and beat the Mounseers,<br>
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.</p>

<p>    When the battle is over, he gayly rides back<br>
    To cheer every soul in the night bivouac,<br>
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.<br>
    Oh, there you may see him in full glory crowned,<br>
    As he sits 'midst his friends on the hardly won ground,<br>
    And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,<br>
    As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live,<br>
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.</p>

<p>It was late when we broke up; but among all the recollections
of that<br>
pleasant evening none clung to me so forcibly, none sank so
deeply in my<br>
heart, as the gay and careless tone of Power's manly voice; and
as I fell<br>
asleep towards morning, the words of "The Irish Dragoon" were
floating<br>
through my mind and followed me in my dreams.</p>

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

<p>THE VICE-PROVOST.</p>

<p>I had now been for some weeks a resident within the walls of
the<br>
university, and yet had never presented my letter of introduction
to Dr.<br>
Barret. Somehow, my thoughts and occupations had left me little
leisure to<br>
reflect upon my college course, and I had not felt the necessity
suggested<br>
by my friend Sir Harry, of having a supporter in the very learned
and<br>
gifted individual to whom I was accredited. How long I might have
continued<br>
in this state of indifference it is hard to say, when chance
brought about<br>
my acquaintance with the doctor.</p>

<p>Were I not inditing a true history in this narrative of my
life, to the<br>
events and characters of which so many are living witnesses, I
should<br>
certainly fear to attempt anything like a description of this
very<br>
remarkable man; so liable would any sketch, however faint and
imperfect, be<br>
to the accusation of caricature, when all was so singular and so
eccentric.</p>

<p>Dr. Barret was, at the time I speak of, close upon seventy
years of age,<br>
scarcely five feet in height, and even that diminutive stature
lessened<br>
by a stoop. His face was thin, pointed, and russet-colored; his
nose so<br>
aquiline as nearly to meet his projecting chin, and his small
gray eyes,<br>
red and bleary, peered beneath his well-worn cap with a glance of
mingled<br>
fear and suspicion. His dress was a suit of the rustiest black,
threadbare,<br>
and patched in several places, while a pair of large brown
leather<br>
slippers, far too big for his feet, imparted a sliding motion to
his walk<br>
that added an air of indescribable meanness to his appearance; a
gown that<br>
had been worn for twenty years, browned and coated with the
learned dust of<br>
the <i>Fagel</i>, covered his rusty habiliments, and completed
the equipments of<br>
a figure that it was somewhat difficult for the young student to
recognize<br>
as the vice-provost of the university. Such was he in externals.
Within, a<br>
greater or more profound scholar never graced the walls of the
college;<br>
a distinguished Grecian, learned in all the refinements of a
hundred<br>
dialects; a deep Orientalist, cunning in all the varieties of
Eastern<br>
languages, and able to reason with a Moonshee, or chat with a
Persian<br>
ambassador. With a mind that never ceased acquiring, he possessed
a memory<br>
ridiculous for its retentiveness, even of trifles; no character
in history,<br>
no event in chronology was unknown to him, and he was referred to
by his<br>
contemporaries for information in doubtful and disputed cases, as
men<br>
consult a lexicon or dictionary. With an intellect thus stored
with deep<br>
and far-sought knowledge, in the affairs of the world he was a
child.<br>
Without the walls of the college, for above forty years, he had
not<br>
ventured half as many times, and knew absolutely nothing of the
busy,<br>
active world that fussed and fumed so near him; his farthest
excursion was<br>
to the Bank of Ireland, to which he made occasional visits to
fund the<br>
ample income of his office, and add to the wealth which already
had<br>
acquired for him a well-merited repute of being the richest man
in college.</p>

<p>His little intercourse with the world had left him, in all his
habits and<br>
manners, in every respect exactly as when he entered college
nearly half<br>
a century before; and as he had literally risen from the ranks in
the<br>
university, all the peculiarities of voice, accent, and
pronunciation which<br>
distinguished him as a youth, adhered to him in old age. This was
singular<br>
enough, and formed a very ludicrous contrast with the learned and
deep-read<br>
tone of his conversation; but another peculiarity, still more
striking,<br>
belonged to him. When he became a fellow, he was obliged, by the
rules of<br>
the college, to take holy orders as a <i>sine qua non</i> to his
holding his<br>
fellowship. This he did, as he would have assumed a red hood or
blue one,<br>
as bachelor of laws or doctor of medicine, and thought no more of
it;<br>
but frequently, in his moments of passionate excitement, the
venerable<br>
character with which he was invested was quite forgotten, and he
would<br>
utter some sudden and terrific oath, more productive of mirth to
his<br>
auditors than was seemly, and for which, once spoken, the poor
doctor felt<br>
the greatest shame and contrition. These oaths were no less
singular than<br>
forcible; and many a trick was practised, and many a plan
devised, that the<br>
learned vice-provost might be entrapped into his favorite
exclamation of,<br>
"May the devil admire me!" which no place or presence could
restrain.</p>

<p>My servant, Mike, who had not been long in making himself
acquainted with<br>
all the originals about him, was the cause of my first meeting
the doctor,<br>
before whom I received a summons to appear on the very serious
charge of<br>
treating with disrespect the heads of the college.</p>

<p>The circumstances were shortly these: Mike had, among the
other gossip of<br>
the place, heard frequent tales of the immense wealth and great
parsimony<br>
of the doctor, and of his anxiety to amass money on all
occasions, and the<br>
avidity with which even the smallest trifle was added to his
gains. He<br>
accordingly resolved to amuse himself at the expense of this
trait, and<br>
proceeded thus. Boring a hole in a halfpenny, he attached a long
string to<br>
it, and having dropped it on the doctor's step stationed himself
on the<br>
opposite side of the court, concealed from view by the angle of
the<br>
Commons' wall. He waited patiently for the chapel bell, at the
first toll<br>
of which the door opened, and the doctor issued forth. Scarcely
was his<br>
foot upon the step, when he saw the piece of money, and as
quickly stooped<br>
to seize it; but just as his finger had nearly touched it, it
evaded his<br>
grasp and slowly retreated. He tried again, but with the like
success. At<br>
last, thinking he had miscalculated the distance, he knelt
leisurely down,<br>
and put forth his hand, but lo! it again escaped him; on which,
slowly<br>
rising from his posture, he shambled on towards the chapel,
where, meeting<br>
the senior lecturer at the door, he cried out, "H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; to my
soul, Wall,<br>
but I saw the halfpenny walk away!"</p>

<p>For the sake of the grave character whom he addressed, I need
not recount<br>
how such a speech was received; suffice it to say, that Mike had
been seen<br>
by a college porter, who reported him as my servant.</p>

<p>I was in the very act of relating the anecdote to a large
party at<br>
breakfast in my rooms, when a summons arrived, requiring my
immediate<br>
attendance at the board, then sitting in solemn conclave at the
examination<br>
hall.</p>

<p>I accordingly assumed my academic costume as speedily as
possible, and<br>
escorted by that most august functionary, Mr. M'Alister,
presented myself<br>
before the seniors.</p>

<p>The members of the board, with the provost at their head, were
seated at a<br>
long oak table covered with books, papers, etc., and from the
silence they<br>
maintained as I walked up the hall, I augured that a very solemn
scene was<br>
before me.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley," said the dean, reading my name from a paper he
held in his<br>
hand, "you have been summoned here at the desire of the
vice-provost, whose<br>
questions you will reply to."</p>

<p>I bowed. A silence of a few minutes followed, when, at length,
the learned<br>
doctor, hitching up his nether garments with both hands, put his
old and<br>
bleary eyes close to my face, while he croaked out, with an
accent that no<br>
hackney-coachman could have exceeded in vulgarity,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Eh, O'Malley, you're <i>quartus</i>, I believe; a'n't
you?"</p>

<p>"I believe not. I think I am the only person of that name now
on the<br>
books."</p>

<p>"That's thrue; but there were three O'Malleys before you.
Godfrey O'Malley,<br>
that construed <i>Calve Neroni</i> to Nero the Calvinist,&mdash;ha!
ha! ha!&mdash;was<br>
cautioned in 1788."</p>

<p>"My uncle, I believe, sir."</p>

<p>"More than likely, from what I hear of you,&mdash;<i>Ex uno</i>,
etc. I see your name<br>
every day on the punishment roll. Late hours, never at chapel,
seldom at<br>
morning lecture. Here ye are, sixteen shillings, wearing a red
coat."</p>

<p>"Never knew any harm in that, Doctor."</p>

<p>"Ay, but d'ye see me, now? 'Grave raiment,' says the statute.
And then, ye<br>
keep numerous beasts of prey, dangerous in their habits, and
unseemly to<br>
behold."</p>

<p>"A bull terrier, sir, and two game-cocks, are, I assure you,
the only<br>
animals in my household."</p>

<p>"Well. I'll fine you for it."</p>

<p>"I believe, Doctor," said the dean, interrupting in an
undertone, "that you<br>
cannot impose a penalty in this matter."</p>

<p>"Ay, but I can. 'Singing-birds,' says the statute, 'are
forbidden within<br>
the wall.'"</p>

<p>"And then, ye dazzled my eyes at Commons with a bit of
looking-glass, on<br>
Friday. I saw you. May the devil!&mdash;ahem! As I was saying, that's
casting<br>
<i>reflections</i> on the heads of the college; and your servant
it was,<br>
<i>Michaelis Liber</i>, Mickey Free,&mdash;may the flames
of!&mdash;ahem!&mdash;an insolent<br>
varlet! called me a sweep."</p>

<p>"You, Doctor; impossible!" said I, with pretended horror.</p>

<p>"Ay, but d'ye see me, now? It's thrue, for I looked about me
at the time,<br>
and there wasn't another sweep in the place but myself. Hell
to!&mdash;I<br>
mean&mdash;God forgive me for swearing! but I'll fine you a pound for
this."</p>

<p>As I saw the doctor was getting on at such a pace, I
resolved,<br>
notwithstanding the august presence of the board, to try the
efficacy of<br>
Sir Harry's letter of introduction, which I had taken in my
pocket in the<br>
event of its being wanted.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, sir, if the time be an unsuitable one; but
may I take<br>
the opportunity of presenting this letter to you?"</p>

<p>"Ha! I know the hand&mdash;Boyle's. <i>Boyle secundus</i>. Hem, ha,
ay! 'My young<br>
friend; and assist him by your advice.' To be sure! Oh, of
course. Eh, tell<br>
me, young man, did Boyle say nothing to you about the copy of
Erasmus,<br>
bound in vellum, that I sold him in Trinity term, 1782?"</p>

<p>"I rather think not, sir," said I, doubtfully.</p>

<p>"Well, then, he might. He owes me two-and-fourpence of the
balance."</p>

<p>"Oh, I beg pardon, sir; I now remember he desired me to repay
you that sum;<br>
but he had just sealed the letter when he recollected it."</p>

<p>"Better late than never," said the doctor, smiling graciously.
"Where's the<br>
money? Ay! half-a-crown. I haven't twopence&mdash;never mind. Go away,
young<br>
man; the case is dismissed. <i>Vehementer miror quare hue
venisti</i>. You're<br>
more fit for anything than a college life. Keep good hours; mind
the terms;<br>
and dismiss <i>Michaelis Liber</i>. Ha, ha, ha! May the
devil!&mdash;hem!&mdash;that is<br>
do&mdash;" So saying, the little doctor's hand pushed me from the
hall, his mind<br>
evidently relieved of all the griefs from which he had been
suffering, by<br>
the recovery of his long-lost two-and-four-pence.</p>

<p>Such was my first and last interview with the vice-provost,
and it made an<br>
impression upon me that all the intervening years have neither
dimmed nor<br>
erased.</p>

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

<p>TRINITY COLLEGE.&mdash;A LECTURE.</p>

<p>I had not been many weeks a resident of Old Trinity ere the
flattering<br>
reputation my chum, Mr. Francis Webber, had acquired, extended
also to<br>
myself; and by universal consent, we were acknowledged the most
riotous,<br>
ill-conducted, disorderly men on the books of the university.
Were the<br>
lamps of the squares extinguished, and the college left in total
darkness,<br>
we were summoned before the dean; was the vice-provost serenaded
with<br>
a chorus of trombones and French horns, to our taste in music was
the<br>
attention ascribed; did a sudden alarm of fire disturb the
congregation<br>
at morning chapel, Messrs. Webber and O'Malley were brought
before the<br>
board,&mdash;and I must do them the justice to say that the most
trifling<br>
circumstantial evidence was ever sufficient to bring a
conviction. Reading<br>
men avoided the building where we resided as they would have done
the<br>
plague. Our doors, like those of a certain classic precinct
commemorated by<br>
a Latin writer, lay open night and day, while mustached dragoons,
knowingly<br>
dressed four-in-hand men, fox-hunters in pink, issuing forth to
the<br>
Dubber or returning splashed from a run with the Kildare hounds,
were<br>
everlastingly seen passing and repassing. Within, the noise and
confusion<br>
resembled rather the mess-room of a regiment towards eleven at
night<br>
than the chambers of a college student; while, with the double
object of<br>
affecting to be in ill-health, and to avoid the reflections that
daylight<br>
occasionally inspires, the shutters were never opened, but lamps
and<br>
candles kept always burning. Such was No. 2, Old Square, in the
goodly days<br>
I write of. All the terrors of fines and punishments fell
scathless on the<br>
head of my worthy chum. In fact, like a well-known political
character,<br>
whose pleasure and amusement it has been for some years past to
drive<br>
through acts of Parliament and deride the powers of the law, so
did Mr.<br>
Webber tread his way, serpenting through the statute-book, ever
grazing,<br>
but rarely trespassing upon some forbidden ground which might
involve the<br>
great punishment of expulsion. So expert, too, had he become in
his special<br>
pleadings, so dexterous in the law of the university, that it was
no easy<br>
matter to bring crime home to him; and even when this was done,
his pleas<br>
of mitigation rarely failed of success.</p>

<p>There was a sweetness of demeanor, a mild, subdued tone about
him, that<br>
constantly puzzled the worthy heads of the college how the
accusations<br>
ever brought against him could be founded on truth; that the
pale,<br>
delicate-looking student, whose harsh, hacking cough terrified
the hearers,<br>
could be the boisterous performer upon a key-bugle, or the
terrific<br>
assailant of watchmen, was something too absurd for belief. And
when Mr.<br>
Webber, with his hand upon his heart, and in his most dulcet
accents,<br>
assured them that the hours he was not engaged in reading for the
medal<br>
were passed in the soothing society of a few select and intimate
friends<br>
of literary tastes and refined minds, who, knowing the delicacy
of his<br>
health,&mdash;here he would cough,&mdash;were kind enough to sit up with
him for an<br>
hour or so in the evening, the delusion was perfect; and the
story of the<br>
dean's riotous habits having got abroad, the charge was usually
suppressed.</p>

<p>Like most idle men, Webber never had a moment to spare. Except
read, there<br>
was nothing he did not do; training a hack for a race in the
Phoenix,<br>
arranging a rowing-match, getting up a mock duel between two
white-feather<br>
acquaintances, were his almost daily avocations. Besides that, he
was at<br>
the head of many organized societies, instituted for various
benevolent<br>
purposes. One was called "The Association for Discountenancing
Watchmen;"<br>
another, "The Board of Works," whose object was principally
devoted to the<br>
embellishment of the university, in which, to do them justice,
their labors<br>
were unceasing, and what with the assistance of some black paint,
a ladder,<br>
and a few pounds of gunpowder, they certainly contrived to effect
many<br>
important changes. Upon an examination morning, some hundred
luckless<br>
"jibs" might be seen perambulating the courts, in the vain effort
to<br>
discover their tutors' chambers, the names having undergone an
alteration<br>
that left all trace of their original proprietors unattainable:
Doctor<br>
Francis Mooney having become Doctor Full Moon; Doctor Hare being,
by the<br>
change of two letters, Doctor Ape; Romney Robinson, Romulus and
Remus, etc.<br>
While, upon occasions like these, there could be but little doubt
of Master<br>
Frank's intentions, upon many others, so subtle were his
inventions, so<br>
well-contrived his plots, it became a matter of considerable
difficulty to<br>
say whether the mishap which befell some luckless acquaintance
were the<br>
result of design or mere accident; and not unfrequently
well-disposed<br>
individuals were found condoling with "Poor Frank" upon his
ignorance of<br>
some college rule or etiquette, his breach of which had been long
and<br>
deliberately planned. Of this latter description was a
circumstance which<br>
occurred about this time, and which some who may throw an eye
over these<br>
pages will perhaps remember.</p>

<p>The dean, having heard (and, indeed, the preparations were not
intended to<br>
secure secrecy) that Webber destined to entertain a party of his
friends<br>
at dinner on a certain day, sent a peremptory order for his
appearance at<br>
Commons, his name being erased from the sick list, and a pretty
strong hint<br>
conveyed to him that any evasion upon his part would be certainly
followed<br>
by an inquiry into the real reasons for his absence. What was to
be done?<br>
That was the very day he had destined for his dinner. To be sure,
the<br>
majority of his guests were college men, who would understand
the<br>
difficulty at once; but still there were some others, officers of
the 14th,<br>
with whom he was constantly dining, and whom he could not so
easily<br>
put off. The affair was difficult, but still Webber was the man
for a<br>
difficulty; in fact, he rather liked one. A very brief
consideration<br>
accordingly sufficed, and he sat down and wrote to his friends at
the Royal<br>
Barracks thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>
                                                               Saturday.<br>

    DEAR POWER,&mdash;I have a better plan for Tuesday than that I<br>
    had proposed. Lunch here at three (we'll call it dinner), in
the hall<br>
    with the great guns. I can't say much for the grub; but
the<br>
    company&mdash;glorious!<br>
    After that we'll start for Lucan in the drag; take<br>
    our coffee, strawberries, etc., and return to No. 2 for
supper at ten.<br>
    Advertise your fellows of this change, and believe me,</p>

<p>    Most unchangeably yours, FRANK WEBBER.</p>

<p>Accordingly, as three o'clock struck, six dashing-looking
light dragoons<br>
were seen slowly sauntering up the middle of the dining-hall,
escorted<br>
by Webber, who, in full academic costume, was leisurely
ciceroning his<br>
friends, and expatiating upon the excellences of the very
remarkable<br>
portraits which graced the walls.</p>

<p>The porters looked on with some surprise at the singular hour
selected<br>
for sight-seeing; but what was their astonishment to find that
the party,<br>
having arrived at the end of the hall, instead of turning back
again, very<br>
composedly unbuckled their belts, and having disposed of their
sabres in a<br>
corner, took their places at the Fellows' table, and sat down
amidst the<br>
collective wisdom of Greek lecturers and Regius professors, as
though they<br>
had been mere mortals like themselves.</p>

<p>Scarcely was the long Latin grace concluded, when Webber,
leaning forward,<br>
enjoined his friends, in a very audible whisper, that if they
intended to<br>
dine no time was to be lost.</p>

<p>"We have but little ceremony here, gentlemen, and all we ask
is a fair<br>
start," said he, as he drew over the soup, and proceeded to help
himself.</p>

<p>The advice was not thrown away; for each man, with an alacrity
a campaign<br>
usually teaches, made himself master of some neighboring dish, a
very quick<br>
interchange of good things speedily following the appropriation.
It was<br>
in vain that the senior lecturer looked aghast, that the
professor of<br>
astronomy frowned. The whole table, indeed, were thunderstruck,
even to the<br>
poor vice-provost himself, who, albeit given to the comforts of
the table,<br>
could not lift a morsel to his mouth, but muttered between his
teeth, "May<br>
the devil admire me, but they're dragoons!" The first shock of
surprise<br>
over, the porters proceeded to inform them that except Fellows of
the<br>
University or Fellow-commoners, none were admitted to the table.
Webber<br>
however assured them that it was a mistake, there being nothing
in the<br>
statute to exclude the 14th Light Dragoons, as he was prepared to
prove.<br>
Meanwhile dinner proceeded, Power and his party performing with
great<br>
self-satisfaction upon the sirloins and saddles about them,
regretting<br>
only, from time to time, that there was a most unaccountable
absence of<br>
wine, and suggesting the propriety of napkins whenever they
should dine<br>
there again. Whatever chagrin these unexpected guests caused
among their<br>
entertainers of the upper table, in the lower part of the hall
the laughter<br>
was loud and unceasing; and long before the hour concluded, the
Fellows<br>
took their departure, leaving to Master Frank Webber the task of
doing the<br>
honors alone and unassisted. When summoned before the board for
the offence<br>
on the following morning, Webber excused himself by throwing the
blame upon<br>
his friends, with whom, he said, nothing short of a personal
quarrel&mdash;a<br>
thing for a reading man not to be thought of&mdash;could have
prevented<br>
intruding in the manner related. Nothing less than <i>his</i>
tact could have<br>
saved him on this occasion, and at last he carried the day; while
by an<br>
act of the board the 14th Light Dragoons were pronounced the most
insolent<br>
corps in the service.</p>

<p>An adventure of his, however, got wind about this time, and
served to<br>
enlighten many persons as to his real character, who had hitherto
been most<br>
lenient in their expressions about him. Our worthy tutor, with a
zeal for<br>
our welfare far more praiseworthy than successful, was in the
habit of<br>
summoning to his chambers, on certain mornings of the week, his
various<br>
pupils, whom he lectured in the books for the approaching
examinations.<br>
Now, as these s&eacute;ances were held at six o'clock in winter
as well as summer,<br>
in a cold fireless chamber,&mdash;the lecturer lying snug amidst his
blankets,<br>
while we stood shivering around the walls,&mdash;the ardor of learning
must<br>
indeed have proved strong that prompted a regular attendance. As
to Frank,<br>
he would have as soon thought of attending chapel as of
presenting himself<br>
on such an occasion. Not so with me. I had not yet grown
hackneyed enough<br>
to fly in the face of authority, and I frequently left the
whist-table, or<br>
broke off in a song, to hurry over to the doctor's chambers and
spout Homer<br>
and Hesiod. I suffered on in patience, till at last the bore
became so<br>
insupportable that I told my sorrows to my friend, who listened
to me out,<br>
and promised me succor.</p>

<p>It so chanced that upon some evening in each week Dr. Mooney
was in the<br>
habit of visiting some friends who resided a short distance from
town,<br>
and spending the night at their house. He, of course, did not
lecture the<br>
following morning,&mdash;a paper placard, announcing no lecture, being
affixed<br>
to the door on such occasions. Frank waited patiently till he
perceived the<br>
doctor affixing this announcement upon his door one evening; and
no sooner<br>
had he left the college than he withdrew the paper and
departed.</p>

<p>On the next morning he rose early, and concealing himself on
the staircase,<br>
waited the arrival of the venerable damsel who acted as servant
to the<br>
doctor. No sooner had she opened the door and groped her way into
the<br>
sitting-room than Frank crept forward, and stealing gently into
the<br>
bedroom, sprang into the bed and wrapped himself up in the
blankets. The<br>
great bell boomed forth at six o'clock, and soon after the sounds
of the<br>
feet were heard upon the stairs. One by one they came along, and
gradually<br>
the room was filled with cold and shivering wretches, more than
half<br>
asleep, and trying to arouse themselves into an approach to
attention.</p>

<p>"Who's there?" said Frank, mimicking the doctor's voice, as he
yawned three<br>
or four times in succession and turned in the bed.</p>

<p>"Collisson, O'Malley, Nesbitt," etc., said a number of voices,
anxious to<br>
have all the merit such a penance could confer.</p>

<p>"Where's Webber?"</p>

<p>"Absent, sir," chorussed the whole party.</p>

<p>"Sorry for it," said the mock doctor. "Webber is a man of
first-rate<br>
capacity; and were he only to apply, I am not certain to what
eminence his<br>
abilities might raise him. Come, Collisson, any three angles of a
triangle<br>
are equal to&mdash;are equal to&mdash;what are they equal to?" Here he
yawned as<br>
though he would dislocate his jaw.</p>

<p>"Any three angles of a triangle are equal to two right
angles," said<br>
Collisson, in the usual sing-song tone of a freshman.</p>

<p>As he proceeded to prove the proposition, his monotonous tone
seemed to<br>
have lulled the doctor into a doze, for in a few minutes a deep,
long-drawn<br>
snore announced from the closed curtains that he listened no
longer. After<br>
a little time, however, a short snort from the sleeper awoke him
suddenly,<br>
and he called out, "Go on, I'm waiting. Do you think I can arouse
at this<br>
hour of the morning for nothing but to listen to your bungling?
Can no one<br>
give me a free translation of the passage?"</p>

<p>This digression from mathematics to classics did not surprise
the hearers,<br>
though it somewhat confused them, no one being precisely aware
what the<br>
line in question might be.</p>

<p>"Try it, Nesbitt,&mdash;you, O'Malley. Silent all? Really this is
too bad!" An<br>
indistinct muttering here from the crowd was followed by an
announcement<br>
from the doctor that the speaker was an ass, and his head a
turnip! "Not<br>
one of you capable of translating a chorus from Euripides,&mdash;'Ou,
ou, papai,<br>
papai,' etc.; which, after all, means no more than, 'Oh,
whilleleu, murder,<br>
why did you die!' etc. What are you laughing at, gentlemen? May I
ask, does<br>
it become a set of ignorant, ill-informed savages&mdash;yes, savages,
I repeat<br>
the word&mdash;to behave in this manner? Webber is the only man I have
with<br>
common intellect,&mdash;the only man among you capable of
distinguishing<br>
himself. But as for you, I'll bring you before the board; I'll
write to<br>
your friends; I'll stop your college indulgences; I'll confine
you to the<br>
walls; I'll be damned, eh&mdash;"</p>

<p>This lapse confused him. He stammered, stuttered, endeavored
to recover<br>
himself; but by this time we had approached the bed, just at the
moment<br>
when Master Frank, well knowing what he might expect if detected,
had<br>
bolted from the blankets and rushed from the room. In an instant
we were in<br>
pursuit; but he regained his chambers, and double-locked the door
before we<br>
could overtake him, leaving us to ponder over the insolent tirade
we had so<br>
patiently submitted to.</p>

<p>That morning the affair got wind all over college. As for us,
we were<br>
scarcely so much laughed at as the doctor; the world wisely
remembering,<br>
if such were the nature of our morning's orisons, we might nearly
as<br>
profitably have remained snug in our quarters.</p>

<p>Such was our life in Old Trinity; and strange enough it is
that one should<br>
feel tempted to the confession, but I really must acknowledge
these were,<br>
after all, happy times, and I look back upon them with mingled
pleasure and<br>
sadness. The noble lord who so pathetically lamented that the
devil was not<br>
so strong in him as he used to be forty years before, has an echo
in my<br>
regrets that the student is not as young in me as when these
scenes were<br>
enacting of which I write.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XVIII.</p>

<p>THE INVITATION.&mdash;THE WAGER.</p>

<p>I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, a few mornings after
the mess<br>
dinner I have spoken of, when Power came in hastily.</p>

<p>"Ha, the very man!" said he. "I say, O'Malley, here's an
invitation for you<br>
from Sir George, to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a
thousand civil<br>
things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not
at home<br>
when you called yesterday, and all that. By Jove, I know nothing
like the<br>
favor you stand in; and as for Miss Dashwood, faith! the fair
Lucy blushed,<br>
and tore her glove in most approved style, when the old general
began his<br>
laudation of you."</p>

<p>"Pooh, nonsense," said I; "that silly affair in the west."</p>

<p>"Oh, very probably; there's reason the less for you looking so
excessively<br>
conscious. But I must tell you, in all fairness, that you have no
chance;<br>
nothing short of a dragoon will go down."</p>

<p>"Be assured," said I, somewhat nettled, "my pretensions do not
aspire to<br>
the fair Miss Dashwood."</p>

<p>"<i>Tant mieux et tant pis, mon cher</i>. I wish to Heaven
mine did; and, by<br>
Saint Patrick, if I only played the knight-errant half as
gallantly<br>
as yourself, I would not relinquish my claims to the Secretary at
War<br>
himself."</p>

<p>"What the devil brought the old general down to your wild
regions?"<br>
inquired Webber.</p>

<p>"To contest the county."</p>

<p>"A bright thought, truly. When a man was looking for a seat,
why not try a<br>
place where the law is occasionally heard of?"</p>

<p>"I'm sure I can give you no information on that head; nor have
I ever heard<br>
how Sir George came to learn that such a place as Galway
existed."</p>

<p>"I believe I can enlighten you," said Power. "Lady
Dashwood&mdash;rest her<br>
soul!&mdash;came west of the Shannon; she had a large property
somewhere in<br>
Mayo, and owned some hundred acres of swamp, with some thousand
starving<br>
tenantry thereupon, that people dignified as an estate in
Connaught. This<br>
first suggested to him the notion of setting up for the county,
probably<br>
supposing that the people who never paid in rent might like to do
so in<br>
gratitude. How he was undeceived, O'Malley there can inform us.
Indeed, I<br>
believe the worthy general, who was confoundedly hard up when he
married,<br>
expected to have got a great fortune, and little anticipated the
three<br>
chancery suits he succeeded to, nor the fourteen rent-charges to
his wife's<br>
relatives that made up the bulk of the dower. It was an unlucky
hit for him<br>
when he fell in with the old 'maid' at Bath; and had she lived,
he must<br>
have gone to the colonies. But the Lord took her one day, and
Major<br>
Dashwood was himself again. The Duke of York, the story goes, saw
him at<br>
Hounslow during a review, was much struck with his air and
appearance, made<br>
some inquiries, found him to be of excellent family and
irreproachable<br>
conduct, made him an aide-de-camp, and, in fact, made his
fortune. I do not<br>
believe that, while doing so kind, he could by possibility have
done a more<br>
popular thing. Every man in the army rejoiced at his good
fortune; so that,<br>
after all, though he has had some hard rubs, he has come well
through,<br>
the only vestige of his unfortunate matrimonial connection being
a<br>
correspondence kept up by a maiden sister of his late wife's with
him. She<br>
insists upon claiming the ties of kindred upon about twenty
family eras<br>
during the year, when she regularly writes a most loving and
ill-spelled<br>
epistle, containing the latest information from Mayo, with all
particulars<br>
of the Macan family, of which she is a worthy member. To her
constant hints<br>
of the acceptable nature of certain small remittances, the poor
general is<br>
never inattentive; but to the pleasing prospect of a visit in the
flesh<br>
from Miss Judy Macan, the good man is dead. In fact, nothing
short of being<br>
broke by general court-martial could complete his sensations of
horror at<br>
such a stroke of fortune; and I am not certain, if choice were
allowed him,<br>
that he would not prefer the latter."</p>

<p>"Then he has never yet seen her?" said Webber.</p>

<p>"Never," replied Power; "and he hopes to leave Ireland without
that<br>
blessing, the prospect of which, however remote and unlikely,
has, I know<br>
well, more than once terrified him since his arrival."</p>

<p>"I say, Power, and has your worthy general sent me a card for
his ball?"</p>

<p>"Not through me, Master Frank."</p>

<p>"Well, now, I call that devilish shabby, do you know. He asks
O'Malley<br>
there from <i>my</i> chambers, and never notices the other man,
the superior in<br>
the firm. Eh, O'Malley, what say you?"</p>

<p>"Why, I didn't know you were acquainted."</p>

<p>"And who said we were? It was his fault, though, entirely,
that we were<br>
not. I am, as I have ever been, the most easy fellow in the world
on<br>
that score, never give myself airs to military people, endure
anything,<br>
everything, and you see the result; hard, ain't it?"</p>

<p>"But, Webber, Sir George must really be excused in this
matter. He has<br>
a daughter, a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that
budding,<br>
unsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of
impressions; and<br>
where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of
a casual<br>
meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber? If
he has not<br>
sought you out, then here be his apology."</p>

<p>"A very strong case, certainly," said Frank; "but, still, had
he confided<br>
his critical position to my honor and secrecy, he might have
depended on<br>
me; now, having taken the other line&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, what then?"</p>

<p>"Why, he must abide the consequences. I'll make fierce love to
Louisa;<br>
isn't that the name?"</p>

<p>"Lucy, so please you."</p>

<p>"Well, be it so,&mdash;to Lucy,&mdash;talk the little girl into a most
deplorable<br>
attachment for me."</p>

<p>"But, how, may I ask, and when?"</p>

<p>"I'll begin at the ball, man."</p>

<p>"Why, I thought you said you were not going?"</p>

<p>"There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I had not
been invited."</p>

<p>"Then, of course," said I, "Webber, you can't think of going,
in any case,<br>
on <i>my</i> account."</p>

<p>"My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. I not only
shall go, but<br>
I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I
shall be<br>
prime favorite with Sir George, kiss Lucy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come, come, this is too strong."</p>

<p>"What do you bet I don't? There, now, I'll give you a pony
apiece, I do. Do<br>
you say done?"</p>

<p>"That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked down-stairs
for your<br>
pains; are those the terms of the wager?" inquired Power.</p>

<p>"With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, and am not
kicked<br>
down-stairs for my pains."</p>

<p>"Then, I say, done."</p>

<p>"And with you, too, O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"I thank you," said I, coldly; "I am not disposed to make such
a return for<br>
Sir George Dashwood's hospitality as to make an insult to his
family the<br>
subject of a bet."</p>

<p>"Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not
refuse my<br>
chaste salute. Come, Power, I'll give you the other pony."</p>

<p>"Agreed," said he. "At the same time, understand me
distinctly, that I hold<br>
myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own
interference; for<br>
if you do kiss her, by Jove! I'll perform the remainder of the
compact."</p>

<p>"So I understand the agreement," said Webber, arranging his
curls before<br>
the looking-glass. "Well, now, who's for Howth? The drag will be
here in<br>
half an hour."</p>

<p>"Not I," said Power; "I must return to the barracks."</p>

<p>"Nor I," said I, "for I shall take this opportunity of leaving
my card at<br>
Sir George Dashwood's."</p>

<p>"I have won my fifty, however," said Power, as we walked out
in the courts.</p>

<p>"I am not quite certain&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, the devil, he would not risk a broken neck for that sum;
besides, if<br>
he did, he loses the bet."</p>

<p>"He's a devilish keen fellow."</p>

<p>"Let him be. In any case I am determined to be on my guard
here."</p>

<p>So chatting, we strolled along to the Royal Hospital, when,
having dropped<br>
my pasteboard, I returned to the college.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XIX</p>

<p>THE BALL.</p>

<p>I have often dressed for a storming party with less of
trepidation than I<br>
felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood's ball. Since the
eventful day<br>
of the election I had never seen Miss Dashwood; therefore, as to
what<br>
precise position I might occupy in her favor was a matter of
great doubt in<br>
my mind, and great import to my happiness. That I myself loved
her, was<br>
a matter of which all the badinage of my friends regarding her
made<br>
me painfully conscious; but that, in our relative positions, such
an<br>
attachment was all but hopeless, I could not disguise from
myself. Young as<br>
I was, I well knew to what a heritage of debt, lawsuit, and
difficulty I<br>
was born to succeed. In my own resources and means of advancement
I had no<br>
confidence whatever, had even the profession to which I was
destined been<br>
more of my choice. I daily felt that it demanded greater
exertions, if not<br>
far greater abilities, than I could command, to make success at
all likely;<br>
and then, even if such a result were in store, years, at least,
must elapse<br>
before it could happen; and where would she then be, and where
should I?<br>
Where the ardent affection I now felt and gloried in,&mdash;perhaps
all the more<br>
for its desperate hopelessness,&mdash;when the sanguine and buoyant
spirit to<br>
combat with difficulties which youth suggests, and which, later,
manhood<br>
refuses, should have passed away? And even if all these survived
the toil<br>
and labor of anxious days and painful nights, what of her? Alas,
I now<br>
reflected that, although only of my own age, her manner to me had
taken all<br>
that tone of superiority and patronage which an elder assumes
towards<br>
one younger, and which, in the spirit of protection it proceeds
upon,<br>
essentially bars up every inlet to a dearer or warmer
feeling,&mdash;at least,<br>
when the lady plays the former part. "What, then, is to be done?"
thought<br>
I. "Forget her?&mdash;but how? How shall I renounce all my plans, and
unweave<br>
the web of life I have been spreading around me for many a day,
without<br>
that one golden thread that lent it more than half its brilliancy
and all<br>
its attraction? But then the alternative is even worse, if I
encourage<br>
expectations and nurture hopes never to be realized. Well, we
meet<br>
to-night, after a long and eventful absence; let my future fate
be ruled by<br>
the results of this meeting. If Lucy Dashwood does care for me,
if I can<br>
detect in her manner enough to show me that my affection may meet
a return,<br>
the whole effort of my life shall be to make her mine; if not, if
my<br>
own feelings be all that I have to depend upon to extort a
reciprocal<br>
affection, then shall I take my last look of her, and with it the
first and<br>
brightest dream of happiness my life has hitherto presented."</p>

<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>

<p>It need not be wondered at if the brilliant <i>coup d'oeil</i>
of the ball-room,<br>
as I entered, struck me with astonishment, accustomed as I had
hitherto<br>
been to nothing more magnificent than an evening party of squires
and<br>
their squiresses or the annual garrison ball at the barracks. The
glare of<br>
wax-lights, the well-furnished saloons, the glitter of uniforms,
and the<br>
blaze of plumed and jewelled dames, with the clang of military
music, was a<br>
species of enchanted atmosphere which, breathing for the first
time, rarely<br>
fails to intoxicate. Never before had I seen so much beauty.
Lovely faces,<br>
dressed in all the seductive flattery of smiles, were on every
side; and as<br>
I walked from room to room, I felt how much more fatal to a man's
peace and<br>
heart's ease the whispered words and silent glances of those fair
damsels,<br>
than all the loud gayety and boisterous freedom of our country
belles, who<br>
sought to take the heart by storm and escalade.</p>

<p>As yet I had seen neither Sir George nor his daughter, and
while I looked<br>
on every side for Lucy Dashwood, it was with a beating and
anxious heart<br>
I longed to see how she would bear comparison with the blaze of
beauty<br>
around.</p>

<p>Just at this moment a very gorgeously dressed hussar stepped
from a doorway<br>
beside me, as if to make a passage for some one, and the next
moment she<br>
appeared leaning upon the arm of another lady. One look was all
that I had<br>
time for, when she recognized me.</p>

<p>"Ah, Mr. O'Malley, how happy&mdash;has Sir George&mdash;has my father
seen you?"</p>

<p>"I have only arrived this moment; I trust he is quite
well?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, thank you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon with all humility, Miss Dashwood," said the
hussar, in a<br>
tone of the most knightly courtesy, "but they are waiting for
us."</p>

<p>"But, Captain Fortescue, you must excuse me one moment more.
Mr. Lechmere,<br>
will you do me the kindness to find out Sir George? Mr.
O'Malley&mdash;Mr.<br>
Lechmere." Here she said something in French to her companion,
but so<br>
rapidly that I could not detect what it was, but merely heard the
reply,<br>
"Pas mal!"&mdash;which, as the lady continued to canvass me most
deliberately<br>
through her eye-glass, I supposed referred to me. "And now,
Captain<br>
Fortescue&mdash;" And with a look of most courteous kindness to me
she<br>
disappeared in the crowd.</p>

<p>The gentleman to whose guidance I was entrusted was one of
the<br>
aides-de-camp, and was not long in finding Sir George. No sooner
had the<br>
good old general heard my name, than he held out both his hands
and shook<br>
mine most heartily.</p>

<p>"At last, O'Malley; at last I am able to thank you for the
greatest<br>
service ever man rendered me. He saved Lucy, my Lord; rescued her
under<br>
circumstances where anything short of his courage and
determination must<br>
have cost her her life."</p>

<p>"Ah, very pretty indeed," said a stiff old gentleman
addressed, as he<br>
bowed a most superbly powdered scalp before me; "most happy to
make your<br>
acquaintance."</p>

<p>"Who is he?" added he, in nearly as loud a tone to Sir
George.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, of O'Malley Castle."</p>

<p>"True, I forgot; why is he not in uniform?"</p>

<p>"Because, unfortunately, my Lord, we don't own him; he's not
in the army."</p>

<p>"Ha! ha! thought he was."</p>

<p>"You dance, O'Malley, I suppose? I'm sure you'd rather be over
there than<br>
hearing all my protestations of gratitude, sincere and heartfelt
as they<br>
really are."</p>

<p>"Lechmere, introduce my friend, Mr. O'Malley; get him a
partner."</p>

<p>I had not followed my new acquaintance many steps, when Power
came up to<br>
me. "I say, Charley," cried he, "I have been tormented to death
by half the<br>
ladies in the room to present you to them, and have been in quest
of you<br>
this half-hour. Your brilliant exploit in savage land has made
you a<br>
regular <i>preux chevalier</i>; and if you don't trade on that
adventure to your<br>
most lasting profit, you deserve to be&mdash;a lawyer. Come along
here! Lady<br>
Muckleman, the adjutant-general's lady and chief, has four Scotch
daughters<br>
you are to dance with; then I am to introduce you in all form to
the Dean<br>
of Something's niece,&mdash;she is a good-looking girl, and has two
livings in<br>
a safe county. Then there's the town-major's wife; and, in fact,
I have<br>
several engagements from this to supper-time."</p>

<p>"A thousand thanks for all your kindness in prospective, but I
think,<br>
perhaps, it were right I should ask Miss Dashwood to dance, if
only as a<br>
matter of form,&mdash;you understand?"</p>

<p>"And if Miss Dashwood should say, 'With pleasure, sir,' only
as a matter of<br>
form,&mdash;you understand?" said a silvery voice beside me. I turned,
and saw<br>
Lucy Dashwood, who, having overheard my free-and-easy suggestion,
replied<br>
to me in this manner.</p>

<p>I here blundered out my excuses. What I said, and what I did
not say, I do<br>
not now remember; but certainly, it was her turn now to blush,
and her arm<br>
trembled within mine as I led her to the top of the room. In the
little<br>
opportunity which our quadrille presented for conversation, I
could not<br>
help remarking that, after the surprise of her first meeting with
me, Miss<br>
Dashwood's manner became gradually more and more reserved, and
that there<br>
was an evident struggle between her wish to appear grateful for
what had<br>
occurred, with a sense of the necessity of not incurring a
greater degree<br>
of intimacy. Such was my impression, at least, and such the
conclusion I<br>
drew from a certain quiet tone in her manner that went further to
wound my<br>
feelings and mar my happiness than any other line of conduct
towards me<br>
could possibly have effected.</p>

<p>Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when
Sir George<br>
came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every
semblance<br>
of high excitement.</p>

<p>"Dear Papa, has anything occurred? Pray what is it?" inquired
she.</p>

<p>He smiled faintly, and replied, "Nothing very serious, my
dear, that<br>
I should alarm you in this way; but certainly, a more
disagreeable<br>
<i>contretemps</i> could scarcely occur."</p>

<p>"Do tell me: what can it be?"</p>

<p>"Read this," said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note
which bore the<br>
mark of a red wafer most infernally plain upon its outside.</p>

<p>Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a moment's
silence, instead of<br>
participating, as he expected, in her father's feeling of
distress, burst<br>
out a-laughing, while she said: "Why, really, Papa, I do not see
why this<br>
should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a
character, as<br>
her note evinces, but after a few days&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nonsense, child; there's nothing in this world I have such a
dread of as<br>
that confounded woman,&mdash;and to come at such a time."</p>

<p>"When does she speak of paying her visit?"</p>

<p>"I knew you had not read the note," said Sir George, hastily;
"she's coming<br>
here to-night,&mdash;is on her way this instant, perhaps. What is to
be done? If<br>
she forces her way in here, I shall go deranged outright;
O'Malley, my boy,<br>
read this note, and you will not feel surprised if I appear in
the humor<br>
you see me."</p>

<p>I took the billet from the hands of Miss Dashwood, and read as
follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>    DEAR BROTHER,&mdash;When this reaches your hand, I'll not be
far<br>
    off. I'm on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the
ould<br>
    complaint. Cowley mistakes my case entirely; he says it's
nothing<br>
    but religion and wind. Father Magrath, who understands a
good<br>
    deal about females, thinks otherwise; but God knows who's
right.<br>
    Expect me to tea, and, with love to Lucy,<br>
    Believe me, yours in haste,<br>
    JUDITH MACAN.</p>

<p>Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if you have a
spare bed,<br>
perhaps we could prevail upon Father Magrath to stop too.</p>

<p>I scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the end of
this very<br>
free-and-easy epistle; when at last I burst forth in a hearty
fit, in which<br>
I was joined by Miss Dashwood.</p>

<p>From the account Power had given me in the morning, I had no
difficulty in<br>
guessing that the writer was the maiden sister of the late Lady
Dashwood;<br>
and for whose relationship Sir George had ever testified the
greatest<br>
dread, even at the distance of two hundred miles; and for whom,
in any<br>
nearer intimacy, he was in no wise prepared.</p>

<p>"I say, Lucy," said he, "there's only one thing to be done: if
this horrid<br>
woman does arrive, let her be shown to her room; and for the few
days of<br>
her stay in town, we'll neither see nor be seen by any one."</p>

<p>Without waiting for a reply, Sir George was turning away to
give the<br>
necessary instructions, when the door of the drawing-room was
flung open,<br>
and the servant announced, in his loudest voice, "Miss Macan."
Never shall<br>
I forget the poor general's look of horror as the words reached
him; for as<br>
yet, he was too far to catch even a glimpse of its fair owner. As
for me, I<br>
was already so much interested in seeing what she was like, that
I made my<br>
way through the crowd towards the door. It is no common
occurrence that can<br>
distract the various occupations of a crowded ball-room, where,
amidst the<br>
crash of music and the din of conversation, goes on the soft, low
voice<br>
of insinuating flattery, or the light flirtation of a first
acquaintance;<br>
every clique, every coterie, every little group of three or four
has its<br>
own separate and private interests, forming a little world of its
own, and<br>
caring for and heeding nothing that goes on around; and even when
some<br>
striking character or illustrious personage makes his
<i>entr&eacute;e</i>, the<br>
attention he attracts is so momentary, that the buzz of
conversation is<br>
scarcely, if at all, interrupted, and the business of pleasure
continues<br>
to flow on. Not so now, however. No sooner had the servant
pronounced the<br>
magical name of Miss Macan, than all seemed to stand still. The
spell thus<br>
exercised over the luckless general seemed to have extended to
his company;<br>
for it was with difficulty that any one could continue his train
of<br>
conversation, while every eye was directed towards the door.
About two<br>
steps in advance of the servant, who still stood door in hand,
was a tall,<br>
elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk, with enormous
flowers<br>
gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered and turned
back in the<br>
fashion of fifty years before; while her high-pointed and heeled
shoes<br>
completed a costume that had not been seen for nearly a century.
Her short,<br>
skinny arms were bare and partly covered by a falling flower of
old point<br>
lace, while on her hands she wore black silk mittens; a pair of
green<br>
spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most piercing pair of
eyes, to<br>
whose effect a very palpable touch of rouge on the cheeks
certainly added<br>
brilliancy. There stood this most singular apparition, holding
before her<br>
a fan about the size of a modern tea-tray; while at each
repetition of her<br>
name by the servant, she curtesied deeply, bestowing the while
upon the gay<br>
crowd before her a very curious look of maidenly modesty at her
solitary<br>
and unprotected position.</p>

<a name="0174"></a>
<img alt="0174.jpg (132K)" src="0174.jpg" height="511" width="680">

<p>[MISS JUDY MACAN.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>As no one had ever heard of the fair Judith, save one or two
of Sir<br>
George's most intimate friends, the greater part of the company
were<br>
disposed to regard Miss Macan as some one who had mistaken the
character of<br>
the invitation, and had come in a fancy dress. But this delusion
was but<br>
momentary, as Sir George, armed with the courage of despair,
forced his way<br>
through the crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, bid her
welcome to<br>
Dublin. The fair Judy, at this, threw her arms about his neck,
and saluted<br>
him with a hearty smack that was heard all over the room.</p>

<p>"Where's Lucy, Brother? Let me embrace my little darling,"
said the lady,<br>
in an accent that told more of Miss Macan than a three-volume
biography<br>
could have done. "There she is, I'm sure; kiss me, my honey."</p>

<p>This office Miss Dashwood performed with an effort at courtesy
really<br>
admirable; while, taking her aunt's arm, she led her to a
sofa.</p>

<p>It needed all the poor general's tact to get over the
sensation of this<br>
most <i>malapropos</i> addition to his party; but by degrees the
various groups<br>
renewed their occupations, although many a smile, and more than
one<br>
sarcastic glance at the sofa, betrayed that the maiden aunt had
not escaped<br>
criticism.</p>

<p>Power, whose propensity for fun very considerably out-stripped
his sense of<br>
decorum to his commanding officer, had already made his way
towards Miss<br>
Dashwood, and succeeded in obtaining a formal introduction to
Miss Macan.</p>

<p>"I hope you will do me the favor to dance next set with me,
Miss Macan?"</p>

<p>"Really, Captain, it's very polite of you, but you must excuse
me. I was<br>
never anything great in quadrilles; but if a reel or a jig&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, dear Aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you."</p>

<p>"Or even Sir Roger de Coverley," resumed Miss Macan.</p>

<p>"I assure you, quite equally impossible."</p>

<p>"Then I'm certain you waltz," said Power.</p>

<p>"What do you take me for, young man? I hope I know better. I
wish Father<br>
Magrath heard you ask me that question, and for all your laced
jacket&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Dearest Aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to offend you; I'm
certain he&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, why did he dare to [<i>sob, sob</i>]&mdash;did he see
anything light about me,<br>
that he [<i>sob, sob, sob</i>]&mdash;oh, dear! oh, dear! is it for
this I came up<br>
from my little peaceful place in the west [<i>sob, sob,
sob</i>]?&mdash;General,<br>
George, dear; Lucy, my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear! oh, dear!
is there<br>
any whiskey negus?"</p>

<p>Whatever sympathy Miss Macan's sufferings might have excited
in the crowd<br>
about her before, this last question totally routed them, and a
most hearty<br>
fit of laughter broke forth from more than one of the
bystanders.</p>

<p>At length, however, she was comforted, and her pacification
completely<br>
effected by Sir George setting her down to a whist-table. From
this moment<br>
I lost sight of her for above two hours. Meanwhile I had little
opportunity<br>
of following up my intimacy with Miss Dashwood, and as I rather
suspected<br>
that, on more than one occasion, she seemed to avoid our meeting,
I took<br>
especial care on my part, to spare her the annoyance.</p>

<p>For one instant only had I any opportunity of addressing her,
and then<br>
there was such an evident embarrassment in her manner that I
readily<br>
perceived how she felt circumstanced, and that the sense of
gratitude to<br>
one whose further advances she might have feared, rendered her
constrained<br>
and awkward. "Too true," said I, "she avoids me. My being here is
only a<br>
source of discomfort and pain to her; therefore, I'll take my
leave, and<br>
whatever it may cost me, never to return." With this intention,
resolving<br>
to wish Sir George a very good night, I sought him out for some
minutes. At<br>
length I saw him in a corner, conversing with the old nobleman to
whom he<br>
had presented me early in the evening.</p>

<p>"True, upon my honor, Sir George," said he; "I saw it myself,
and she did<br>
it just as dexterously as the oldest blackleg in Paris."</p>

<p>"Why, you don't mean to say that she cheated?"</p>

<p>"Yes, but I do, though,&mdash;turned the ace every time. Lady
Herbert said to<br>
me, 'Very extraordinary it is,&mdash;four by honors again.' So I
looked, and<br>
then I perceived it,&mdash;a very old trick it is; but she did it
beautifully.<br>
What's her name?"</p>

<p>"Some western name; I forget it," said the poor general, ready
to die with<br>
shame.</p>

<p>"Clever old woman, very!" said the old lord, taking a pinch of
snuff; "but<br>
revokes too often."</p>

<p>Supper was announced at this critical moment, and before I had
further<br>
thought of my determination to escape, I felt myself hurried
along in the<br>
crowd towards the staircase. The party immediately in front of me
were<br>
Power and Miss Macan, who now appeared reconciled, and certainly
testified<br>
most openly their mutual feelings of good-will.</p>

<p>"I say, Charley," whispered Power, as I came along, "it is
capital<br>
fun,&mdash;never met anything equal to her; but the poor general will
never<br>
live through it, and I'm certain of ten day's arrest for this
night's<br>
proceeding."</p>

<p>"Any news of Webber?" I inquired.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, I fancy I can tell something of him; for I heard of
some one<br>
presenting himself, and being refused the <i>entr&eacute;e</i>,
so that Master Frank<br>
has lost his money. Sit near us, I pray you, at supper. We must
take care<br>
of the dear aunt for the niece's sake, eh?"</p>

<p>Not seeing the force of this reasoning, I soon separated
myself from them,<br>
and secured a corner at a side-table. Every supper on such an
occasion as<br>
this is the same scene of solid white muslin, faded flowers,
flushed faces,<br>
torn gloves, blushes, blanc-mange, cold chicken, jelly, sponge
cakes,<br>
spooney young gentlemen doing the attentive, and watchful
mammas<br>
calculating what precise degree of propinquity in the crush is
safe or<br>
seasonable for their daughters to the mustached and unmarrying
lovers<br>
beside them. There are always the same set of gratified elders,
like the<br>
benchers in King's Inn, marched up to the head of the table, to
eat, drink,<br>
and be happy, removed from the more profane looks and soft
speeches of the<br>
younger part of the creation. Then there are the <i>hoi
polloi</i> of outcasts,<br>
younger sons of younger brothers, tutors, governesses,
portionless cousins,<br>
and curates, all formed in phalanx round the side-tables, whose
primitive<br>
habits and simple tastes are evinced by their all eating off the
same plate<br>
and drinking from nearly the same wine-glass,&mdash;too happy if some
better-off<br>
acquaintance at the long table invites them to "wine," though the
ceremony<br>
on their part is limited to the pantomime of drinking. To this
miserable<br>
<i>tiers etat</i> I belonged, and bore my fate with unconcern;
for, alas, my<br>
spirits were depressed and my heart heavy. Lucy's treatment of me
was every<br>
moment before me, contrasted with her gay and courteous demeanor
to all<br>
save myself, and I longed for the moment to get away.</p>

<p>Never had I seen her looking so beautiful; her brilliant eyes
were lit with<br>
pleasure, and her smile was enchantment itself. What would I not
have given<br>
for one moment's explanation, as I took my leave forever!&mdash;one
brief avowal<br>
of my unalterable, devoted love; for which I sought not nor
expected<br>
return, but merely that I might not be forgotten.</p>

<p>Such were my thoughts, when a dialogue quite near me aroused
me from my<br>
revery. I was not long in detecting the speakers, who, with their
backs<br>
turned to us, were seated at the great table discussing a very
liberal<br>
allowance of pigeon-pie, a flask of champagne standing between
them.</p>

<p>"Don't now! don't I tell ye; it's little ye know Galway, or ye
wouldn't<br>
think to make up to me, squeezing my foot."</p>

<p>"Upon my soul, you're an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a
woman suit<br>
my fancy before."</p>

<p>"Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Who's he?"</p>

<p>"The priest; no less."</p>

<p>"Oh, confound him!"</p>

<p>"Confound Father Magrath, young man?"</p>

<p>"Well, then, Judy, don't be angry; I only meant that a dragoon
knows rather<br>
more of these matters than a priest."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But anyhow, I'd have you
to remember<br>
it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you."</p>

<p>"Never heard of the lady," said Power.</p>

<p>"Sure, it's a song,&mdash;poor creature,&mdash;it's a song they made
about her in the<br>
North Cork, when they were quartered down in our county."</p>

<p>"I wish to Heaven you'd sing it."</p>

<p>"What will you give me, then, if I do?"</p>

<p>"Anything,&mdash;everything; my heart, my life."</p>

<p>"I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old
green ring on<br>
your finger, then."</p>

<p>"It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss
Macan's finger;<br>
"and now for your promise."</p>

<p>"May be my brother might not like it."</p>

<p>"He'd be delighted," said Power; "he dotes on music."</p>

<p>"Does he now?"</p>

<p>"On my honor, he does."</p>

<p>"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one,
and here it<br>
is."</p>

<p>"Miss Macan's song!" said Power, tapping the table with his
knife.</p>

<p>"Miss Macan's song!" was re-echoed on all sides; and before
the luckless<br>
general could interfere, she had begun. How to explain the air I
know not,<br>
for I never heard its name; but at the end of each verse a
species of echo<br>
followed the last word that rendered it irresistibly
ridiculous.</p>

<p>    THE WIDOW MALONE.</p>

<p>    Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    Who lived in the town of Athlone,<br>
                                 Alone?<br>
    Oh, she melted the hearts<br>
    Of the swains in them parts,<br>
    So lovely the Widow Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    So lovely the Widow Malone.</p>

<p>    Of lovers she had a full score,<br>
                                 Or more;<br>
    And fortunes they all had galore,<br>
                                 In store;<br>
    From the minister down<br>
    To the clerk of the crown,<br>
    All were courting the Widow Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    All were courting the Widow Malone.</p>

<p>    But so modest was Mrs. Malone,<br>
                                 'T was known<br>
    No one ever could see her alone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    Let them ogle and sigh,<br>
    They could ne'er catch her eye,<br>
    So bashful the Widow Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    So bashful the Widow Malone.</p>

<p>    Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare,<br>
                                 How quare!<br>
    It's little for blushin' they care<br>
                                 Down there;<br>
    Put his arm round her waist,<br>
    Gave ten kisses at laste,<br>
    "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,<br>
                                 My own;<br>
    Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."</p>

<p>    And the widow they all thought so shy,<br>
                                 My eye!<br>
    Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,<br>
                                 For why?<br>
    But "Lucius," says she,<br>
    "Since you've made now so free,<br>
    You may marry your Mary Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    You may marry your Mary Malone."</p>

<p>    There's a moral contained in my song,<br>
                                 Not wrong;<br>
    And one comfort it's not very long,<br>
                                 But strong;<br>
    If for widows you die,<br>
    Larn to <i>kiss, not</i> to <i>sigh</i>,<br>
    For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,<br>
                                 Ohone!<br>
    Oh, they're very like Mistress Malone.</p>

<p>Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's; and
certainly<br>
her desires as to the chorus were followed to the letter, for
"The Widow<br>
Malone, ohone!" resounded from one end of the table to the other,
amidst<br>
one universal shout of laughter. None could resist the ludicrous
effect of<br>
her melody; and even poor Sir George, sinking under the disgrace
of his<br>
relationship, which she had contrived to make public by frequent
allusions<br>
to her "dear brother the general," yielded at last, and joined in
the mirth<br>
around him.</p>

<p>"I insist upon a copy of 'The Widow,' Miss Macan," said
Power.</p>

<p>"To be sure; give me a call to-morrow,&mdash;let me see,&mdash;about
two. Father<br>
Magrath won't be at home," said she, with a coquettish look.</p>

<p>"Where, pray, may I pay my respects?"</p>

<p>"No. 22 South Anne Street,&mdash;very respectable lodgings. I'll
write the<br>
address in your pocket-book."</p>

<p>Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few
lines,<br>
saying, as she handed it:&mdash;</p>

<p>"There, now, don't read it here before the people; they'll
think it mighty<br>
indelicate in me to make an appointment."</p>

<p>Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan's
carriage was<br>
announced.</p>

<p>Sir George Dashwood, who little flattered himself that his
fair guest<br>
had any intention of departure, became now most considerately
attentive,<br>
reminded her of the necessity of muffling against the night air,
hoped she<br>
would escape cold, and wished her a most cordial good-night, with
a promise<br>
of seeing her early the following day.</p>

<p>Notwithstanding Power's ambition to engross the attention of
the lady, Sir<br>
George himself saw her to her carriage, and only returned to the
room as a<br>
group was collecting around the gallant captain, to whom he was
relating<br>
some capital traits of his late conquest,&mdash;for such he dreamed
she was.</p>

<p>"Doubt it who will," said he, "she has invited me to call on
her to-morrow,<br>
written her address on my card, told me the hour she is certain
of being<br>
alone. See here!" At these words he pulled forth the card, and
handed it to<br>
Lechmere.</p>

<p>Scarcely were the eyes of the other thrown upon the writing,
when he said,<br>
"So, this isn't it, Power."</p>

<p>"To be sure it is, man," said Power. "Anne Street is devilish
seedy, but<br>
that's the quarter."</p>

<p>"Why, confound it, man!" said the other; "there's not a word
of that here."</p>

<p>"Read it out," said Power. "Proclaim aloud my victory."</p>

<p>Thus urged, Lechmere read:&mdash;</p>

<p>    DEAR P.,&mdash;</p>

<p>    Please pay to my credit,&mdash;and soon, mark ye!&mdash;the two
ponies<br>
    lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of
enjoying your<br>
    ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa, and walked into the
cunning<br>
    Fred Power.               Yours,<br>
                                 FRANK WEBBER.<br>
    "The Widow Malone, ohone!" is at your service.</p>

<p>Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, his astonishment could
not have<br>
equalled the result of this revelation. He stamped, swore, raved,
laughed,<br>
and almost went deranged. The joke was soon spread through the
room, and<br>
from Sir George to poor Lucy, now covered with blushes at her
part in the<br>
transaction, all was laughter and astonishment.</p>

<p>"Who is he? That is the question," said Sir George, who, with
all the<br>
ridicule of the affair hanging over him, felt no common relief at
the<br>
discovery of the imposition.</p>

<p>"A friend of O'Malley's," said Power, delighted, in his
defeat, to involve<br>
another with himself.</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said the general, regarding me with a look of a very
mingled<br>
cast.</p>

<p>"Quite true, sir," said I, replying to the accusation that his
manner<br>
implied; "but equally so, that I neither knew of his plot nor
recognized<br>
him when here."</p>

<p>"I am perfectly sure of it, my boy," said the general; "and,
after all, it<br>
was an excellent joke,&mdash;carried a little too far, it's true; eh,
Lucy?"</p>

<p>But Lucy either heard not, or affected not to hear; and after
some little<br>
further assurance that he felt not the least annoyed, the general
turned to<br>
converse with some other friends; while I, burning with
indignation against<br>
Webber, took a cold farewell of Miss Dashwood, and retired.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XX.</p>

<p>THE LAST NIGHT IN TRINITY.</p>

<p>How I might have met Master Webber after his impersonation of
Miss Macan, I<br>
cannot possibly figure to myself. Fortunately, indeed, for all
parties, he<br>
left town early the next morning; and it was some weeks ere he
returned.<br>
In the meanwhile I became a daily visitor at the general's, dined
there<br>
usually three or four times a week, rode out with Lucy
constantly, and<br>
accompanied her every evening either to the theatre or into
society. Sir<br>
George, possibly from my youth, seemed to pay little attention to
an<br>
intimacy which he perceived every hour growing closer, and
frequently gave<br>
his daughter into my charge in our morning excursions on
horseback. As for<br>
me, my happiness was all but perfect. I loved, and already began
to hope<br>
that I was not regarded with indifference; for although Lucy's
manner never<br>
absolutely evinced any decided preference towards me, yet many
slight and<br>
casual circumstances served to show me that my attentions to her
were<br>
neither unnoticed nor uncared for. Among the many gay and
dashing<br>
companions of our rides, I remarked that, however anxious for
such a<br>
distinction, none ever seemed to make any way in her good graces;
and I had<br>
already gone far in my self-deception that I was destined for
good fortune,<br>
when a circumstance which occurred one morning at length served
to open my<br>
eyes to the truth, and blast by one fatal breath the whole
harvest of my<br>
hopes.</p>

<p>We were about to set out one morning on a long ride, when Sir
George's<br>
presence was required by the arrival of an officer who had been
sent from<br>
the Horse Guards on official business. After half an hour's
delay, Colonel<br>
Cameron, the officer in question, was introduced, and entered
into<br>
conversation with our party. He had only landed in England from
the<br>
Peninsula a few days before, and had abundant information of the
stirring<br>
events enacting there. At the conclusion of an anecdote,&mdash;I
forget<br>
what,&mdash;he turned suddenly round to Miss Dashwood, who was
standing beside<br>
me, and said in a low voice:&mdash;</p>

<p>"And now, Miss Dashwood, I am reminded of a commission I
promised a very<br>
old brother officer to perform. Can I have one moment's
conversation with<br>
you in the window?"</p>

<p>As he spoke, I perceived that he crumpled beneath his glove
something like<br>
a letter.</p>

<p>"To me?" said Lucy, with a look of surprise that sadly puzzled
me whether<br>
to ascribe it to coquetry or innocence,&mdash;"to me?"</p>

<p>"To you," said the colonel, bowing; "and I am sadly deceived
by my friend<br>
Hammersley&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Captain Hammersley?" said she, blushing deeply as she
spoke.</p>

<p>I heard no more. She turned towards the window with the
colonel, and all I<br>
saw was that he handed her a letter, which, having hastily broken
open and<br>
thrown her eyes over, she grew at first deadly pale, then red,
and while<br>
her eyes filled with tears, I heard her say, "How like him! How
truly<br>
generous this is!" I listened for no more; my brain was wheeling
round and<br>
my senses reeling. I turned and left the room; in another moment
I was on<br>
my horse, galloping from the spot, despair, in all its blackness,
in my<br>
heart, and in my broken-hearted misery, wishing for death.</p>

<p>I was miles away from Dublin ere I remembered well what had
occurred, and<br>
even then not over clearly. The fact that Lucy Dashwood, whom I
imagined<br>
to be my own in heart, loved another, was all that I really knew.
That<br>
one thought was all my mind was capable of, and in it my misery,
my<br>
wretchedness were centred.</p>

<p>Of all the grief my life has known, I have had no moments like
the long<br>
hours of that dreary night. My sorrow, in turn, took every shape
and<br>
assumed every guise. Now I remembered how the Dashwoods had
courted my<br>
intimacy and encouraged my visits,&mdash;how Lucy herself had evinced
in a<br>
thousand ways that she felt a preference for me. I called to mind
the many<br>
unequivocal proofs I had given her that my feeling at least was
no common<br>
one; and yet, how had she sported with my affections, and jested
with my<br>
happiness! That she loved Hammersley I had now a palpable proof.
That this<br>
affection must have been mutual, and prosecuted at the very
moment I was<br>
not only professing my own love for her, but actually receiving
all but an<br>
avowal of its return,&mdash;oh, it was too, too base! and in my
deepest heart I<br>
cursed my folly, and vowed never to see her more.</p>

<p>It was late on the next day ere I retraced my steps towards
town, my heart<br>
sad and heavy, careless what became of me for the future, and
pondering<br>
whether I should not at once give up my college career and return
to my<br>
uncle. When I reached my chambers, all was silent and
comfortless; Webber<br>
had not returned; my servant was from home; and I felt myself
more than<br>
ever wretched in the solitude of what had been so oft the scene
of noisy<br>
and festive gayety. I sat some hours in a half-musing state,
every sad<br>
depressing thought that blighted hopes can conjure up rising in
turn before<br>
me. A loud knocking at the door at length aroused me. I got up
and opened<br>
it. No one was there. I looked around as well as the coming gloom
of<br>
evening would permit, but saw nothing. I listened, and heard, at
some<br>
distance off, my friend Power's manly voice as he sang,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!"</p>

<p>I hallooed out, "Power!"</p>

<p>"Eh, O'Malley, is that you?" inquired he. "Why, then, it seems
it required<br>
some deliberation whether you opened your door or not. Why, man,
you can<br>
have no great gift of prophecy, or you wouldn't have kept me so
long<br>
there."</p>

<p>"And have you been so?"</p>

<p>"Only twenty minutes; for as I saw the key in the lock, I had
determined to<br>
succeed if noise would do it."</p>

<p>"How strange! I never heard it."</p>

<p>"Glorious sleeper you must be; but come, my dear fellow, you
don't appear<br>
altogether awake yet."</p>

<p>"I have not been quite well these few days."</p>

<p>"Oh, indeed! The Dashwoods thought there must have been
something of that<br>
kind the matter by your brisk retreat. They sent me after you
yesterday;<br>
but wherever you went, Heaven knows. I never could come up with
you; so<br>
that your great news has been keeping these twenty-four hours
longer than<br>
need be."</p>

<p>"I am not aware what you allude to."</p>

<p>"Well, you are not over likely to be the wiser when you hear
it, if you can<br>
assume no more intelligent look than that. Why, man, there's
great luck in<br>
store for you."</p>

<p>"As how, pray? Come, Power, out with it; though I can't pledge
myself to<br>
feel half as grateful for my good fortune as I should do. What is
it?"</p>

<p>"You know Cameron?"</p>

<p>"I have seen him," said I, reddening.</p>

<p>"Well, old Camy, as we used to call him, has brought over,
among his other<br>
news, your gazette."</p>

<p>"My gazette! What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Confound your uncommon stupidity this evening! I mean, man,
that you are<br>
one of us,&mdash;gazetted to the 14th Light,&mdash;the best fellows for
love, war,<br>
and whiskey that ever sported a sabretasche.</p>

<p>    'Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!'</p>

<p>By Jove, I am as delighted to have rescued you from the black
harness of<br>
the King's Bench as though you had been a prisoner there! Know,
then,<br>
friend Charley, that on Wednesday we proceed to Fermoy, join some
score<br>
of gallant fellows,&mdash;all food for powder,&mdash;and, with the aid of a
rotten<br>
transport and the stormy winds that blow, will be bronzing our
beautiful<br>
faces in Portugal before the month's out. But come, now, let's
see about<br>
supper. Some of ours are coming over here at eleven, and I
promised them a<br>
devilled bone; and as it's your last night among these classic
precincts,<br>
let us have a shindy of it."</p>

<p>While I despatched Mike to Morrison's to provide supper, I
heard from Power<br>
that Sir George Dashwood had interested himself so strongly for
me that I<br>
had obtained my cornetcy in the 14th; that, fearful lest any
disappointment<br>
might arise, he had never mentioned the matter to me, but that he
had<br>
previously obtained my uncle's promise to concur in the
arrangement if his<br>
negotiation succeeded. It had so done, and now the
long-sought-for object<br>
of many days was within my grasp. But, alas, the circumstance
which lent it<br>
all its fascinations was a vanished dream; and what but two days
before had<br>
rendered my happiness perfect, I listened to listlessly and
almost without<br>
interest. Indeed, my first impulse at finding that I owed my
promotion to<br>
Sir George was to return a positive refusal of the cornetcy; but
then I<br>
remembered how deeply such conduct would hurt my poor uncle, to
whom I<br>
never could give an adequate explanation. So I heard Power in
silence to<br>
the end, thanked him sincerely for his own good-natured kindness
in the<br>
matter, which already, by the interest he had taken in me, went
far to heal<br>
the wounds that my own solitary musings were deepening in my
heart. At<br>
eighteen, fortunately, consolations are attainable that become
more<br>
difficult at eight-and-twenty, and impossible at
eight-and-thirty.</p>

<p>While Power continued to dilate upon the delights of a
soldier's life&mdash;a<br>
theme which many a boyish dream had long since made hallowed to
my<br>
thoughts&mdash;I gradually felt my enthusiasm rising, and a certain
throbbing at<br>
my heart betrayed to me that, sad and dispirited as I felt, there
was still<br>
within that buoyant spirit which youth possesses as its
privilege, and<br>
which answers to the call of enterprise as the war-horse to the
trumpet.<br>
That a career worthy of manhood, great, glorious, and
inspiriting, opened<br>
before me, coming so soon after the late downfall of my hopes,
was in<br>
itself a source of such true pleasure that ere long I listened to
my<br>
friend, and heard his narrative with breathless interest. A
lingering sense<br>
of pique, too, had its share in all this. I longed to come
forward in some<br>
manly and dashing part, where my youth might not be ever
remembered against<br>
me, and when, having brought myself to the test, I might no
longer be<br>
looked upon and treated as a boy.</p>

<p>We were joined at length by the other officers of the 14th,
and, to the<br>
number of twelve, sat down to supper.</p>

<p>It was to be my last night in Old Trinity, and we resolved
that the<br>
farewell should be a solemn one. Mansfield, one of the wildest
young<br>
fellows in the regiment, had vowed that the leave-taking should
be<br>
commemorated by some very decisive and open expressions of our
feelings,<br>
and had already made some progress in arrangements for blowing up
the great<br>
bell, which had more than once obtruded upon our morning
convivialities;<br>
but he was overruled by his more discreet associates, and we at
length<br>
assumed our places at table, in the midst of which stood a
<i>hecatomb</i><br>
of all my college equipments, cap, gown, bands, etc. A funeral
pile of<br>
classics was arrayed upon the hearth, surmounted by my "Book on
the<br>
Cellar," and a punishment-roll waved its length, like a banner,
over the<br>
doomed heroes of Greece and Rome.</p>

<p>It is seldom that any very determined attempt to be gay <i>par
excellence</i><br>
has a perfect success, but certainly upon this evening ours had.
Songs,<br>
good stories, speeches, toasts, high visions of the campaign
before us, the<br>
wild excitement which such a meeting cannot be free from,
gradually, as<br>
the wine passed from hand to hand, seized upon all, and about
four in the<br>
morning, such was the uproar we caused, and so terrific the noise
of our<br>
proceedings, that the accumulated force of porters, sent one by
one to<br>
demand admission, was now a formidable body at the door, and Mike
at last<br>
came in to assure us that the bursar,&mdash;the most dread official of
all<br>
collegians,&mdash;was without, and insisted, with a threat of his
heaviest<br>
displeasure in case of refusal, that the door should be
opened.</p>

<p>A committee of the whole house immediately sat upon the
question; and it<br>
was at length resolved, <i>nemine contradicente</i>, that the
request should be<br>
complied with. A fresh bowl of punch, in honor of our expected
guest, was<br>
immediately concocted, a new broil put on the gridiron, and
having seated<br>
ourselves with as great a semblance of decorum as four bottles a
man admits<br>
of, Curtis the junior captain, being most drunk, was deputed to
receive the<br>
bursar at the door, and introduce him to our august presence.</p>

<p>Mike's instructions were, that immediately on Dr. Stone the
bursar<br>
entering, the door was to be slammed to, and none of his
followers<br>
admitted. This done, the doctor was to be ushered in and left to
our polite<br>
attentions.</p>

<p>A fresh thundering from without scarcely left time for
further<br>
deliberation; and at last Curtis moved towards the door in
execution of his<br>
mission.</p>

<p>"Is there any one there?" said Mike, in a tone of most
unsophisticated<br>
innocence, to a rapping that, having lasted three quarters of an
hour,<br>
threatened now to break in the panel. "Is there any one
there?"</p>

<p>"Open the door this instant,&mdash;the senior bursar desires
you,&mdash;this<br>
instant."</p>

<p>"Sure it's night, and we're all in bed," said Mike.</p>

<p>"Mr. Webber, Mr. O'Malley," said the bursar, now boiling with
indignation,<br>
"I summon you, in the name of the board, to admit me."</p>

<p>"Let the gemman in," hiccoughed Curtis; and at the same
instant the<br>
heavy bars were withdrawn, and the door opened, but so sparingly
as with<br>
difficulty to permit the passage of the burly figure of the
bursar.</p>

<p>Forcing his way through, and regardless of what became of the
rest, he<br>
pushed on vigorously through the antechamber, and before Curtis
could<br>
perform his functions of usher, stood in the midst of us. What
were his<br>
feelings at the scene before him, Heaven knows. The number of
figures in<br>
uniform at once betrayed how little his jurisdiction extended to
the great<br>
mass of the company, and he immediately turned towards me.</p>

<p>"Mr. Webber&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O'Malley, if you please, Mr. Bursar," said I, bowing with,
most<br>
ceremonious politeness.</p>

<p>"No matter, sir; <i>arcades ambo</i>, I believe."</p>

<p>"Both archdeacons," said Melville, translating, with a look of
withering<br>
contempt upon the speaker.</p>

<p>The doctor continued, addressing me,&mdash;</p>

<p>"May I ask, sir, if you believe yourself possessed of any
privilege for<br>
converting this university into a common tavern?"</p>

<p>"I wish to Heaven he did," said Curtis; "capital tap your old
commons would<br>
make."</p>

<p>"Really, Mr. Bursar," replied I, modestly, "I had begun to
flatter myself<br>
that our little innocent gayety had inspired you with the idea of
joining<br>
our party."</p>

<p>"I humbly move that the old cove in the gown do take the
chair," sang<br>
out one. "All who are of this opinion say, 'Ay.'" A perfect yell
of ayes<br>
followed this. "All who are of the contrary say, 'No.' The ayes
have it."</p>

<p>Before the luckless doctor had a moment for thought, his legs
were lifted<br>
from under him, and he was jerked, rather than placed, upon a
chair, and<br>
put sitting upon the table.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, your expulsion within twenty-four hours&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hip, hip, hurra, hurra, hurra!" drowned the rest, while
Power, taking off<br>
the doctor's cap, replaced it by a foraging cap, very much to the
amusement<br>
of the party.</p>

<p>"There is no penalty the law permits of that I shall
not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Help the doctor," said Melville, placing a glass of punch in
his<br>
unconscious hand.</p>

<p>"Now for a 'Viva la Compagnie!'" said Telford, seating himself
at the<br>
piano, and playing the first bars of that well-known air, to
which, in our<br>
meetings, we were accustomed to improvise a doggerel in turn.</p>

<p>    "I drink to the graces, Law, Physic, Divinity,<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!<br>
    And here's to the worthy old Bursar of Trinity,<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!"</p>

<p>"Viva, viva la va!" etc., were chorussed with a shout that
shook the old<br>
walls, while Power took up the strain:</p>

<p>    "Though with lace caps and gowns they look so like
asses,<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!"<br>
    They'd rather have punch than the springs of Parnassus,<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!<br>
    What a nose the old gentleman has, by the way,<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!<br>
    Since he smelt out the Devil from Botany Bay,[1]<br>
                                 Viva la Compagnie!</p>

<p>[Footnote:1 Botany Bay was the slang name given by college men
to a new<br>
square rather remotely situated from the remainder of the
college.]</p>

<p>Words cannot give even the faintest idea of the poor bursar's
feelings<br>
while these demoniacal orgies were enacting around him. Held fast
in his<br>
chair by Lechmere and another, he glowered on the riotous mob
around like a<br>
maniac, and astonishment that such liberties could be taken with
one in his<br>
situation seemed to have surpassed even his rage and resentment;
and every<br>
now and then a stray thought would flash across his mind that we
were<br>
mad,&mdash;a sentiment which, unfortunately, our conduct was but too
well<br>
calculated to inspire.</p>

<p>"So you're the morning lecturer, old gentleman, and have just
dropped in<br>
here in the way of business; pleasant life you must have of it,"
said<br>
Casey, now by far the most tipsy man present.</p>

<p>"If you think, Mr. O'Malley, that the events of this evening
are to end<br>
here&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Very far from it, Doctor," said Power; "I'll draw up a little
account of<br>
the affair for 'Saunders.' They shall hear of it in every corner
and nook<br>
of the kingdom."</p>

<p>"The bursar of Trinity shall be a proverb for a good fellow
that loveth his<br>
lush," hiccoughed out Fegan.</p>

<p>"And if you believe that such conduct is academical," said the
doctor, with<br>
a withering sneer.</p>

<p>"Perhaps not," lisped Melville, tightening his belt; "but it's
devilish<br>
convivial,&mdash;eh, Doctor?"</p>

<p>"Is that like him?" said Moreton, producing a caricature which
he had just<br>
sketched.</p>

<p>"Capital,&mdash;very good,&mdash;perfect. M'Cleary shall have it in his
window by<br>
noon to-day," said Power.</p>

<p>At this instant some of the combustibles disposed among the
rejected<br>
habiliments of my late vocation caught fire, and squibs,
crackers, and<br>
detonating shots went off on all sides. The bursar, who had not
been deaf<br>
to several hints and friendly suggestions about setting fire to
him,<br>
blowing him up, etc., with one vigorous spring burst from his
antagonists,<br>
and clearing the table at a bound, reached the floor. Before he
could be<br>
seized, he had gained the door, opened it, and was away. We gave
chase,<br>
yelling like so many devils. But wine and punch, songs and
speeches, had<br>
done their work, and more than one among the pursuers measured
his length<br>
upon the pavement; while the terrified bursar, with the speed of
terror,<br>
held on his way, and gained his chambers by about twenty yards in
advance<br>
of Power and Melville, whose pursuit only ended when the oaken
panel of the<br>
door shut them out from their victim. One loud cheer beneath his
window<br>
served for our farewell to our friend, and we returned to my
rooms. By<br>
this time a regiment of those classic functionaries ycleped
porters had<br>
assembled around the door, and seemed bent upon giving battle in
honor<br>
of their maltreated ruler; but Power explained to them, in a neat
speech<br>
replete with Latin quotations, that their cause was a weak one,
that we<br>
were more than their match, and finally proposed to them to
finish the<br>
punch-bowl, to which we were really incompetent,&mdash;a motion that
met<br>
immediate acceptance; and old Duncan, with his helmet in one hand
and a<br>
goblet in the other, wished me many happy days and every luck in
this life<br>
as I stepped from the massive archway, and took my last farewell
of Old<br>
Trinity.</p>

<p>Should any kind reader feel interested as to the ulterior
course assumed by<br>
the bursar, I have only to say that the terrors of the "Board"
were never<br>
fulminated against me, harmless and innocent as I should have
esteemed<br>
them. The threat of giving publicity to the entire proceedings by
the<br>
papers, and the dread of figuring in a sixpenny caricature in
M'Cleary's<br>
window, were too much for the worthy doctor, and he took the
wiser course<br>
under the circumstances, and held his peace about the matter. I,
too, have<br>
done so for many a year, and only now recall the scene among the
wild<br>
transactions of early days and boyish follies.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXI</p>

<p>THE PHOENIX PARK.</p>

<p>What a glorious thing it is when our first waking thoughts not
only dispel<br>
some dark, depressing dream, but arouse us to the consciousness
of a new<br>
and bright career suddenly opening before us, buoyant in hope,
rich in<br>
promise for the future! Life has nothing better than this. The
bold spring<br>
by which the mind clears the depth that separates misery from
happiness is<br>
ecstasy itself; and then what a world of bright visions come
teeming before<br>
us,&mdash;what plans we form; what promises we make to ourselves in
our own<br>
hearts; how prolific is the dullest imagination; how excursive
the tamest<br>
fancy, at such a moment! In a few short and fleeting seconds, the
events of<br>
a whole life are planned and pictured before us. Dreams of
happiness<br>
and visions of bliss, of which all our after-years are
insufficient to<br>
eradicate the <i>prestige</i>, come in myriads about us; and from
that narrow<br>
aperture through which this new hope pierces into our heart, a
flood of<br>
light is poured that illumines our path to the very verge of the
grave. How<br>
many a success in after-days is reckoned but as one step in that
ladder of<br>
ambition some boyish review has framed, perhaps, after all,
destined to be<br>
the first and only one! With what triumph we hail some goal
attained, some<br>
object of our wishes gained, less for its present benefit, than
as the<br>
accomplishment of some youthful prophecy, when picturing to our
hearts all<br>
that we would have in life, we whispered within us the flattery
of success.</p>

<p>Who is there who has not had some such moment; and who would
exchange<br>
it, with all the delusive and deceptive influences by which it
comes<br>
surrounded, for the greatest actual happiness he has partaken of?
Alas,<br>
alas, it is only in the boundless expanse of such imaginations,
unreal and<br>
fictitious as they are, that we are truly blessed! Our choicest
blessings<br>
in life come even so associated with some sources of care that
the cup of<br>
enjoyment is not pure but dregged in bitterness.</p>

<p>To such a world of bright anticipation did I awake on the
morning after the<br>
events I have detailed in the last chapter. The first thing my
eyes fell<br>
upon was an official letter from the Horse Guards:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "The commander of the forces desires that Mr. O'Malley
will report<br>
    himself, immediately on the receipt of this letter, at the
headquarters<br>
    of the regiment to which he is gazetted."</p>

<p>Few and simple as the lines were, how brimful of pleasure they
sounded to<br>
my ears. The regiment to which I was gazetted! And so I was a
soldier at<br>
last! The first wish of my boyhood was then really accomplished.
And my<br>
uncle, what will he say; what will he think?</p>

<p>"A letter, sir, by the post," said Mike, at the moment.</p>

<p>I seized it eagerly; it came from home, but was in Considine's
handwriting.<br>
How my heart failed me as I turned to look at the seal. "Thank
God!" said<br>
I, aloud, on perceiving that it was a red one. I now tore it open
and<br>
read:&mdash;</p>

<p>    My Dear Charley,&mdash;Godfrey, being laid up with the gout,
has<br>
    desired me to write to you by this day's post. Your
appointment to<br>
    the 14th, notwithstanding all his prejudices about the army,
has<br>
    given him sincere pleasure. I believe, between ourselves,
that your<br>
    college career, of which he has heard something, convinced
him that<br>
    your forte did not lie in the classics; you know I said so
always, but<br>
    nobody minded me. Your new prospects are all that your best
friends<br>
    could wish for you: you begin early; your corps is a crack
one; you<br>
    are ordered for service. What could you have more?</p>

<p>    Your uncle hopes, if you can get a few days' leave, that
you will<br>
    come down here before you join, and I hope so too; for he is
unusually<br>
    low-spirited, and talks about his never seeing you again,
and<br>
    all that sort of thing.</p>

<p>    I have written to Merivale, your colonel, on this subject,
as well<br>
    as generally on your behalf. We were cornets together forty
years<br>
    ago. A strict fellow you'll find him, but a trump on service.
If<br>
    you can't manage the leave, write a long letter home at all
events.<br>
    And so, God bless you, and all success!<br>
    Yours sincerely,<br>
    W. Considine.</p>

<p>    I had thought of writing you a long letter of advice for
your new<br>
    career; and, indeed, half accomplished one. After all,
however, I<br>
    can tell you little that your own good sense will not teach
you as you<br>
    go on; and experience is ever better than precept. I know of
but<br>
    one rule in life which admits of scarcely any exception, and
having<br>
    followed it upwards of sixty years, approve of it only the
more:<br>
    Never quarrel when you can help it; but meet any
man,&mdash;your<br>
    tailor, your hairdresser,&mdash;if he wishes to have you out.<br>
    W. C.</p>

<p>I had scarcely come to the end of this very characteristic
epistle, when<br>
two more letters were placed upon my table. One was from Sir
George<br>
Dashwood, inviting me to dinner to meet some of my "brother
officers."<br>
How my heart beat at the expression. The other was a short note,
marked<br>
"Private," from my late tutor, Dr. Mooney, saying, "that if I
made a<br>
suitable apology to the bursar for the late affair at my room, he
might<br>
probably be induced to abandon any further step; otherwise&mdash;"
then followed<br>
innumerable threats about fine, penalties, expulsion, etc., that
fell most<br>
harmlessly upon my ears. I accepted the invitation; declined the
apology;<br>
and having ordered my horse, cantered off to the barracks to
consult my<br>
friend Power as to all the minor details of my career.</p>

<p>As the dinner hour grew near, my thoughts became again fixed
upon Miss<br>
Dashwood; and a thousand misgivings crossed my mind as to whether
I should<br>
have nerve enough to meet her, without disclosing in my manner
the altered<br>
state of my feelings; a possibility which I now dreaded fully as
much as I<br>
had longed some days before to avow my affection for her, however
slight<br>
its prospect of return. All my valiant resolves and
well-contrived plans<br>
for appearing unmoved and indifferent in her presence, with which
I stored<br>
my mind while dressing and when on the way to dinner, were,
however,<br>
needless, for it was a party exclusively of men; and as the
coffee was<br>
served in the dining-room, no move was made to the drawing-room
by any of<br>
the company. "Quite as well as it is!" was my muttered opinion,
as I got<br>
into my cab at the door. "All is at an end as regards me in her
esteem, and<br>
I must not spend my days sighing for a young lady that cares for
another."<br>
Very reasonable, very proper resolutions these; but, alas! I went
home to<br>
bed, only to think half the night long of the fair Lucy, and
dream of her<br>
the remainder of it.</p>

<p>When morning dawned my first thought was, Shall I see her once
more? Shall<br>
I leave her forever thus abruptly? Or, rather, shall I not
unburden my<br>
bosom of its secret, confess my love, and say farewell? I felt
such a<br>
course much more in unison with my wishes than the day before;
and as Power<br>
had told me that before a week we should present ourselves at
Fermoy, I<br>
knew that no time was to be lost.</p>

<p>My determination was taken. I ordered my horse, and early as
it was, rode<br>
out to the Royal Hospital. My heart beat so strongly as I rode up
to the<br>
door that I half resolved to return. I rang the bell. Sir George
was in<br>
town. Miss Dashwood had just gone, five minutes before, to spend
some days<br>
at Carton. "It is fate!" thought I as I turned from the spot and
walked<br>
slowly beside my horse towards Dublin.</p>

<p>In the few days that intervened before my leaving town, my
time was<br>
occupied from morning to night; the various details of my
uniform, outfit,<br>
etc., were undertaken for me by Power. My horses were sent for to
Galway;<br>
and I myself, with innumerable persons to see, and a mass of
business to<br>
transact, contrived at least three times a day to ride out to the
Royal<br>
Hospital, always to make some trifling inquiry for Sir George,
and always<br>
to hear repeated that Miss Dashwood had not returned.</p>

<p>Thus passed five of my last six days in Dublin; and as the
morning of<br>
the last opened, it was with a sorrowing spirit that I felt my
hour of<br>
departure approach without one only opportunity of seeing Lucy,
even to<br>
say good-by. While Mike was packing in one corner, and I in
another was<br>
concluding a long letter to my poor uncle, my door opened and
Webber<br>
entered.</p>

<p>"Eh, O'Malley, I'm only in time to say adieu, it seems. To my
surprise this<br>
morning I found you had cut the 'Silent Sister.' I feared I
should be too<br>
late to catch one glimpse of you ere you started for the
wars."</p>

<p>"You are quite right, Master Frank, and I scarcely expected to
have seen<br>
you. Your last brilliant achievement at Sir George's very nearly
involved<br>
me in a serious scrape."</p>

<p>"A mere trifle. How confoundedly silly Power must have looked,
eh? Should<br>
like so much to have seen his face. He booked up next day,&mdash;very
proper<br>
fellow. By-the-bye, O'Malley, I rather like the little girl; she
is<br>
decidedly pretty, and her foot,&mdash;did you remark her
foot?&mdash;capital."</p>

<p>"Yes, she's very good-looking," said I, carelessly.</p>

<p>"I'm thinking of cultivating her a little," said Webber,
pulling up his<br>
cravat and adjusting his hair at the glass. "She's spoiled by all
the<br>
tinsel vaporing of her hussar and aide-de-camp acquaintances; but
something<br>
may be done for her, eh?"</p>

<p>"With your most able assistance and kind intentions."</p>

<p>"That's what I mean exactly. Sorry you're going,&mdash;devilish
sorry. You<br>
served out Stone gloriously: perhaps it's as well, though,&mdash;you
know they'd<br>
have expelled you; but still something might turn up. Soldiering
is a<br>
bad style of thing, eh? How the old general did take his
sister-in-law's<br>
presence to heart! But he must forgive and forget, for I am going
to be<br>
very great friends with him and Lucy. Where are you going
now?"</p>

<p>"I am about to try a new horse before troops," said I. "He's
stanch enough<br>
with the cry of the fox-pack in his ears; but I don't know how
he'll stand<br>
a peal of artillery."</p>

<p>"Well, come along," said Webber; "I'll ride with you." So
saying, we<br>
mounted and set off to the Park, where two regiments of cavalry
and some<br>
horse artillery were ordered for inspection.</p>

<p>The review was over when we reached the exercising ground, and
we slowly<br>
walked our horses towards the end of the Park, intending to
return to<br>
Dublin by the road. We had not proceeded far, when, some hundred
yards in<br>
advance, we perceived an officer riding with a lady, followed by
an orderly<br>
dragoon.</p>

<p>"There he goes," said Webber; "I wonder if he'd ask me to
dinner, if I were<br>
to throw myself in his way?"</p>

<p>"Who do you mean?" said I.</p>

<p>"Sir George Dashwood, to be sure, and, <i>la voil&agrave;</i>
, Miss Lucy. The little<br>
darling rides well, too; how squarely she sits her horse.
O'Malley, I've a<br>
weakness there; upon my soul I have."</p>

<p>"Very possible," said I; "I am aware of another friend of
mine<br>
participating in the sentiment."</p>

<p>"One Charles O'Malley, of his Majesty's&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nonsense, man; no, no. I mean a very different person, and,
for all I can<br>
see, with some reason to hope for success."</p>

<p>"Oh, as to that, we flatter ourselves the thing does not
present any very<br>
considerable difficulties."</p>

<p>"As how, pray?"</p>

<p>"Why, of course, like all such matters, a very decisive
determination to<br>
be, to do, and to suffer, as Lindley Murray says, carries the
day. Tell her<br>
she's an angel every day for three weeks. She may laugh a little
at first,<br>
but she'll believe it in the end. Tell her that you have not the
slightest<br>
prospect of obtaining her affections, but still persist in loving
her.<br>
That, finally, you must die from the effects of despair, etc.,
but rather<br>
like the notion of it than otherwise. That you know she has no
fortune;<br>
that you haven't a sixpence; and who should marry, if people
whose position<br>
in the world was similar did not?"</p>

<p>"But halt; pray, how are you to get time and place for all
such interesting<br>
conversations?"</p>

<p>"Time and place! Good Heavens, what a question! Is not every
hour of the<br>
twenty-four the fittest? Is not every place the most suitable? A
sudden<br>
pause in the organ of St. Patrick's did, it is true, catch me
once in a<br>
declaration of love, but the choir came in to my aid and drowned
the lady's<br>
answer. My dear O'Malley, what could prevent you this instant, if
you are<br>
so disposed, from doing the amiable to the darling Lucy
there?"</p>

<p>"With the father for an umpire in case we disagreed," said
I.</p>

<p>"Not at all. I should soon get rid of him."</p>

<p>"Impossible, my dear friend."</p>

<p>"Come now, just for the sake of convincing your obstinacy. If
you like<br>
to say good-by to the little girl without a witness, I'll take
off the<br>
he-dragon."</p>

<p>"You don't mean&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I do, man; I do mean it." So saying, he drew a crimson silk
handkerchief<br>
from his pocket, and fastened it round his waist like an
officer's sash.<br>
This done, and telling me to keep in their wake for some minutes,
he turned<br>
from me, and was soon concealed by a copse of white-thorn near
us.</p>

<p>I had not gone above a hundred yards farther when I heard Sir
George's<br>
voice calling for the orderly. I looked and saw Webber at a
considerable<br>
distance in front, curvetting and playing all species of antics.
The<br>
distance between the general and myself was now so short that I
overheard<br>
the following dialogue with his sentry:&mdash;</p>

<p>"He's not in uniform, then?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; he has a round hat."</p>

<p>"A round hat!"</p>

<p>"His sash&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A sword and sash. This is too bad. I'm determined to find him
out."</p>

<p>"How d'ye do, General?" cried Webber, as he rode towards the
trees.</p>

<p>"Stop, sir!" shouted Sir George.</p>

<p>"Good-day, Sir George," replied Webber, retiring.</p>

<p>"Stay where you are, Lucy," said the general as, dashing spurs
into his<br>
horse, he sprang forward at a gallop, incensed beyond endurance
that his<br>
most strict orders should be so openly and insultingly
transgressed.</p>

<p>Webber led on to a deep hollow, where the road passed between
two smooth<br>
slopes, covered with furze-trees, and from which it emerged
afterwards in<br>
the thickest and most intricate part of the Park. Sir George
dashed boldly<br>
after, and in less than half a minute both were lost to my view,
leaving me<br>
in breathless amazement at Master Frank's ingenuity, and some
puzzle as to<br>
my own future movements.</p>

<p>"Now then, or never!" said I, as I pushed boldly forward, and
in an instant<br>
was alongside of Miss Dashwood. Her astonishment at seeing me so
suddenly<br>
increased the confusion from which I felt myself suffering, and
for some<br>
minutes I could scarcely speak. At last I plucked up courage a
little, and<br>
said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Miss Dashwood, I have looked most anxiously, for the last
four days, for<br>
the moment which chance has now given me. I wished, before I
parted forever<br>
with those to whom I owe already so much, that I should at least
speak my<br>
gratitude ere I said good-by."</p>

<p>"But when do you think of going?"</p>

<p>"To-morrow. Captain Power, under whose command I am, has
received orders to<br>
embark immediately for Portugal."</p>

<p>I thought&mdash;perhaps it was but a thought&mdash;that her cheek grew
somewhat paler<br>
as I spoke; but she remained silent; and I, scarcely knowing what
I had<br>
said, or whether I had finished, spoke not either.</p>

<p>"Papa, I'm sure, is not aware," said she, after a long pause,
"of your<br>
intention of leaving so soon, for only last night he spoke of
some letters<br>
he meant to give you to some friends in the Peninsula; besides, I
know,"<br>
here she smiled faintly,&mdash;"that he destined some excellent advice
for your<br>
ears, as to your new path in life, for he has an immense opinion
of the<br>
value of such to a young officer."</p>

<p>"I am, indeed, most grateful to Sir George, and truly never
did any one<br>
stand more in need of counsel than I do." This was said half
musingly, and<br>
not intended to be heard.</p>

<p>"Then, pray, consult papa," said she, eagerly; "he is much
attached to you,<br>
and will, I am certain, do all in his power&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Alas! I fear not, Miss Dashwood."</p>

<p>"Why, what can you mean. Has anything so serious
occurred?"</p>

<p>"No, no; I'm but misleading you, and exciting your sympathy
with false<br>
pretences. Should I tell you all the truth, you would not pardon,
perhaps<br>
not hear me."</p>

<p>"You have, indeed, puzzled me; but if there is anything in
which my<br>
father&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Less him than his daughter," said I, fixing my eyes full upon
her as I<br>
spoke. "Yes, Lucy, I feel I must confess it, cost what it may; I
love you.<br>
Stay, hear me out; I know the fruitlessness, the utter despair,
that awaits<br>
such a sentiment. My own heart tells me that I am not, cannot be,
loved in<br>
return; yet would I rather cherish in its core my affection,
slighted and<br>
unblessed, such as it is, than own another heart. I ask for
nothing, I hope<br>
for nothing; I merely entreat that, for my truth, I may meet
belief, and<br>
for my heart's worship of her whom alone I can love, compassion.
I see that<br>
you at least pity me. Nay, one word more; I have one favor more
to ask,&mdash;it<br>
is my last, my only one. Do not, when time and distance may have
separated<br>
us, perhaps forever, think that the expressions I now use are
prompted by<br>
a mere sudden ebullition of boyish feeling; do not attribute to
the<br>
circumstance of my youth alone the warmth of the attachment I
profess,&mdash;for<br>
I swear to you, by every hope that I have, that in my heart of
hearts my<br>
love to you is the source and spring of every action in my life,
of every<br>
aspiration in my heart; and when I cease to love you, I shall
cease to<br>
feel."</p>

<p>"And now, farewell,&mdash;farewell forever!" I pressed her hand to
my lips, gave<br>
one long, last look, turned my horse rapidly away, and ere a
minute was far<br>
out of sight of where I had left her.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXII.</p>

<p>THE ROAD.</p>

<p>Power was detained in town by some orders from the
adjutant-general, so<br>
that I started for Cork the next morning with no other companion
than my<br>
servant Mike. For the first few stages upon the road, my own
thoughts<br>
sufficiently occupied me to render me insensible or indifferent
to all<br>
else. My opening career, the prospects my new life as a soldier
held out,<br>
my hopes of distinction, my love of Lucy with all its train of
doubts and<br>
fears, passed in review before me, and I took no note of time
till far past<br>
noon. I now looked to the back part of the coach, where Mike's
voice had<br>
been, as usual, in the ascendant for some time, and perceived
that he was<br>
surrounded by an eager auditory of four raw recruits, who, under
the care<br>
of a sergeant, were proceeding to Cork to be enrolled in their
regiment.<br>
The sergeant, whose minutes of wakefulness were only those when
the coach<br>
stopped to change horses, and when he got down to mix a "summat
hot," paid<br>
little attention to his followers, leaving them perfectly free in
all their<br>
movements, to listen to Mike's eloquence and profit by his
suggestions,<br>
should they deem fit. Master Michael's services to his new
acquaintances,<br>
I began to perceive, were not exactly of the same nature as
Dibdin is<br>
reported to have rendered to our navy in the late war. Far from
it. His<br>
theme was no contemptuous disdain for danger; no patriotic
enthusiasm<br>
to fight for home and country; no proud consciousness of British
valor,<br>
mingled with the appropriate hatred of our mutual enemies,&mdash;on
the<br>
contrary, Mike's eloquence was enlisted for the defendant. He
detailed,<br>
and in no unimpressive way either, the hardships of a soldier's
life,&mdash;its<br>
dangers, its vicissitudes, its chances, its possible penalties,
its<br>
inevitably small rewards; and, in fact, so completely did he work
on the<br>
feelings of his hearers that I perceived more than one glance
exchanged<br>
between the victims that certainly betokened anything save the
resolve to<br>
fight for King George. It was at the close of a long and most
powerful<br>
appeal upon the superiority of any other line in life, petty
larceny and<br>
small felony inclusive, that he concluded with the following
quotation:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Thrue for ye, boys!</p>

<p>    'With your red scarlet coat,<br>
    You're as proud as a goat,<br>
      And your long cap and feather.'</p>

<p>But, by the piper that played before Moses! it's more whipping
nor<br>
gingerbread is going on among them, av ye knew but all, and heerd
the<br>
misfortune that happened to my father."</p>

<p>"And was he a sodger?" inquired one.</p>

<p>"Troth was he, more sorrow to him; and wasn't he a'most
whipped one day for<br>
doing what he was bid?"</p>

<p>"Musha, but that was hard!"</p>

<p>"To be sure it was hard; but faix, when my father seen that
they didn't<br>
know their own minds, he thought, anyhow, he knew his, so he ran
away,&mdash;and<br>
devil a bit of him they ever cotch afther. May be ye might like
to hear the<br>
story; and there's instruction in it for yez, too."</p>

<p>A general request to this end being preferred by the company,
Mike took a<br>
shrewd look at the sergeant, to be sure that he was still
sleeping, settled<br>
his coat comfortably across his knees, and began:&mdash;</p>

<p>Well, it's a good many years ago my father 'listed in the
North Cork, just<br>
to oblige Mr. Barry, the landlord there. For,' says he, 'Phil,'
says he,<br>
'it's not a soldier ye'll be at all, but my own man, to brush my
clothes<br>
and go errands, and the like o' that; and the king, long life to
him! will<br>
help to pay ye for your trouble. Ye understand me?' Well, my
father agreed,<br>
and Mr. Barry was as good as his word. Never a guard did my
father mount,<br>
nor as much as a drill had he, nor a roll-call, nor anything at
all, save<br>
and except wait on the captain, his master, just as pleasant as
need be,<br>
and no inconvenience in life.</p>

<p>"Well, for three years this went on as I am telling, and the
regiment was<br>
ordered down to Bantry, because of a report that the 'boys' was
rising<br>
down there; and the second evening there was a night party
patrolling with<br>
Captain Barry for six hours in the rain, and the captain, God be
marciful<br>
to him! tuk could and died. More by token, they said it was
drink, but<br>
my father says it wasn't: 'for' says he, 'after he tuk eight
tumblers<br>
comfortable,' my father mixed the ninth, and the captain waived
his hand<br>
this way, as much as to say he'd have no more. 'Is it that ye
mean?' says<br>
my father; and the captain nodded. 'Musha, but it's sorry I am,'
says my<br>
father, 'to see you this way; for ye must be bad entirely to
leave off in<br>
the beginning of the evening.' And thrue for him, the captain was
dead in<br>
the morning.</p>

<p>"A sorrowful day it was for my father when he died. It was the
finest<br>
place in the world; little to do, plenty of divarsion, and a kind
man he<br>
was,&mdash;when he was drunk. Well, then, when the captain was buried
and all<br>
was over, my father hoped they'd be for letting him away, as he
said,<br>
'Sure, I'm no use in life to anybody, save the man that's gone,
for his<br>
ways are all I know, and I never was a sodger.' But, upon my
conscience,<br>
they had other thoughts in their heads, for they ordered him into
the ranks<br>
to be drilled just like the recruits they took the day
before.</p>

<p>"'Musha, isn't this hard?' said my father. 'Here I am, an ould
vitrin that<br>
ought to be discharged on a pension with two-and-sixpence a day,
obliged<br>
to go capering about the barrack-yard, practising the goose-step,
or some<br>
other nonsense not becoming my age nor my habits.' But so it was.
Well,<br>
this went on for some time, and sure, if they were hard on my
father,<br>
hadn't he his revenge; for he nigh broke their hearts with his
stupidity.<br>
Oh, nothing in life could equal him! Devil a thing, no matter how
easy, he<br>
could learn at all; and so far from caring for being in
confinement, it was<br>
that he liked best. Every sergeant in the regiment had a trial of
him, but<br>
all to no good; and he seemed striving so hard to learn all the
while that<br>
they were loath to punish him, the ould rogue!</p>

<p>"This was going on for some time, when, one day, news came in
that a<br>
body of the rebels, as they called them, was coming down from the
Gap of<br>
Mulnavick to storm the town and burn all before them. The whole
regiment<br>
was of coorse under arms, and great preparations was made for a
battle.<br>
Meanwhile patrols were ordered to scour the roads, and sentries
posted at<br>
every turn of the way and every rising ground to give warning
when the boys<br>
came in sight; and my father was placed at the Bridge of
Drumsnag, in the<br>
wildest and bleakest part of the whole country, with nothing but
furze<br>
mountains on every side, and a straight road going over the top
of them.</p>

<p>"'This is pleasant,' says my father, as soon as they left him
there alone<br>
by himself, with no human creature to speak to, nor a
whiskey-shop within<br>
ten miles of him; 'cowld comfort,' says he, 'on a winter's day;
and faix,<br>
but I have a mind to give ye the slip.'</p>

<p>"Well, he put his gun down on the bridge, and he lit his pipe,
and he sat<br>
down under an ould tree and began to ruminate upon his
affairs.</p>

<p>"'Oh, then, it's wishing it well I am,' says he, 'for
sodgering; and bad<br>
luck to the hammer that struck the shilling that 'listed me,
that's all,'<br>
for he was mighty low in his heart.</p>

<p>"Just then a noise came rattling down near him. He listened,
and before<br>
he could get on his legs, down comes' the general, ould Cohoon,
with an<br>
orderly after him.</p>

<p>"'Who goes there?' says my father.</p>

<p>"'The round,' says the general, looking about all the time to
see where was<br>
the sentry, for my father was snug under the tree.</p>

<p>"'What round?' says my father.</p>

<p>"'The grand round,' says the general, more puzzled than
afore.</p>

<p>"'Pass on, grand round, and God save you kindly!' says my
father, putting<br>
his pipe in his mouth again, for he thought all was over.</p>

<p>"'D&mdash;n your soul, where are you?' says the general, for sorrow
bit of my<br>
father could he see yet.</p>

<p>"'It's here I am,' says he, 'and a cowld place I have of it;
and if it<br>
wasn't for the pipe I'd be lost entirely.'</p>

<p>"The words wasn't well out of his mouth when the general began
laughing,<br>
till ye'd think he'd fall off his horse; and the dragoon behind
him&mdash;more<br>
by token, they say it wasn't right for him&mdash;laughed as loud as
himself.</p>

<p>"'Yer a droll sentry,' says the general, as soon as he could
speak.</p>

<p>"'Be-gorra, it's little fun there's left in me,' says my
father, 'with this<br>
drilling, and parading, and blackguarding about the roads all
night.'</p>

<p>"'And is this the way you salute your officer?' says the
general.</p>

<p>"'Just so,' says my father; 'devil a more politeness ever they
taught me.'</p>

<p>"'What regiment do you belong to?' says the general.</p>

<p>"'The North Cork, bad luck to them!' says my father, with a
sigh.</p>

<p>"'They ought to be proud of ye,' says the general.</p>

<p>"'I'm sorry for it,' says my father, sorrowfully, 'for may be
they'll keep<br>
me the longer.'</p>

<p>"'Well, my good fellow,' says the general, 'I haven't more
time to waste<br>
here; but let me teach you something before I go. Whenever your
officer<br>
passes, it's your duty to present to him.'</p>

<p>"'Arrah, it's jokin' ye are,' says my father.</p>

<p>"'No, I'm in earnest,' says he, 'as ye might learn, to your
cost, if I<br>
brought you to a court-martial.'</p>

<p>"'Well, there's no knowing,' says my father, 'what they'd be
up to; but<br>
sure, if that's all, I'll do it, with all "the veins," whenever
yer coming<br>
this way again.'</p>

<p>"The general began to laugh again here; but said,&mdash;</p>

<p>'I'm coming back in the evening,' says he, 'and mind you don't
forget your<br>
respect to your officer.'</p>

<p>"'Never fear, sir,' says my father; 'and many thanks to you
for your<br>
kindness for telling me.'</p>

<p>"Away went the general, and the orderly after him, and in ten
minutes they<br>
were out of sight.</p>

<p>"The night was falling fast, and one half of the mountain was
quite dark<br>
already, when my father began to think they were forgetting him
entirely.<br>
He looked one way, and he looked another, but sorra bit of a
sergeant's<br>
guard was coming to relieve him. There he was, fresh and fasting,
and<br>
daren't go for the bare life. 'I'll give you a quarter of an hour
more,'<br>
says my father, 'till the light leaves that rock up there; after
that,'<br>
says he, 'by the Mass! I'll be off, av it cost me what it
may.'</p>

<p>"Well, sure enough, his courage was not needed this time; for
what did<br>
he see at the same moment but a shadow of something coming down
the road<br>
opposite the bridge. He looked again; and then he made out the
general<br>
himself, that was walking his horse down the steep part of the
mountain,<br>
followed by the orderly. My father immediately took up his musket
off the<br>
wall, settled his belts, shook the ashes out of his pipe and put
it into<br>
his pocket, making himself as smart and neat-looking as he could
be,<br>
determining, when ould Cohoon came up, to ask him for leave to go
home, at<br>
least for the night. Well, by this time the general was turning a
sharp<br>
part of the cliff that looks down upon the bridge, from where you
might<br>
look five miles round on every side. 'He sees me,' says my
father; 'but<br>
I'll be just as quick as himself.' No sooner said than done; for
coming<br>
forward to the parapet of the bridge, he up with his musket to
his<br>
shoulder, and presented it straight at the general. It wasn't
well there,<br>
when the officer pulled up his horse quite short, and shouted
out, 'Sentry!<br>
sentry!'</p>

<p>"'Anan?' says my father, still covering him.</p>

<p>"'Down with your musket you rascal. Don't you see it's the
grand round?'</p>

<p>"'To be sure I do,' says my father, never changing for a
minute.</p>

<p>"'The ruffian will shoot me,' says the general.</p>

<p>"'Devil a fear,' says my father, 'av it doesn't go off of
itself.'</p>

<p>"'What do you mean by that, you villian?' says the general,
scarcely able<br>
to speak with fright, for every turn he gave on his horse, my
father<br>
followed with the gun,&mdash;what do you mean?'</p>

<p>"'Sure, ain't I presenting?' says my father. 'Blood an ages!
do you want me<br>
to fire next?'</p>

<p>"With that the general drew a pistol from his holster, and
took deliberate<br>
aim at my father; and there they both stood for five minutes,
looking at<br>
each other, the orderly all the while breaking his heart laughing
behind a<br>
rock; for, ye see, the general knew av he retreated that my
father might<br>
fire on purpose, and av he came on, that he might fire by
chance,&mdash;and<br>
sorra bit he knew what was best to be done.</p>

<p>"'Are ye going to pass the evening up there, grand round?'
says my father;<br>
'for it's tired I'm getting houldin' this so long.'</p>

<p>"'Port arms!' shouted the general, as if on parade.</p>

<p>"'Sure I can't, till yer past,' says my father, angrily; 'and
my hands<br>
trembling already.'</p>

<p>"'By Heavens! I shall be shot,' says the general.</p>

<p>"'Be-gorra, it's what I'm afraid of,' says my father; and the
words wasn't<br>
out of his mouth before off went the musket, bang!&mdash;and down fell
the<br>
general, smack on the ground, senseless. Well the orderly ran out
at this,<br>
and took him up and examined his wound; but it wasn't a wound at
all, only<br>
the wadding of the gun. For my father&mdash;God be kind to him!&mdash;ye
see, could<br>
do nothing right; and so he bit off the wrong end of the
cartridge when he<br>
put it in the gun, and, by reason, there was no bullet in it.
Well, from<br>
that day after they never got a sight of him; for the instant
that the<br>
general dropped, he sprang over the bridge-wall and got away;
and<br>
what, between living in a lime-kiln for two months, eating
nothing but<br>
blackberries and sloes, and other disguises, he never returned to
the army,<br>
but ever after took to a civil situation, and drive a hearse for
many<br>
years."</p>

<p>How far Mike's narrative might have contributed to the support
of his<br>
theory, I am unable to pronounce; for his auditory were, at some
distance<br>
from Cork, made to descend from their lofty position and join a
larger body<br>
of recruits, all proceeding to the same destination, under a
strong escort<br>
of infantry. For ourselves, we reached the "beautiful city" in
due time,<br>
and took up our quarters at the Old George Hotel.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIII.</p>

<p>CORK.</p>

<p>The undress rehearsal of a new piece, with its dirty-booted
actors, its<br>
cloaked and hooded actresses <i>en papillote</i>, bears about the
same relation<br>
to the gala, wax-lit, and bespangled ballet, as the raw young
gentleman<br>
of yesterday to the epauletted, belted, and sabretasched dragoon,
whose<br>
transformation is due to a few hours of head-quarters, and a few
interviews<br>
with the adjutant.</p>

<p>So, at least, I felt it; and it was with a very perfect
concurrence in his<br>
Majesty's taste in a uniform, and a most entire approval of the
regimental<br>
tailor, that I strutted down George's Street a few days after my
arrival in<br>
Cork. The transports had not as yet come round; there was a great
doubt of<br>
their doing so for a week or so longer; and I found myself as
the<br>
dashing cornet, the centre of a thousand polite attentions and
most kind<br>
civilities.</p>

<p>The officer under whose orders I was placed for the time was a
great friend<br>
of Sir George Dashwood's, and paid me, in consequence, much
attention.<br>
Major Dalrymple had been on the staff from the commencement of
his military<br>
career, had served in the commissariat for some time, was much on
foreign<br>
stations; but never, by any of the many casualties of his life,
had he seen<br>
what could be called service. His ideas of the soldier's
profession were,<br>
therefore, what might almost be as readily picked up by a
commission in the<br>
battle-axe guards, as one in his Majesty's Fiftieth. He was now a
species<br>
of district paymaster, employed in a thousand ways, either
inspecting<br>
recruits, examining accounts, revising sick certificates, or
receiving<br>
contracts for mess beef. Whether the nature of his manifold
occupations had<br>
enlarged the sphere of his talents and ambition, or whether the
abilities<br>
had suggested the variety of his duties, I know not, but truly
the major<br>
was a man of all work. No sooner did a young ensign join his
regiment at<br>
Cork, than Major Dalrymple's card was left at his quarters; the
next day<br>
came the major himself; the third brought an invitation to
dinner; on the<br>
fourth he was told to drop in, in the evening; and from
thenceforward,<br>
he was the <i>ami de la maison</i>, in company with numerous
others as<br>
newly-fledged and inexperienced as himself.</p>

<p>One singular feature of the society at the house was that
although the<br>
major was as well known as the flag on Spike Island, yet somehow,
no<br>
officer above the rank of an ensign was ever to be met with
there. It<br>
was not that he had not a large acquaintance; in fact, the "How
are you,<br>
Major?" "How goes it, Dalrymple?" that kept everlastingly going
on as<br>
he walked the streets, proved the reverse; but strange enough,
his<br>
predilections leaned towards the newly gazetted, far before the
bronzed<br>
and seared campaigners who had seen the world, and knew more
about it. The<br>
reasons for this line of conduct were twofold. In the first
place, there<br>
was not an article of outfit, from a stock to a sword-belt, that
he could<br>
not and did not supply to the young officer,&mdash;from the gorget of
the<br>
infantry to the shako of the grenadier, all came within his
province;<br>
not that he actually kept a <i>magasin</i> of these articles, but
he had so<br>
completely interwoven his interests with those of numerous
shopkeepers in<br>
Cork that he rarely entered a shop over whose door Dalrymple
&amp; Co. might<br>
not have figured on the sign-board. His stables were filled with
a perfect<br>
infirmary of superannuated chargers, fattened and conditioned up
to a<br>
miracle, and groomed to perfection. He could get you&mdash;<i>only
you</i>&mdash;about<br>
three dozen of sherry to take out with you as sea-store; he knew
of such a<br>
servant; he chanced upon such a camp-furniture yesterday in his
walks; in<br>
fact, why want for anything? His resources were inexhaustible;
his kindness<br>
unbounded.</p>

<p>Then money was no object,&mdash;hang it, you could pay when you
liked; what<br>
signified it? In other words, a bill at thirty-one days, cashed
and<br>
discounted by a friend of the major's, would always do. While
such were the<br>
unlimited advantages his acquaintance conferred, the sphere of
his benefits<br>
took another range. The major had two daughters; Matilda and
Fanny were as<br>
well known in the army as Lord Fitzroy Somerset, or Picton, from
the Isle<br>
of Wight to Halifax, from Cape Coast to Chatham, from Belfast to
the<br>
Bermudas. Where was the subaltern who had not knelt at the shrine
of one<br>
or the other, if not of both, and vowed eternal love until a
change of<br>
quarters? In plain words, the major's solicitude for the service
was such,<br>
that, not content with providing the young officer with all the
necessary<br>
outfit of his profession, he longed also to supply him with a
comforter for<br>
his woes, a charmer for his solitary hours, in the person of one
of his<br>
amiable daughters. Unluckily, however, the necessity for a wife
is not<br>
enforced by "general orders," as is the cut of your coat, or the
length of<br>
your sabre; consequently, the major's success in the home
department of his<br>
diplomacy was not destined for the same happy results that
awaited it when<br>
engaged about drill trousers and camp kettles, and the Misses
Dalrymple<br>
remained misses through every clime and every campaign. And yet,
why was<br>
it so? It is hard to say. What would men have? Matilda was a
dark-haired,<br>
dark-eyed, romantic-looking girl, with a tall figure and a
slender waist,<br>
with more poetry in her head than would have turned any ordinary
brain;<br>
always unhappy, in need of consolation, never meeting with the
kindred<br>
spirit that understood her, destined to walk the world alone, her
fair<br>
thoughts smothered in the recesses of her own heart. Devilish
hard to stand<br>
this, when you began in a kind of platonic friendship on both
sides. More<br>
than one poor fellow nearly succumbed, particularly when she came
to quote<br>
Cowley, and told him, with tears in her eyes,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "There are hearts that live and love alone," etc.</p>

<p>I'm assured that this <i>coup-de-grace</i> rarely failed in
being followed by<br>
a downright avowal of open love, which, somehow, what between the
route<br>
coming, what with waiting for leave from home, etc., never got
further than<br>
a most tender scene, and exchange of love tokens; and, in fact,
such became<br>
so often the termination, that Power swears Matty had to make a
firm<br>
resolve about cutting off any more hair, fearing a premature
baldness<br>
during the recruiting season.</p>

<p>Now, Fanny had selected another arm of the service. Her hair
was fair; her<br>
eyes blue, laughing, languishing,&mdash;mischief-loving blue, with
long lashes,<br>
and a look in them that was wont to leave its impression rather
longer than<br>
you exactly knew of; then, her figure was <i>petite</i>, but
perfect; her feet<br>
Canova might have copied; and her hand was a study for Titian;
her voice,<br>
too, was soft and musical, but full of that
<i>gai&eacute;t&eacute; de coeur</i> that never<br>
fails to charm. While her sister's style was <i>il penserono</i>,
hers was<br>
<i>l'allegro</i>; every imaginable thing, place, or person
supplied food for her<br>
mirth, and her sister's lovers all came in for their share. She
hunted<br>
with Smith Barry's hounds; she yachted with the Cove Club; she
coursed,<br>
practised at a mark with a pistol, and played chicken hazard with
all<br>
the cavalry,&mdash;for, let it be remarked as a physiological fact,
Matilda's<br>
admirers were almost invariably taken from the infantry, while
Fanny's<br>
adorers were as regularly dragoons. Whether the former be the
romantic<br>
arm of the service, and the latter be more adapted to dull
realities, or<br>
whether the phenomenon had any other explanation, I leave to the
curious.<br>
Now, this arrangement, proceeding upon that principle which has
wrought<br>
such wonders in Manchester and Sheffield,&mdash;the division of
labor,&mdash;was a<br>
most wise and equitable one, each having her one separate and
distinct<br>
field of action, interference was impossible; not but that when,
as in the<br>
present instance, cavalry was in the ascendant, Fanny would
willingly spare<br>
a dragoon or two to her sister, who likewise would repay the debt
when<br>
occasion offered.</p>

<p>The mamma&mdash;for it is time I should say something of the head
of the<br>
family&mdash;was an excessively fat, coarse-looking, dark-skinned
personage, of<br>
some fifty years, with a voice like a boatswain in a quinsy.
Heaven can<br>
tell, perhaps, why the worthy major allied his fortunes with
hers, for she<br>
was evidently of a very inferior rank in society, could never
have been<br>
aught than downright ugly, and I never heard that she brought him
any<br>
money. "Spoiled five," the national amusement of her age and sex
in Cork,<br>
scandal, the changes in the army list, the failures in
speculation of her<br>
luckless husband, the forlorn fortunes of the girls, her
daughters, kept<br>
her in occupation, and her days were passed in one perpetual,
unceasing<br>
current of dissatisfaction and ill-temper with all around, that
formed a<br>
heavy counterpoise to the fascinations of the young ladies. The
repeated<br>
jiltings to which they had been subject had blunted any delicacy
upon the<br>
score of their marriage; and if the newly-introduced cornet or
ensign was<br>
not coming forward, as became him, at the end of the requisite
number<br>
of days, he was sure of receiving a very palpable admonition from
Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple. Hints, at first dimly shadowed, that Matilda was not
in spirits<br>
this morning; that Fanny, poor child, had a headache,&mdash;directed
especially<br>
at the culprit in question,&mdash;grew gradually into those little
motherly<br>
fondnesses in mamma, that, like the fascination of the
rattlesnake, only<br>
lure on to ruin. The doomed man was pressed to dinner when all
others were<br>
permitted to take their leave; he was treated like one of the
family, God<br>
help him! After dinner, the major would keep him an hour over his
wine,<br>
discussing the misery of an ill-assorted marriage; detailing his
own<br>
happiness in marrying a woman like the Tonga Islander I have
mentioned;<br>
hinting that girls should be brought up, not only to become
companions to<br>
their husbands, but with ideas fitting their station; if his
auditor were<br>
a military man, that none but an old officer (like him) could
know how to<br>
educate girls (like his); and that feeling he possessed two such
treasures,<br>
his whole aim in life was to guard and keep them,&mdash;a difficult
task, when<br>
proposals of the most flattering kind were coming constantly
before him.<br>
Then followed a fresh bottle, during which the major would
consult his<br>
young friend upon a very delicate affair,&mdash;no less than a
proposition for<br>
the hand of Miss Matilda, or Fanny, whichever he was supposed to
be soft<br>
upon. This was generally a <i>coup-de-ma&icirc;tre</i>; should he
still resist, he was<br>
handed over to Mrs. Dalrymple, with a strong indictment against
him, and<br>
rarely did he escape a heavy sentence. Now, is it not strange
that two<br>
really pretty girls, with fully enough of amiable and pleasing
qualities<br>
to have excited the attention and won the affections of many a
man, should<br>
have gone on for years,&mdash;for, alas! they did so in every climate,
under<br>
every sun,&mdash;to waste their sweetness in this miserable career of
intrigue<br>
and man-trap, and yet nothing come of it? But so it was. The
first question<br>
a newly-landed regiment was asked, if coming from where they
resided, was,<br>
"Well, how are the girls?" "Oh, gloriously. Matty is there." "Ah,
indeed!<br>
poor thing." "Has Fan sported a new habit?" "Is it the old gray
with the<br>
hussar braiding? Confound it, that was seedy when I saw them in
Corfu. And<br>
Mother Dal as fat and vulgar as ever?" "Dawson of ours was the
last,<br>
and was called up for sentence when we were ordered away; of
course,<br>
he bolted," etc. Such was the invariable style of question and
answer<br>
concerning them; and although some few, either from good feeling
or<br>
fastidiousness, relished but little the mode in which it had
become<br>
habitual to treat them, I grieve to say that, generally, they
were<br>
pronounced fair game for every species of flirtation and
love-making<br>
without any "intentions" for the future. I should not have
trespassed so<br>
far upon my readers' patience, were I not, in recounting these
traits of<br>
my friends above, narrating matters of history. How many are
there who may<br>
cast their eyes upon these pages, that will say, "Poor Matilda! I
knew her<br>
at Gibraltar. Little Fanny was the life and soul of us all in
Quebec."</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley," said the adjutant, as I presented myself in
the afternoon<br>
of my arrival in Cork to a short, punchy, little red-faced
gentleman, in a<br>
short jacket and ducks, "you are, I perceive, appointed to the
14th;<br>
you will have the goodness to appear on parade to-morrow morning.
The<br>
riding-school hours are&mdash;&mdash;. The morning drill is&mdash;&mdash;; evening
drill&mdash;&mdash;.<br>
Mr. Minchin, you are a 14th man, I believe? No, I beg pardon! a
carbineer;<br>
but no matter. Mr. O'Malley, Mr. Minchin; Captain Dounie, Mr.
O'Malley.<br>
You'll dine with us to-day, and to-morrow you shall be entered at
the<br>
mess."</p>

<p>"Yours are at Santarem, I believe?" said an old,
weather-beaten looking<br>
officer with one arm.</p>

<p>"I'm ashamed to say, I know nothing whatever of them; I
received my gazette<br>
unexpectedly enough."</p>

<p>"Ever in Cork before, Mr. O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"Never," said I.</p>

<p>"Glorious place," lisped a white-eyelashed, knocker-kneed
ensign; "splendid<br>
<i>gals</i>, eh?"</p>

<p>"Ah, Brunton," said Minchin, "you may boast a little; but we
poor devils&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Know the Dals?" said the hero of the lisp, addressing me.</p>

<p>"I haven't that honor," I replied, scarcely able to guess
whether what he<br>
alluded to were objects of the picturesque or a private
family.</p>

<p>"Introduce him, then, at once," said the adjutant; "we'll all
go in the<br>
evening. What will the old squaw think?"</p>

<p>"Not I," said Minchin. "She wrote to the Duke of York about my
helping<br>
Matilda at supper, and not having any honorable intentions
afterwards."</p>

<p>"We dine at 'The George' to-day, Mr. O'Malley, sharp seven.
Until then&mdash;"</p>

<p>So saying, the little man bustled back to his accounts, and I
took my leave<br>
with the rest, to stroll about the town till dinner-time.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIV.</p>

<p>THE ADJUTANT'S DINNER.</p>

<p>The adjutant's dinner was as professional an affair as need
be. A circuit<br>
or a learned society could not have been more exclusively devoted
to<br>
their own separate and immediate topics than were we. Pipeclay in
all its<br>
varieties came on the <i>tapis</i>; the last regulation cap, the
new button,<br>
the promotions, the general orders, the colonel and the colonel's
wife,<br>
stoppages, and the mess fund were all well and ably discussed;
and strange<br>
enough, while the conversation took this wide range, not a chance
allusion,<br>
not one stray hint ever wandered to the brave fellows who were
covering the<br>
army with glory in the Peninsula, nor one souvenir of him that,
was even<br>
then enjoying a fame as a leader second to none in Europe. This
surprised<br>
me not a little at the time; but I have since that learned how
little<br>
interest the real services of an army possess for the ears of
certain<br>
officials, who, stationed at home quarters, pass their inglorious
lives in<br>
the details of drill, parade, mess-room gossip, and barrack
scandal. Such,<br>
in fact, were the dons of the present dinner. We had a
commissary-general,<br>
an inspecting brigade-major of something, a physician to the
forces, the<br>
adjutant himself, and Major Dalrymple; the <i>hoi polloi</i>
consisting of the<br>
raw ensign, a newly-fledged cornet (Mr. Sparks), and myself.</p>

<p>The commissary told some very pointless stories about his own
department;<br>
the doctor read a dissertation upon Walcheren fever; the adjutant
got very<br>
stupidly tipsy; and Major Dalrymple succeeded in engaging the
three juniors<br>
of the party to tea, having previously pledged us to purchase
nothing<br>
whatever of outfit without his advice, he well knowing (which he
did) how<br>
young fellows like us were cheated, and resolving to be a father
to us<br>
(which he certainly tried to be).</p>

<p>As we rose from the table, about ten o'clock, I felt how soon
a few such<br>
dinners would succeed in disenchanting me of all my military
illusions;<br>
for, young as I was, I saw that the commissary was a vulgar bore,
the<br>
doctor a humbug, the adjutant a sot, and the major himself I
greatly<br>
suspected to be an old rogue.</p>

<p>"You are coming with us, Sparks?" said Major Dalrymple, as he
took me by<br>
one arm and the ensign by the other. "We are going to have a
little tea<br>
with the ladies; not five minutes' walk."</p>

<p>"Most happy, sir," said Mr. Sparks, with a very flattered
expression of<br>
countenance.</p>

<p>"O'Malley, you know Sparks, and Burton too."</p>

<p>This served for a species of triple introduction, at which we
all bowed,<br>
simpered, and bowed again. We were very happy to have the
pleasure, etc.</p>

<p>"How pleasant to get away from these fellows!" said the major,
"they are so<br>
uncommonly prosy! That commissary, with his mess beef, and old
Pritchard,<br>
with black doses and rigors,&mdash;nothing so insufferable! Besides,
in<br>
reality, a young officer never needs all that nonsense. A little
medicine<br>
chest&mdash;I'll get you one each to-morrow for five pounds&mdash;no, five
pounds<br>
ten&mdash;the same thing&mdash;that will see you all through the Peninsula.
Remind me<br>
of it in the morning." This we all promised to do, and the major
resumed:<br>
"I say, Sparks, you've got a real prize in that gray horse,&mdash;such
a trooper<br>
as he is! O'Malley, you'll be wanting something of that kind, if
we can<br>
find it for you."</p>

<p>"Many thanks, Major; but my cattle are on the way here
already. I've only<br>
three horses, but I think they are tolerably good ones."</p>

<p>The major now turned to Burton and said something in a low
tone, to which<br>
the other replied, "Well, if you say so, I'll get it; but it's
devilish<br>
dear."</p>

<p>"Dear, my young friend! Cheap, dog cheap."</p>

<p>"Only think, O'Malley, a whole brass bed, camp-stool,
basin-stand, all<br>
complete, for sixty pounds! If it was not that a widow was
disposing of<br>
it in great distress, one hundred could not buy it. Here we are;
come<br>
along,&mdash;no ceremony. Mind the two steps; that's it, Mrs,
Dalrymple, Mr.<br>
O'Malley; Mr. Sparks, Mr. Burton, my daughters. Is tea over,
girls?"</p>

<p>"Why, Papa, it's nearly eleven o'clock," said Fanny, as she
rose to ring<br>
the bell, displaying in so doing the least possible portion of a
very<br>
well-turned ankle.</p>

<p>Miss Matilda Dal laid down her book, but seemingly lost in
abstraction, did<br>
not deign to look at us. Mrs. Dalrymple, however, did the honors
with much<br>
politeness, and having by a few adroit and well-put queries
ascertained<br>
everything concerning our rank and position, seemed perfectly
satisfied<br>
that our intrusion was justifiable.</p>

<p>While my <i>confr&egrave;re</i>, Mr. Sparks, was undergoing
his examination I had time<br>
to look at the ladies, whom I was much surprised at finding so
very<br>
well looking; and as the ensign had opened a conversation with
Fanny, I<br>
approached my chair towards the other, and having carelessly
turned over<br>
the leaves of the book she had been reading, drew her on to talk
of it. As<br>
my acquaintance with young ladies hitherto had been limited to
those who<br>
had "no soul," I felt some difficulty at first in keeping up with
the<br>
exalted tone of my fair companion, but by letting her take the
lead for<br>
some time, I got to know more of the ground. We went on tolerably
together,<br>
every moment increasing my stock of technicals, which were all
that was<br>
needed to sustain the conversation. How often have I found the
same plan<br>
succeed, whether discussing a question of law or medicine, with a
learned<br>
professor of either! or, what is still more difficult, canvassing
the<br>
merits of a preacher or a doctrine with a serious young lady,
whose<br>
"blessed privileges" were at first a little puzzling to
comprehend.</p>

<p>I so contrived it, too, that Miss Matilda should seem as much
to be making<br>
a convert to her views as to have found a person capable of
sympathizing<br>
with her; and thus, long before the little supper, with which it
was the<br>
major's practice to regale his friends every evening, made its
appearance,<br>
we had established a perfect understanding together,&mdash;a
circumstance that,<br>
a bystander might have remarked, was productive of a more widely
diffused<br>
satisfaction than I could have myself seen any just cause for.
Mr. Burton<br>
was also progressing, as the Yankees say, with the sister; Sparks
had<br>
booked himself as purchaser of military stores enough to make the
campaign<br>
of the whole globe; and we were thus all evidently fulfilling our
various<br>
vocations, and affording perfect satisfaction to our
entertainers.</p>

<p>Then came the spatch-cock, and the sandwiches, and the negus,
which Fanny<br>
first mixed for papa, and subsequently, with some little
pressing, for Mr.<br>
Burton; Matilda the romantic assisted <i>me</i>; Sparks helped
himself. Then we<br>
laughed, and told stories; pressed Sparks to sing, which, as he
declined,<br>
we only pressed the more. How, invariably, by-the-bye, is it the
custom to<br>
show one's appreciation of anything like a butt by pressing him
for a song!<br>
The major was in great spirits; told us anecdotes of his early
life in<br>
India, and how he once contracted to supply the troops with milk,
and made<br>
a purchase, in consequence, of some score of cattle, which turned
out to be<br>
bullocks. Matilda recited some lines from Pope in my ear. Fanny
challenged<br>
Burton to a rowing match. Sparks listened to all around him, and
Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple mixed a very little weak punch, which Dr. Lucas had
recommended<br>
to her to take the last thing at night,&mdash;<i>Noctes coenoeque</i>
etc. Say<br>
what you will, these were very jovial little
<i>r&eacute;unions</i>. The girls were<br>
decidedly very pretty. We were in high favor; and when we took
leave at the<br>
door, with a very cordial shake hands, it was with no
<i>arri&egrave;re pens&eacute;e</i> we<br>
promised to see them in the morning.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXV.</p>

<p>THE ENTANGLEMENT.</p>

<p>When we think for a moment over all the toils, all the
anxieties, all the<br>
fevered excitement of a <i>grande passion</i>, it is not a little
singular that<br>
love should so frequently be elicited by a state of mere
idleness; and yet<br>
nothing, after all, is so predisposing a cause as this. Where is
the man<br>
between eighteen and eight-and-thirty&mdash;might I not say
forty&mdash;who,<br>
without any very pressing duns, and having no taste for strong
liquor and<br>
<i>rouge-et-noir</i>, can possibly lounge through the long hours
of his day<br>
without at least fancying himself in love? The thousand little
occupations<br>
it suggests become a necessity of existence; its very worries are
like the<br>
wholesome opposition that purifies and strengthens the frame of a
free<br>
state. Then, what is there half so sweet as the reflective
flattery which<br>
results from our appreciation of an object who in return deems us
the <i>ne<br>
plus ultra</i> of perfection? There it is, in fact; that
confounded bump of<br>
self-esteem does it all, and has more imprudent matches to answer
for than<br>
all the occipital protuberances that ever scared poor Harriet
Martineau.</p>

<p>Now, to apply my moralizing. I very soon, to use the mess
phrase, got<br>
"devilish spooney" about the "Dals." The morning drill, the
riding-school,<br>
and the parade were all most fervently consigned to a certain
military<br>
character that shall be nameless, as detaining me from some
appointment<br>
made the evening before; for as I supped there each night, a
party of one<br>
kind or another was always planned for the day following.
Sometimes we had<br>
a boating excursion to Cove, sometimes a picnic at Foaty; now a
rowing<br>
party to Glanmire, or a ride, at which I furnished the cavalry.
These<br>
doings were all under my especial direction, and I thus became
speedily<br>
the organ of the Dalrymple family; and the simple phrase, "It was
Mr.<br>
O'Malley's arrangement," "Mr. O'Malley wished it," was like the
<i>Moi le<br>
roi</i> of Louis XIV.</p>

<p>Though all this while we continued to carry on most
pleasantly, Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple, I could perceive, did not entirely sympathize with our
projects<br>
of amusement. As an experienced engineer might feel when watching
the<br>
course of some storming projectile&mdash;some brilliant
congreve&mdash;flying over<br>
a besieged fortress, yet never touching the walls nor harming
the<br>
inhabitants, so she looked on at all these demonstrations of
attack with<br>
no small impatience, and wondered when would the breach be
reported<br>
practicable. Another puzzle also contributed its share of
anxiety,&mdash;which<br>
of the girls was it? To be sure, he spent three hours every
morning with<br>
Fanny; but then, he never left Matilda the whole evening. He had
given his<br>
miniature to one; a locket with his hair was a present to the
sister.<br>
The major thinks he saw his arm round Matilda's waist in the
garden; the<br>
housemaid swears she saw him kiss Fanny in the pantry. Matilda
smiles when<br>
we talk of his name with her sister's; Fanny laughs outright,
and<br>
says, "Poor Matilda! the man never dreamed of her." This is
becoming<br>
uncomfortable. The major must ask his intentions. It is certainly
one<br>
or the other; but then, we have a right to know which. Such was a
very<br>
condensed view of Mrs. Dalrymple's reflections on this important
topic,&mdash;a<br>
view taken with her usual tact and clear-sightedness.</p>

<p>Matters were in this state when Power at length arrived in
Cork, to<br>
take command of our detachment and make the final preparations
for our<br>
departure. I had been, as usual, spending the evening at the
major's, and<br>
had just reached my quarters, when I found my friend sitting at
my fire,<br>
smoking his cigar and solacing himself with a little
brandy-and-water.</p>

<p>"At last," said he, as I entered,&mdash;"at last! Why, where the
deuce have you<br>
been till this hour,&mdash;past two o'clock? There is no ball, no
assembly going<br>
on, eh?"</p>

<p>"No," said I, half blushing at the eagerness of the inquiry;
"I've been<br>
spending the evening with a friend."</p>

<p>"Spending the evening! Say, rather, the night! Why, confound
you, man, what<br>
is there in Cork to keep you out of bed till near three?"</p>

<p>"Well, if you must know, I have been supping at a Major
Dalrymple's,&mdash;a<br>
devilish good fellow, with two such daughters!"</p>

<p>"Ahem!" said Power, shutting one eye knowingly, and giving a
look like a<br>
Yorkshire horse-dealer. "Go on."</p>

<p>"Why, what do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Go on; continue."</p>

<p>"I've finished; I've nothing more to tell."</p>

<p>"So, they're here, are they?" said he, reflectingly.</p>

<p>"Who?" said I.</p>

<p>"Matilda and Fanny, to be sure."</p>

<p>"Why, you know them, then?"</p>

<p>"I should think I do."</p>

<p>"Where have you met them?"</p>

<p>"Where have I not? When I was in the Rifles they were
quartered at Zante.<br>
Matilda was just then coming it rather strong with Villiers, of
ours, a<br>
regular greenhorn. Fanny, also, nearly did for Harry Nesbitt, by
riding a<br>
hurdle race. Then they left for Gibraltar, in the year,&mdash;what
year was it?"</p>

<p>"Come, come," said I, "this is a humbug; the girls are quite
young; you<br>
just have heard their names."</p>

<p>"Well, perhaps so; only tell me which is your peculiar
weakness, as they<br>
say in the west, and may be I'll convince you."</p>

<p>"Oh, as to that," said I, laughing, "I'm not very far gone on
either side."</p>

<p>"Then, Matilda, probably, has not tried you with Cowley,
eh?&mdash;you look a<br>
little pink&mdash;'There are hearts that live and love alone.' Oh,
poor fellow,<br>
you've got it! By Jove, how you've been coming it, though, in ten
days! She<br>
ought not to have got to that for a month, at least; and how like
a young<br>
one it was, to be caught by the poetry. Oh, Master Charley, I
thought that<br>
the steeple-chaser might have done most with your Galway
heart,&mdash;the girl<br>
in the gray habit, that sings 'Moddirederoo,' ought to have been
the prize!<br>
Halt! by Saint George, but that tickles you also! Why, zounds, if
I go on,<br>
probably, at this rate, I'll find a tender spot occupied by the
'black<br>
lady' herself."</p>

<p>It was no use concealing, or attempting to conceal, anything
from my<br>
inquisitive friend; so I mixed my grog, and opened my whole
heart; told how<br>
I had been conducting myself for the entire preceding fortnight;
and when<br>
I concluded, sat silently awaiting Power's verdict, as though a
jury were<br>
about to pronounce upon my life.</p>

<p>"Have you ever written?"</p>

<p>"Never; except, perhaps, a few lines with tickets for the
theatre, or<br>
something of that kind."</p>

<p>"Have you copies of your correspondence?"</p>

<p>"Of course not. Why, what do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Has Mrs. Dal ever been present; or, as the French say, has
she assisted at<br>
any of your tender interviews with the young ladies?"</p>

<p>"I'm not aware that one kisses a girl before mamma."</p>

<p>"I'm not speaking of that; I merely allude to an ordinary
flirtation."</p>

<p>"Oh, I suppose she has seen me attentive."</p>

<p>"Very awkward, indeed! There is only one point in your favor;
for as your<br>
attentions were not decided, and as the law does not, as yet,
permit<br>
polygamy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come, come, you know I never thought of marrying."</p>

<p>"Ah, but they did."</p>

<p>"Not a bit of it."</p>

<p>"Ay, but they did. What do you wager but that the major asks
your<br>
intentions, as he calls it, the moment he hears the transport has
arrived?"</p>

<p>"By Jove! now you remind me, he asked this evening, when he
could have a<br>
few minutes' private conversation with me to-morrow, and I
thought it was<br>
about some confounded military chest or sea-store, or one of his
infernal<br>
contrivances that he every day assures me are indispensable;
though, if<br>
every officer had only as much baggage as I have got, under his
directions,<br>
it would take two armies, at least, to carry the effects of the
fighting<br>
one."</p>

<p>"Poor fellow!" said he, starting upon his legs; "what a burst
you've made<br>
of it!" So saying, he began in a nasal twang,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I publish the banns of marriage between Charles O'Malley,
late of his<br>
Majesty's 14th Dragoons, and &mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Dalrymple, spinster, of this
city&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'll be hanged if you do, though," said I, seeing pretty
clearly, by this<br>
time, something of the estimation my friends were held in. "Come,
Power,<br>
pull me through, like a good fellow,&mdash;pull me through, without
doing<br>
anything to hurt the girls' feelings."</p>

<p>"Well, we'll see about it," said he,&mdash;"we'll see about it in
the morning;<br>
but, at the same time, let me assure you, the affair is not so
easy as<br>
you may at first blush suppose. These worthy people have been so
often<br>
'done'&mdash;to use the cant phrase&mdash;before, that scarcely a
<i>ruse</i> remains<br>
untried. It is of no use pleading that your family won't consent;
that your<br>
prospects are null; that you arc ordered for India; that you are
engaged<br>
elsewhere; that you have nothing but your pay; that you are too
young or<br>
too old,&mdash;all such reasons, good and valid with any other family,
will<br>
avail you little here. Neither will it serve your cause that you
may<br>
be warranted by a doctor as subject to periodical fits of
insanity;<br>
monomaniacal tendencies to cut somebody's throat, etc. Bless your
heart,<br>
man, they have a soul above such littlenesses! They care nothing
for<br>
consent of friends, means, age, health, climate, prospects, or
temper.<br>
Firmly believing matrimony to be a lottery, they are not
superstitious<br>
about the number they pitch upon; provided only that they get a
ticket,<br>
they are content."</p>

<p>"Then it strikes me, if what you say is correct, that I have
no earthly<br>
chance of escape, except some kind friend will undertake to shoot
me."</p>

<p>"That has been also tried."</p>

<p>"Why, how do you mean?"</p>

<p>"A mock duel, got up at mess,&mdash;we had one at Malta. Poor
Vickers was the<br>
hero of that affair. It was right well planned, too. One of the
letters<br>
was suffered, by mere accident, to fall into Mrs. Dal's hands,
and she was<br>
quite prepared for the event when he was reported shot the next
morning.<br>
Then the young lady, of course, whether she cared or not, was
obliged to be<br>
perfectly unconcerned, lest the story of engaged affections might
get wind<br>
and spoil another market. The thing went on admirably, till one
day, some<br>
few months later, they saw, in a confounded army-list, that the
late<br>
George Vickers was promoted to the 18th Dragoons, so that the
trick was<br>
discovered, and is, of course, stale at present."</p>

<p>"Then could I not have a wife already, and a large family of
interesting<br>
babies?"</p>

<p>"No go,&mdash;only swell the damages, when they come to prosecute.
Besides, your<br>
age and looks forbid the assumption of such a fact. No, no; we
must go<br>
deeper to work."</p>

<p>"But where shall we go?" said I, impatiently; "for it appears
to me these<br>
good people have been treated to every trick and subterfuge that
ever<br>
ingenuity suggested."</p>

<p>"Come, I think I have it; but it will need a little more
reflection.<br>
So, now, let us to bed. I'll give you the result of my
lucubrations at<br>
breakfast; and, if I mistake not, we may get you through this
without any<br>
ill-consequences. Good-night, then, old boy; and now dream away
of your<br>
lady-love till our next meeting."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVI.</p>

<p>THE PREPARATION.</p>

<p>To prevent needless repetitions in my story, I shall not
record here the<br>
conversation which passed between my friend Power and myself on
the morning<br>
following at breakfast. Suffice it to say, that the plan proposed
by him<br>
for my rescue was one I agreed to adopt, reserving to myself, in
case<br>
of failure, a <i>pis aller</i> of which I knew not the meaning,
but of whose<br>
efficacy Power assured me I need not doubt.</p>

<p>"If all fail," said he,&mdash;"if every bridge break down beneath
you, and no<br>
road of escape be left, why, then, I believe you must have
recourse to<br>
another alternative. Still I should wish to avoid it, if
possible, and I<br>
put it to you, in honor, not to employ it unless as a last
expedient. You<br>
promise me this?"</p>

<p>"Of course," said I, with great anxiety for the dread final
measure. "What<br>
is it?"</p>

<p>He paused, smiled dubiously, and resumed,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And, after all,&mdash;but, to be sure, there will not be need for
it,&mdash;the<br>
other plan will do,&mdash;must do. Come, come, O'Malley, the admiralty
say that<br>
nothing encourages drowning in the navy like a life-buoy. The men
have such<br>
a prospect of being picked up that they don't mind falling
overboard; so,<br>
if I give you this life-preserver of mine, you'll not swim an
inch. Is it<br>
not so, eh?"</p>

<p>"Far from it," said I. "I shall feel in honor bound to exert
myself the<br>
more, because I now see how much it costs you to part with
it."</p>

<p>"Well, then, hear it. When everything fails; when all your
resources are<br>
exhausted; when you have totally lost your memory, in fact, and
your<br>
ingenuity in excuses say,&mdash;but mind, Charley, not till then,&mdash;say
that you<br>
must consult your friend, Captain Power, of the 14th; that's
all."</p>

<p>"And is this it?" said I, quite disappointed at the lame and
impotent<br>
conclusion to all the high-sounding exordium; "is this all?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said he, "that is all. But stop, Charley; is not that
the major<br>
crossing the street there? Yes, to be sure it is; and, by Jove!
he has got<br>
on the old braided frock this morning. Had you not told me one
word of your<br>
critical position, I should have guessed there was something in
the wind<br>
from that. That same vestment has caused many a stout heart to
tremble that<br>
never quailed before a shot or shell."</p>

<p>"How can that be? I should like to hear."</p>

<p>"Why, my dear boy, that's his explanation coat, as we called
it at<br>
Gibraltar. He was never known to wear it except when asking some
poor<br>
fellow's 'intentions.' He would no more think of sporting it as
an<br>
every-day affair, than the chief-justice would go cook-shooting
in his<br>
black cap and ermine. Come, he is bound for your quarters, and as
it<br>
will not answer our plans to let him see you now, you had better
hasten<br>
down-stairs, and get round by the back way into George's Street,
and you'll<br>
be at his house before he can return."</p>

<p>Following Power's directions, I seized my foraging-cap and got
clear out of<br>
the premises before the major had reached them. It was exactly
noon as I<br>
sounded my loud and now well-known summons at the major's
knocker. The door<br>
was quickly opened; but instead of dashing up-stairs, four steps
at a time,<br>
as was my wont, to the drawing-room, I turned short into the
dingy-looking<br>
little parlor on the right, and desired Matthew, the venerable
servitor of<br>
the house, to say that I wished particularly to see Mrs.
Dalrymple for a<br>
few minutes, if the hour were not inconvenient.</p>

<p>There was something perhaps of excitement in my manner, some
flurry in my<br>
look, or some trepidation in my voice, or perhaps it was the
unusual hour,<br>
or the still more remarkable circumstance of my not going at once
to the<br>
drawing-room, that raised some doubts in Matthew's mind as to the
object of<br>
my visit; and instead of at once complying with my request to
inform Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple that I was there, he cautiously closed the door, and
taking a<br>
quick but satisfactory glance round the apartment to assure
himself that we<br>
were alone, he placed his back against it and heaved a deep
sigh.</p>

<p>We were both perfectly silent: I in total amazement at what
the old man<br>
could possibly mean; he, following up the train of his own
thoughts,<br>
comprehended little or nothing of my surprise, and evidently was
so<br>
engrossed by his reflections that he had neither ears nor eyes
for aught<br>
around him. There was a most singular semi-comic expression in
the old<br>
withered face that nearly made me laugh at first; but as I
continued to<br>
look steadily at it, I perceived that, despite the long-worn
wrinkles that<br>
low Irish drollery and fun had furrowed around the angles of his
mouth, the<br>
real character of his look was one of sorrowful compassion.</p>

<p>Doubtless, my readers have read many interesting narratives
wherein the<br>
unconscious traveller in some remote land has been warned of a
plan to<br>
murder him, by some mere passing wink, a look, a sign, which some
one, less<br>
steeped in crime, less hardened in iniquity than his fellows, has
ventured<br>
for his rescue. Sometimes, according to the taste of the
narrator, the<br>
interesting individual is an old woman, sometimes a young one,
sometimes<br>
a black-bearded bandit, sometimes a child; and not unfrequently,
a dog is<br>
humane enough to do this service. One thing, however, never
varies,&mdash;be the<br>
agent biped or quadruped, dumb or speechful, young or old, the
stranger<br>
invariably takes the hint, and gets off scott free for his
sharpness. This<br>
never-varying trick on the doomed man, I had often been sceptical
enough to<br>
suspect; however, I had not been many minutes a spectator of the
old man's<br>
countenance, when I most thoroughly recanted my errors, and
acknowledged<br>
myself wrong. If ever the look of a man conveyed a warning, his
did; but<br>
there was more in it than even that,&mdash;there was a tone of sad and
pitiful<br>
compassion, such as an old gray-bearded rat might be supposed to
put on at<br>
seeing a young and inexperienced one opening the hinge of an iron
trap,<br>
to try its efficacy upon his neck. Many a little occasion had
presented<br>
itself, during my intimacy with the family, of doing Matthew some
small<br>
services, of making him some trifling presents; so that, when he
assumed<br>
before me the gesture and look I have mentioned, I was not long
in<br>
deciphering his intentions.</p>

<p>"Matthew!" screamed a sharp voice which I recognized at once
for that of<br>
Mrs. Dalrymple. "Matthew! Where is the old fool?"</p>

<p>But Matthew heard not, or heeded not.</p>

<p>"Matthew! Matthew! I say."</p>

<p>"I'm comin', ma'am," said he, with a sigh, as, opening the
parlor-door, he<br>
turned upon me one look of such import that only the
circumstances of my<br>
story can explain its force, or my reader's own ingenious
imagination can<br>
supply.</p>

<p>"Never fear, my good old friend," said I, grasping his hand
warmly, and<br>
leaving a guinea in the palm,&mdash;"never fear."</p>

<p>"God grant it, sir!" said he, setting on his wig in
preparation for his<br>
appearance in the drawing-room.</p>

<p>"Matthew! The old wretch!"</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley," said the often-called Matthew, as opening the
door, he<br>
announced me unexpectedly among the ladies there assembled, who,
not<br>
hearing of my approach, were evidently not a little surprised
and<br>
astonished. Had I been really the enamored swain that the
Dalrymple family<br>
were willing to believe, I half suspect that the prospect before
me might<br>
have cured me of my passion. A round bullet-head,
<i>papillot&eacute;</i>, with<br>
the "Cork Observer," where still-born babes and maids-of-all-work
were<br>
descanted upon in very legible type, was now the substitute for
the classic<br>
front and Italian ringlets of <i>la belle</i> Matilda; while the
chaste Fanny<br>
herself, whose feet had been a fortune for a statuary, was, in
the most<br>
slatternly and slipshod attire, pacing the room in a towering
rage, at<br>
some thing, place, or person, unknown (to me). If the
ballet-master at the<br>
<i>Acad&eacute;mie</i> could only learn to get his imps, demons,
angels, and goblins<br>
"off" half as rapidly as the two young ladies retreated on my
being<br>
announced, I answer for the piece so brought out having a run for
half the<br>
season. Before my eyes had regained their position parallel to
the plane of<br>
the horizon, they were gone, and I found myself alone with Mrs.
Dalrymple.<br>
Now, she stood her ground, partly to cover the retreat of the
main body,<br>
partly, too, because&mdash;representing the baggage wagons, ammunition
stores,<br>
hospital, staff, etc.&mdash;her retirement from the field demanded
more time and<br>
circumspection than the light brigade.</p>

<p>Let not my readers suppose that the <i>m&egrave;re</i>
Dalrymple was so perfectly<br>
faultless in costume that her remaining was a matter of
actual<br>
indifference; far from it. She evidently had a struggle for it;
but a sense<br>
of duty decided her, and as Ney doggedly held back to cover the
retreating<br>
forces on the march from Moscow, so did she resolutely lurk
behind till<br>
the last flutter of the last petticoat assured her that the
fugitives were<br>
safe. Then did she hesitate for a moment what course to take; but
as I<br>
assumed my chair beside her, she composedly sat down, and
crossing her<br>
hands before her, waited for an explanation of this ill-timed
visit.</p>

<p>Had the Horse Guards, in the plenitude of their power and the
perfection of<br>
their taste, ordained that the 79th and 42d Regiments should in
future,<br>
in lieu of their respective tartans, wear flannel kilts and black
worsted<br>
hose, I could readily have fallen into the error of mistaking
Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple for a field officer in the new regulation dress; the
philabeg<br>
finding no mean representation in a capacious pincushion that
hung down<br>
from her girdle, while a pair of shears, not scissors,
corresponded to the<br>
dirk. After several ineffectual efforts on her part to make her
vestment (I<br>
know not its fitting designation) cover more of her legs than its
length<br>
could possibly effect, and after some most bland smiles and half
blushes at<br>
<i>dishabille</i>, etc., were over, and that I had apologized
most humbly for<br>
the unusually early hour of my call, I proceeded to open my
negotiations,<br>
and unfurl my banner for the fray.</p>

<p>"The old 'Racehorse' has arrived at last," said I, with a
half-sigh, "and I<br>
believe that we shall not obtain a very long time for our
leave-taking; so<br>
that, trespassing upon your very great kindness, I have ventured
upon an<br>
early call."</p>

<p>"The 'Racehorse,' surely can't sail to-morrow," said Mrs.
Dalrymple, whose<br>
experience of such matters made her a very competent judge; "her
stores&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Are taken in already," said I; "and an order from the Horse
Guards<br>
commands us to embark in twenty-four hours; so that, in fact, we
scarcely<br>
have time to look about us."</p>

<p>"Have you seen the major?" inquired Mrs. Dalrymple,
eagerly.</p>

<p>"Not to-day," I replied, carelessly; "but, of course, during
the morning we<br>
are sure to meet. I have many thanks yet to give him for all his
most kind<br>
attentions."</p>

<p>"I know he is most anxious to see you," said Mrs. Dalrymple,
with a very<br>
peculiar emphasis, and evidently desiring that I should inquire
the<br>
reasons of this anxiety. I, however, most heroically forbore
indulging my<br>
curiosity, and added that I should endeavor to find him on my way
to the<br>
barracks; and then, hastily looking at my watch, I pronounced it
a full<br>
hour later than it really was, and promising to spend the
evening&mdash;my last<br>
evening&mdash;with them, I took my leave and hurried away, in no small
flurry to<br>
be once more out of reach of Mrs. Dalrymple's fire, which I every
moment<br>
expected to open upon me.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVII.</p>

<p>THE SUPPER.</p>

<p>Power and I dined together
<i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i> at the hotel, and sat
chatting<br>
over my adventures with the Dalrymples till nearly nine
o'clock.</p>

<p>"Come, Charley," said he, at length, "I see your eye wandering
very often<br>
towards the timepiece; another bumper, and I'll let you off. What
shall it<br>
be?"</p>

<p>"What you like," said I, upon whom a share of three bottles of
strong<br>
claret had already made a very satisfactory impression.</p>

<p>"Then champagne for the <i>coup-de-grace</i>. Nothing like
your <i>vin mousseux</i><br>
for a critical moment,&mdash;every bubble that rises sparkling to the
surface<br>
prompts some bright thought, or elicits some brilliant idea, that
would<br>
only have been drowned in your more sober fluids. Here's to the
girl you<br>
love, whoever she be."</p>

<p>"To her bright eyes, then, be it," said I, clearing off a
brimming goblet<br>
of nearly half the bottle, while my friend Power seemed
multiplied into<br>
any given number of gentlemen standing amidst something like a
glass<br>
manufactory of decanters.</p>

<p>"I hope you feel steady enough for this business," said my
friend,<br>
examining me closely with the candle.</p>

<p>"I'm an archdeacon," muttered I, with one eye involuntarily
closing.</p>

<p>"You'll not let them double on you!"</p>

<p>"Trust me, old boy," said I, endeavoring to look knowing.</p>

<p>"I think you'll do," said he, "so now march. I'll wait for you
here,<br>
and we'll go on board together; for old Bloater the skipper says
he'll<br>
certainly weigh by daybreak."</p>

<p>"Till then," said I, as opening the door, I proceeded very
cautiously to<br>
descend the stairs, affecting all the time considerable
<i>nonchalance</i>, and<br>
endeavoring, as well as my thickened utterance would permit, to
hum:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon."</p>

<p>If I was not in the most perfect possession of my faculties in
the house,<br>
the change to the open air certainly but little contributed to
their<br>
restoration; and I scarcely felt myself in the street when my
brain became<br>
absolutely one whirl of maddened and confused excitement. Time
and space<br>
are nothing to a man thus enlightened, and so they appeared to
me; scarcely<br>
a second had elapsed when I found myself standing in the
Dalrymples'<br>
drawing-room.</p>

<p>If a few hours had done much to metamorphose <i>me</i>,
certes, they had done<br>
something for my fair friends also; anything more unlike what
they appeared<br>
in the morning can scarcely be imagined. Matilda in black, with
her hair in<br>
heavy madonna bands upon her fair cheek, now paler even than
usual, never<br>
seemed so handsome; while Fanny, in a light-blue dress, with blue
flowers<br>
in her hair, and a blue sash, looked the most lovely piece of
coquetry ever<br>
man set his eyes upon. The old major, too, was smartened up, and
put into<br>
an old regimental coat that he had worn during the siege of
Gibraltar; and<br>
lastly, Mrs. Dalrymple herself was attired in a very imposing
costume that<br>
made her, to my not over-accurate judgment, look very like an
elderly<br>
bishop in a flame-colored cassock. Sparks was the only stranger,
and<br>
wore upon his countenance, as I entered, a look of very
considerable<br>
embarrassment that even my thick-sightedness could not fail of
detecting.</p>

<p><i>Parlez-moi de I'amiti&eacute;</i>, my friends. Talk to me
of the warm embrace of<br>
your earliest friend, after years of absence; the cordial and
heartfelt<br>
shake hands of your old school companion, when in after years, a
chance<br>
meeting has brought you together, and you have had time and
opportunity for<br>
becoming distinguished and in repute, and are rather a good hit
to be known<br>
to than otherwise; of the close grip you give your second when he
comes up<br>
to say, that the gentleman with the loaded detonator opposite
won't fire,<br>
that he feels he's in the wrong. Any or all of these together,
very<br>
effective and powerful though they be, are light in the balance
when<br>
compared with the two-handed compression you receive from the
gentleman<br>
that expects you to marry one of his daughters.</p>

<p>"My dear O'Malley, how goes it? Thought you'd never come,"
said he, still<br>
holding me fast and looking me full in the face, to calculate the
extent to<br>
which my potations rendered his flattery feasible.</p>

<p>"Hurried to death with preparations, I suppose," said Mrs.
Dalrymple,<br>
smiling blandly. "Fanny dear, some tea for him."</p>

<p>"Oh, Mamma, he does not like all that sugar; surely not," said
she, looking<br>
up with a most sweet expression, as though to say, "I at least
know his<br>
tastes."</p>

<p>"I believed you were going without seeing us," whispered
Matilda, with a<br>
very glassy look about the corner of her eyes.</p>

<p>Eloquence was not just then my forte, so that I contented
myself with a<br>
very intelligible look at Fanny, and a tender squeeze of
Matilda's hand, as<br>
I seated myself at the table.</p>

<p>Scarcely had I placed myself at the tea-table, with Matilda
beside and<br>
Fanny opposite me, each vying with the other in their delicate
and kind<br>
attentions, when I totally forgot all my poor friend Power's
injunctions<br>
and directions for my management. It is true, I remembered that
there was<br>
a scrape of some kind or other to be got out of, and one
requiring some<br>
dexterity, too; but what or with whom I could not for the life of
me<br>
determine. What the wine had begun, the bright eyes completed;
and amidst<br>
the witchcraft of silky tresses and sweet looks, I lost all my
reflection,<br>
till the impression of an impending difficulty remained fixed in
my mind,<br>
and I tortured my poor, weak, and erring intellect to detect it.
At last,<br>
and by a mere chance, my eyes fell upon Sparks; and by what
mechanism I<br>
contrived it, I know not, but I immediately saddled him with the
whole of<br>
my annoyances, and attributed to him and to his fault any
embarrassment I<br>
labored under.</p>

<p>The physiological reason of the fact I'm very ignorant of, but
for the<br>
truth and frequency I can well vouch, that there are certain
people,<br>
certain faces, certain voices, certain whiskers, legs,
waistcoats, and<br>
guard-chains, that inevitably produce the most striking effects
upon the<br>
brain of a gentleman already excited by wine, and not exactly
cognizant of<br>
his own peculiar fallacies.</p>

<p>These effects are not produced merely among those who are
quarrelsome in<br>
their cups, for I call the whole 14th to witness that I am not
such; but to<br>
any person so disguised, the inoffensiveness of the object is no
security<br>
on the other hand,&mdash;for I once knew an eight-day clock kicked
down a<br>
barrack stairs by an old Scotch major, because he thought it was
laughing<br>
at him. To this source alone, whatever it be, can I attribute the
feeling<br>
of rising indignation with which I contemplated the luckless
cornet, who,<br>
seated at the fire, unnoticed and uncared for, seemed a very
unworthy<br>
object to vent anger or ill-temper upon.</p>

<p>"Mr. Sparks, I fear," said I, endeavoring at the time to call
up a look of<br>
very sovereign contempt,&mdash;"Mr. Sparks, I fear, regards my visit
here in the<br>
light of an intrusion."</p>

<p>Had poor Mr. Sparks been told to proceed incontinently up the
chimney<br>
before him, he could not have looked more aghast. Reply was quite
out of<br>
his power. So sudden and unexpectedly was this charge of mine
made that he<br>
could only stare vacantly from one to the other; while I, warming
with<br>
my subject, and perhaps&mdash;but I'll not swear it&mdash;stimulated by a
gentle<br>
pressure from a soft hand near me, continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"If he thinks for one moment that my attentions in this family
are in any<br>
way to be questioned by him, I can only say&mdash;"</p>

<p>"My dear O'Malley, my dear boy!" said the major, with the look
of a<br>
father-in-law in his eye.</p>

<p>"The spirit of an officer and a gentleman spoke there," said
Mrs.<br>
Dalrymple, now carried beyond all prudence by the hope that my
attack might<br>
arouse my dormant friend into a counter-declaration; nothing,
however, was<br>
further from poor Sparks, who began to think he had been
unconsciously<br>
drinking tea with five lunatics.</p>

<p>"If he supposes," said I, rising from my chair, "that his
silence will pass<br>
with me as any palliation&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, dear! oh, dear! there will be a duel. Papa, dear, why
don't you speak<br>
to Mr. O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"There now, O'Malley, sit down. Don't you see he is quite in
error?"</p>

<p>"Then let him say so," said I, fiercely.</p>

<p>"Ah, yes, to be sure," said Fanny. "Do say it; say anything he
likes, Mr.<br>
Sparks."</p>

<p>"I must say," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "however sorry I may feel
in my own<br>
house to condemn any one, that Mr. Sparks is very much in the
wrong."</p>

<p>Poor Sparks looked like a man in a dream.</p>

<p>"If he will tell Charles,&mdash;Mr. O'Malley, I mean," said
Matilda, blushing<br>
scarlet, "that he meant nothing by what he said&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But I never spoke, never opened my lips!" cried out the
wretched man, at<br>
length sufficiently recovered to defend himself.</p>

<p>"Oh, Mr. Sparks!"</p>

<p>"Oh, Mr. Sparks!"</p>

<p>"Oh, Mr. Sparks!" chorussed the three ladies.</p>

<p>While the old major brought up the rear with an "Oh, Sparks, I
must say&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Then, by all the saints in the calendar, I must be mad," said
he; "but if<br>
I have said anything to offend you, O'Malley, I am sincerely
sorry for it."</p>

<p>"That will do, sir," said I, with a look of royal
condescension at the<br>
<i>amende</i> I considered as somewhat late in coming, and
resumed my seat.</p>

<p>This little <i>intermezzo</i>, it might be supposed, was
rather calculated to<br>
interrupt the harmony of our evening. Not so, however. I had
apparently<br>
acquitted myself like a hero, and was evidently in a white heat,
in which I<br>
could be fashioned into any shape. Sparks was humbled so far that
he would<br>
probably feel it a relief to make any proposition; so that by our
opposite<br>
courses we had both arrived at a point at which all the dexterity
and<br>
address of the family had been long since aiming without
success.<br>
Conversation then resumed its flow, and in a few minutes every
trace of our<br>
late <i>fracas</i> had disappeared.</p>

<p>By degrees I felt myself more and more disposed to turn my
attention<br>
towards Matilda, and dropping my voice into a lower tone, opened
a<br>
flirtation of a most determined kind. Fanny had, meanwhile,
assumed a place<br>
beside Sparks, and by the muttered tones that passed between
them, I could<br>
plainly perceive they were similarly occupied. The major took up
the<br>
"Southern Reporter," of which he appeared deep in the
contemplation, while<br>
Mrs. Dal herself buried her head in her embroidery and neither
heard nor<br>
saw anything around her.</p>

<p>I know, unfortunately, but very little what passed between
myself and my<br>
fair companion; I can only say that when supper was announced at
twelve (an<br>
hour later than usual), I was sitting upon the sofa with my arm
round<br>
her waist, my cheek so close that already her lovely tresses
brushed my<br>
forehead, and her breath fanned my burning brow.</p>

<p>"Supper, at last," said the major, with a loud voice, to
arouse us from<br>
our trance of happiness without taking any mean opportunity of
looking<br>
unobserved. "Supper, Sparks, O'Malley; come now, it will be some
time<br>
before we all meet this way again."</p>

<p>"Perhaps not so long, after all," said I, knowingly.</p>

<p>"Very likely not," echoed Sparks, in the same key.</p>

<p>"I've proposed for Fanny," said he, whispering in my ear.</p>

<p>"Matilda's mine," replied I, with the look of an emperor.</p>

<p>"A word with you, Major," said Sparks, his eye flashing with
enthusiasm,<br>
and his cheek scarlet. "One word,&mdash;I'll not detain you."</p>

<p>They withdrew into a corner for a few seconds, during which
Mrs. Dalrymple<br>
amused herself by wondering what the secret could be, why Mr.
Sparks<br>
couldn't tell her, and Fanny meanwhile pretended to look for
something at a<br>
side table, and never turned her head round.</p>

<p>"Then give me your hand," said the major, as he shook Sparks's
with a<br>
warmth of whose sincerity there could be no question. "Bess, my
love," said<br>
he, addressing his wife. The remainder was lost in a whisper; but
whatever<br>
it was, it evidently redounded to Sparks's credit, for the next
moment a<br>
repetition of the hand-shaking took place, and Sparks looked the
happiest<br>
of men.</p>

<p>"<i>A mon tour</i>," thought I, "now," as I touched the
major's arm, and led him<br>
towards the window. What I said may be one day matter for Major
Dalrymple's<br>
memoirs, if he ever writes them; but for my part I have not the
least idea.<br>
I only know that while I was yet speaking he called over Mrs.
Dal, who,<br>
in a frenzy of joy, seized me in her arms and embraced me. After
which, I<br>
kissed her, shook hands with the major, kissed Matilda's hand,
and laughed<br>
prodigiously, as though I had done something confoundedly
droll,&mdash;a<br>
sentiment evidently participated in by Sparks, who laughed too,
as did the<br>
others; and a merrier, happier party never sat down to
supper.</p>

<p>"Make your company pleased with themselves," says Mr. Walker,
in his<br>
<i>Original</i> work upon dinner-giving, "and everything goes on
well." Now,<br>
Major Dalrymple, without having read the authority in question,
probably<br>
because it was not written at the time, understood the principle
fully<br>
as well as the police-magistrate, and certainly was a proficient
in the<br>
practice of it.</p>

<p>To be sure, he possessed one grand requisite for success,&mdash;he
seemed most<br>
perfectly happy himself. There was that <i>air
d&eacute;gag&eacute;</i> about him which, when<br>
an old man puts it on among his juniors, is so very attractive.
Then the<br>
ladies, too, were evidently well pleased; and the usually austere
mamma had<br>
relaxed her "rigid front" into a smile in which any
<i>habitu&eacute;</i> of the house<br>
could have read our fate.</p>

<p>We ate, we drank, we ogled, smiled, squeezed hands beneath the
table,<br>
and, in fact, so pleasant a party had rarely assembled round the
major's<br>
mahogany. As for me, I made a full disclosure of the most burning
love,<br>
backed by a resolve to marry my fair neighbor, and settle upon
her a<br>
considerably larger part of my native county than I had ever even
rode<br>
over. Sparks, on the other side, had opened his fire more
cautiously,<br>
but whether taking courage from my boldness, or perceiving with
envy the<br>
greater estimation I was held in, was now going the pace fully as
fast as<br>
myself, and had commenced explanations of his intentions with
regard to<br>
Fanny that evidently satisfied her friends. Meanwhile the wine
was passing<br>
very freely, and the hints half uttered an hour before began now
to be more<br>
openly spoken and canvassed.</p>

<p>Sparks and I hob-nobbed across the table and looked
unspeakable things at<br>
each other; the girls held down their heads; Mrs. Dal wiped her
eyes; and<br>
the major pronounced himself the happiest father in Europe.</p>

<p>It was now wearing late, or rather early; some gray streaks of
dubious<br>
light were faintly forcing their way through the half-closed
curtains, and<br>
the dread thought of parting first presented itself. A cavalry
trumpet,<br>
too, at this moment sounded a call that aroused us from our
trance of<br>
pleasure, and warned us that our moments were few. A dead silence
crept<br>
over all; the solemn feeling which leave-taking ever inspires
was<br>
uppermost, and none spoke. The major was the first to break
it.</p>

<p>"O'Malley, my friend, and you, Mr. Sparks; I must have a word
with you,<br>
boys, before we part."</p>

<p>"Here let it be, then, Major," said I, holding his arm as he
turned to<br>
leave the room,&mdash;"here, now; we are all so deeply interested, no
place is<br>
so fit."</p>

<p>"Well, then," said the major, "as you desire it, now that I'm
to regard<br>
you both in the light of my sons-in-law,&mdash;at least, as pledged to
become<br>
so,&mdash;it is only fair as respects&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I see,&mdash;I understand perfectly," interrupted I, whose passion
for<br>
conducting the whole affair myself was gradually gaining on me.
"What<br>
you mean is, that we should make known our intentions before some
mutual<br>
friends ere we part; eh, Sparks? eh, Major?"</p>

<p>"Right, my boy,&mdash;right on every point."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I thought of all that; and if you'll just send
your servant<br>
over to my quarters for our captain,&mdash;he's the fittest person,
you know, at<br>
such a time&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How considerate!" said Mrs. Dalrymple.</p>

<p>"How perfectly just his idea is!" said the major.</p>

<p>"We'll then, in his presence, avow our present and
unalterable<br>
determination as regards your fair daughters; and as the time is
short&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here I turned towards Matilda, who placed her arm within mine;
Sparks<br>
possessed himself of Fanny's hand, while the major and his wife
consulted<br>
for a few seconds.</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley, all you propose is perfect. Now, then, for
the captain.<br>
Who shall he inquire for?"</p>

<a name="0240"></a>
<img alt="0240.jpg (208K)" src="0240.jpg" height="1148" width="729">

<p>[CHARLES POPS THE QUESTION.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Oh, an old friend of yours," said I, jocularly; "you'll be
glad to see<br>
him."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said all together.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, quite a surprise, I'll warrant it."</p>

<p>"Who can it be? Who on earth is it?"</p>

<p>"You can't guess," added I, with a very knowing look. "Knew
you at Corfu; a<br>
very intimate friend, indeed, if he tell the truth."</p>

<p>A look of something like embarrassment passed around the
circle at these<br>
words, while I, wishing to end the mystery, resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Come, then, who can be so proper for all parties, at a moment
like this,<br>
as our mutual friend Captain Power?"</p>

<p>Had a shell fallen into the cold grouse pie in the midst of
us, scattering<br>
death and destruction on every side, the effect could scarcely
have been<br>
more frightful than that my last words produced. Mrs. Dalrymple
fell with<br>
a sough upon the floor, motionless as a corpse; Fanny threw
herself,<br>
screaming, upon a sofa; Matilda went off into strong hysterics
upon the<br>
hearth-rug; while the major, after giving me a look a maniac
might have<br>
envied, rushed from the room in search of his pistols with a most
terrific<br>
oath to shoot somebody, whether Sparks or myself, or both of us,
on his<br>
return, I cannot say. Fanny's sobs and Matilda's cries, assisted
by a<br>
drumming process by Mrs. Dal's heels upon the floor, made a most
infernal<br>
concert and effectually prevented anything like thought or
reflection; and<br>
in all probability so overwhelmed was I at the sudden catastrophe
I had so<br>
innocently caused, I should have waited in due patience for the
major's<br>
return, had not Sparks seized my arm, and cried out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Run for it, O'Malley; cut like fun, my boy, or we're done
for."</p>

<p>"Run; why? What for? Where?" said I, stupefied by the scene
before me.</p>

<p>"Here he is!" called out Sparks, as throwing up the window, he
sprang out<br>
upon the stone sill, and leaped into the street. I followed
mechanically,<br>
and jumped after him, just as the major had reached the window. A
ball<br>
whizzed by me, that soon determined my further movements; so,
putting on<br>
all speed, I flew down the street, turned the corner, and
regained the<br>
hotel breathless and without a hat, while Sparks arrived a moment
later,<br>
pale as a ghost, and trembling like an aspen-leaf.</p>

<p>"Safe, by Jove!" said Sparks, throwing himself into a chair,
and panting<br>
for breath.</p>

<p>"Safe, at last," said I, without well knowing why or for
what.</p>

<p>"You've had a sharp run of it, apparently," said Power,
coolly, and without<br>
any curiosity as to the cause; "and now, let us on board; there
goes the<br>
trumpet again. The skipper is a surly old fellow, and we must not
lose his<br>
tide for him." So saying, he proceeded to collect his cloaks,
cane, etc.,<br>
and get ready for departure.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXVIII</p>

<p>THE VOYAGE.</p>

<p>When I awoke from the long, sound sleep which succeeded my
last adventure,<br>
I had some difficulty in remembering where I was or how I had
come there.<br>
From my narrow berth I looked out upon the now empty cabin, and
at length<br>
some misty and confused sense of my situation crept slowly over
me. I<br>
opened the little shutter beside me and looked out. The bold
headlands of<br>
the southern coast were frowning in sullen and dark masses about
a couple<br>
of miles distant, and I perceived that we were going fast through
the<br>
water, which was beautifully calm and still. I now looked at my
watch;<br>
it was past eight o'clock; and as it must evidently be evening,
from the<br>
appearance of the sky, I felt that I had slept soundly for above
twelve<br>
hours.</p>

<p>In the hurry of departure the cabin had not been set to
rights, and there<br>
lay every species of lumber and luggage in all imaginable
confusion.<br>
Trunks, gun-cases, baskets of eggs, umbrellas, hampers of
sea-store,<br>
cloaks, foraging-caps, maps, and sword-belts were scattered on
every<br>
side,&mdash;while the <i>d&eacute;bris</i> of a dinner, not
over-remarkable for its<br>
propriety in table equipage, added to the ludicrous effect. The
heavy tramp<br>
of a foot overhead denoted the step of some one taking his short
walk of<br>
exercise; while the rough voice of the skipper, as he gave the
word to "Go<br>
about!" all convinced me that we were at last under way, and off
to "the<br>
wars."</p>

<p>The confusion our last evening on shore produced in my brain
was such<br>
that every effort I made to remember anything about it only
increased my<br>
difficulty, and I felt myself in a web so tangled and
inextricable that<br>
all endeavor to escape free was impossible. Sometimes I thought
that I had<br>
really married Matilda Dalrymple; then, I supposed that the
father had<br>
called me out, and wounded me in a duel; and finally, I had some
confused<br>
notion about a quarrel with Sparks, but what for, when, and how
it ended, I<br>
knew not. How tremendously tipsy I must have been! was the only
conclusion<br>
I could draw from all these conflicting doubts; and after all, it
was the<br>
only thing like fact that beamed upon my mind. How I had come on
board and<br>
reached my berth was a matter I reserved for future inquiry,
resolving that<br>
about the real history of my last night on shore I would ask no
questions,<br>
if others were equally disposed to let it pass in silence.</p>

<p>I next began to wonder if Mike had looked after all my
luggage, trunks,<br>
etc., and whether he himself had been forgotten in our hasty
departure.<br>
About this latter point I was not destined for much doubt; for a
well-known<br>
voice, from the foot of the companion-ladder, at once proclaimed
my<br>
faithful follower, and evidenced his feelings at his departure
from his<br>
home and country.</p>

<p>Mr. Free was, at the time I mention, gathered up like a ball
opposite a<br>
small, low window that looked upon the bluff headlands now fast
becoming<br>
dim and misty as the night approached. He was apparently in low
spirits,<br>
and hummed in a species of low, droning voice, the following
ballad, at the<br>
end of each verse of which came an Irish chorus which, to the
erudite in<br>
such matters, will suggest the air of Moddirederoo:&mdash;</p>

<p>    MICKEY FREE'S LAMENT.</p>

<p>    Then fare ye well, ould Erin dear;<br>
      To part, my heart does ache well:<br>
    From Carrickfergus to Cape Clear,<br>
      I'll never see your equal.<br>
    And though to foreign parts we're bound,<br>
      Where cannibals may ate us,<br>
    We'll ne'er forget the holy ground<br>
      Of potteen and potatoes.<br>
               Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc.</p>

<p>    When good Saint Patrick banished frogs,<br>
      And shook them from his garment,<br>
    He never thought we'd go abroad,<br>
      To live upon such varmint;<br>
    Nor quit the land where whiskey grew<br>
      To wear King George's button,<br>
    Take vinegar for mountain dew,<br>
      And toads for mountain mutton.<br>
               Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc.</p>

<p>"I say, Mike, stop that confounded keen, and tell me where are
we?"</p>

<p>"Off the ould head of Kinsale, sir."</p>

<p>"Where is Captain Power?"</p>

<p>"Smoking a cigar on deck, with the captain, sir."</p>

<p>"And Mr. Sparks?"</p>

<p>"Mighty sick in his own state-room. Oh, but it's himself has
enough of<br>
glory&mdash;bad luck to it!&mdash;by this time. He'd make your heart break
to look at<br>
him."</p>

<p>"Who have you got on board besides?"</p>

<p>"The adjutant's here, sir; and an old gentleman they call the
major."</p>

<p>"Not Major Dalrymple?" said I, starting up with terror at the
thought, "eh,<br>
Mike?"</p>

<p>"No, sir, another major; his name is Mulroon, or Mundoon, or
something like<br>
that."</p>

<p>"Monsoon, you son of a lumper potato," cried out a surly,
gruff voice from<br>
a berth opposite. "Monsoon. Who's at the other side?"</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, 14th," said I, by way of introduction.</p>

<p>"My service to you, then," said the voice. "Going to join your
regiment?"</p>

<p>"Yes; and you, are you bound on a similar errand?"</p>

<p>"No, Heaven be praised! I'm attached to the commissariat, and
only going to<br>
Lisbon. Have you had any dinner?"</p>

<p>"Not a morsel; have you?"</p>

<p>"No more than yourself; but I always lie by for three or four
days this<br>
way, till I get used to the confounded rocking and pitching, and
with<br>
a little grog and some sleep, get over the time gayly enough.
Steward,<br>
another tumbler like the last; there&mdash;very good&mdash;that will do.
Your good<br>
health, Mr.&mdash;what was it you said?"</p>

<p>"O'Malley."</p>

<p>"O'Malley&mdash;your good health! Good-night." And so ended our
brief colloquy,<br>
and in a few minutes more, a very decisive snore pronounced my
friend to be<br>
fulfilling his precept for killing the hours.</p>

<p>I now made the effort to emancipate myself from my crib, and
at last<br>
succeeded in getting on the floor, where, after one
<i>chassez</i> at a small<br>
looking-glass opposite, followed by a very impetuous rush at a
little brass<br>
stove, in which I was interrupted by a trunk and laid prostrate,
I finally<br>
got my clothes on, and made my way to the deck. Little attuned as
was my<br>
mind at the moment to admire anything like scenery, it was
impossible to be<br>
unmoved by the magnificent prospect before me. It was a beautiful
evening<br>
in summer; the sun had set above an hour before, leaving behind
him in the<br>
west one vast arch of rich and burnished gold, stretching along
the whole<br>
horizon, and tipping all the summits of the heavy rolling sea, as
it rolled<br>
on, unbroken by foam or ripple, in vast moving mountains, from
the far<br>
coast of Labrador. We were already in blue water, though the bold
cliffs<br>
that were to form our departing point were but a few miles to
leeward.<br>
There lay the lofty bluff of Old Kinsale, whose crest,
overhanging, peered<br>
from a summit of some hundred feet into the deep water that swept
its rocky<br>
base, many a tangled lichen and straggling bough trailing in the
flood<br>
beneath. Here and there upon the coast a twinkling gleam
proclaimed the hut<br>
of the fisherman, whose swift hookers had more than once shot by
us and<br>
disappeared in a moment. The wind, which began to fall at sunset,
freshened<br>
as the moon rose; and the good ship, bending to the breeze, lay
gently<br>
over, and rushed through the waters with a sound of gladness. I
was alone<br>
upon the deck. Power and the captain, whom I expected to have
found, had<br>
disappeared somehow, and I was, after all, not sorry to be left
to my own<br>
reflections uninterrupted.</p>

<p>My thoughts turned once more to my home,&mdash;to my first, my
best, earliest<br>
friend, whose hearth I had rendered lonely and desolate, and my
heart<br>
sank within me as I remembered it. How deeply I reproached myself
for the<br>
selfish impetuosity with which I had ever followed any rising
fancy, any<br>
new and sudden desire, and never thought of him whose every hope
was in,<br>
whose every wish was for me. Alas! alas, my poor uncle! how
gladly would<br>
I resign every prospect my soldier's life may hold out, with all
its<br>
glittering promise, and all the flattery of success, to be once
more beside<br>
you; to feel your warm and manly grasp; to see your smile; to
hear your<br>
voice; to be again where all our best feelings are born and
nurtured, our<br>
cares assuaged, our joys more joyed in, and our griefs more
wept,&mdash;at home!<br>
These very words have more music to my ears than all the softest
strains<br>
that ever siren sung. They bring us back to all we have loved, by
ties that<br>
are never felt but through such simple associations. And in the
earlier<br>
memories called up, our childish feelings come back once more to
visit us<br>
like better spirits, as we walk amidst the dreary desolation that
years of<br>
care and uneasiness have spread around us.</p>

<p>Wretched must he be who ne'er has felt such bliss; and thrice
happy he who,<br>
feeling it, knows that still there lives for him that same early
home, with<br>
all its loved inmates, its every dear and devoted object waiting
his coming<br>
and longing for his approach.</p>

<p>Such were my thoughts as I stood gazing at the bold line of
coast now<br>
gradually growing more and more dim while evening fell, and we
continued<br>
to stand farther out to sea. So absorbed was I all this time in
my<br>
reflections, that I never heard the voices which now suddenly
burst upon my<br>
ears quite close beside me. I turned, and saw for the first time
that at<br>
the end of the quarter-deck stood what is called a roundhouse, a
small<br>
cabin, from which the sounds in question proceeded. I walked
gently forward<br>
and peeped in, and certainly anything more in contrast with my
late revery<br>
need not be conceived. There sat the skipper, a bluff,
round-faced,<br>
jolly-looking little tar, mixing a bowl of punch at a table, at
which sat<br>
my friend Power, the adjutant, and a tall, meagre-looking
Scotchman, whom<br>
I once met in Cork, and heard that he was the doctor of some
infantry<br>
regiment. Two or three black bottles, a paper of cigars, and a
tallow<br>
candle were all the table equipage; but certainly the party
seemed not to<br>
want for spirits and fun, to judge from the hearty bursts of
laughing that<br>
every moment pealed forth, and shook the little building that
held them.<br>
Power, as usual with him, seemed to be taking the lead, and was
evidently<br>
amusing himself with the peculiarities of his companions.</p>

<p>"Come, Adjutant, fill up; here's to the campaign before us.
We, at least,<br>
have nothing but pleasure in the anticipation; no lovely wife
behind; no<br>
charming babes to fret and be fretted for, eh?"</p>

<p>"Vara true," said the doctor, who was mated with a
<i>tartar</i>, "ye maun have<br>
less regrets at leaving hame; but a married man is no' entirely
denied his<br>
ain consolations."</p>

<p>"Good sense in that," said the skipper; "a wide berth and
plenty of sea<br>
room are not bad things now and then."</p>

<p>"Is that your experience also?" said Power, with a knowing
look. "Come,<br>
come, Adjutant, we're not so ill off, you see; but, by Jove, I
can't<br>
imagine how it is a man ever comes to thirty without having at
least one<br>
wife,&mdash;without counting his colonial possessions of course."</p>

<p>"Yes," said the adjutant, with a sigh, as he drained his glass
to the<br>
bottom. "It is devilish strange,&mdash;woman, lovely woman!" Here he
filled and<br>
drank again, as though he had been proposing a toast for his own
peculiar<br>
drinking.</p>

<p>"I say, now," resumed Power, catching at once that there was
something<br>
working in his mind,&mdash;"I say, now, how happened it that you, a
right<br>
good-looking, soldier-like fellow, that always made his way among
the fair<br>
ones, with that confounded roguish eye and slippery tongue,&mdash;how
the deuce<br>
did it come to pass that you never married?"</p>

<p>"I've been more than once on the verge of it," said the
adjutant, smiling<br>
blandly at the flattery.</p>

<p>"And nae bad notion yours just to stay there," said the
doctor, with a very<br>
peculiar contortion of countenance.</p>

<p>"No pleasing you, no contenting a fellow like you," said
Power, returning<br>
to the charge; "that's the thing; you get a certain ascendancy;
you have a<br>
kind of success that renders you, as the French say,
<i>t&eacute;te mont&eacute;e</i>, and you<br>
think no woman rich enough or good-looking enough or big
enough."</p>

<p>"No; by Jove you're wrong," said the adjutant, swallowing the
bait, hook<br>
and all,&mdash;"quite wrong there; for some how, all my life, I was
decidedly<br>
susceptible. Not that I cared much for your blushing sixteen, or
budding<br>
beauties in white muslin, fresh from a back-board and a
governess; no, my<br>
taste inclined rather to the more sober charms of two or
three-and-thirty,<br>
the <i>embonpoint</i>, a good foot and ankle, a sensible breadth
about the<br>
shoulders&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Somewhat Dutch-like, I take it," said the skipper, puffing
out a volume of<br>
smoke; "a little bluff in the bows, and great stowage, eh"</p>

<p>"You leaned then towards the widows?" said Power.</p>

<p>"Exactly; I confess, a widow always was my weakness. There was
something<br>
I ever liked in the notion of a woman who had got over all the
awkward<br>
girlishness of early years, and had that self-possession which
habit and<br>
knowledge of the world confer, and knew enough of herself to
understand<br>
what she really wished, and where she would really go."</p>

<p>"Like the trade winds," puffed the skipper.</p>

<p>"Then, as regards fortune, they have a decided superiority
over<br>
the spinster class. I defy any man breathing,&mdash;let him be
half<br>
police-magistrate, half chancellor,&mdash;to find out the figure of a
young<br>
lady's dower. On your first introduction to the house, some kind
friend<br>
whispers, 'Go it, old boy; forty thousand, not a penny less.' A
few weeks<br>
later, as the siege progresses, a maiden aunt, disposed to
puffing, comes<br>
down to twenty; this diminishes again one half, but then 'the
money is in<br>
bank stock, hard Three-and-a-Half.' You go a little farther, and
as you sit<br>
one day over your wine with papa, he certainly promulgates the
fact that<br>
his daughter has five thousand pounds, two of which turn out to
be in<br>
Mexican bonds, and three in an Irish mortgage."</p>

<p>"Happy for you," interrupted Power, "that it be not in Galway,
where a<br>
proposal to foreclose, would be a signal for your being called
out and shot<br>
without benefit of clergy."</p>

<p>"Bad luck to it, for Galway," said the adjutant. "I was nearly
taken in<br>
there once to marry a girl that her brother-in-law swore had
eight hundred<br>
a year; and it came out afterwards that so she had, but it was
for one year<br>
only; and he challenged me for doubting his word too."</p>

<p>"There's an old formula for finding out an Irish fortune,"
says Power,<br>
"worth, all the algebra they ever taught in Trinity. Take the
half of the<br>
assumed sum, and divide it by three; the quotient will be a
flattering<br>
representative of the figure sought for."</p>

<p>"Not in the north," said the adjutant, firmly,&mdash;"not in the
north, Power.<br>
They are all well off there. There's a race of canny, thrifty,
half-Scotch<br>
niggers,&mdash;your pardon, Doctor, they are all
Irish,&mdash;linen-weaving,<br>
Presbyterian, yarn-factoring, long-nosed, hard-drinking fellows,
that lay<br>
by rather a snug thing now and then. Do you know, I was very near
it once<br>
in the north. I've half a mind to tell you the story; though,
perhaps,<br>
you'll laugh at me."</p>

<p>The whole party at once protested that nothing could induce
them to deviate<br>
so widely from the line of propriety; and the skipper having
mixed a fresh<br>
bowl and filled all the glasses round, the cigars were lighted,
and the<br>
adjutant began.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXIX.</p>

<p>THE ADJUTANT'S STORY.&mdash;LIFE IN DERBY.</p>

<p>"It is now about eight, may be ten, years since we were
ordered to march<br>
from Belfast and take up our quarters in Londonderry. We had not
been more<br>
than a few weeks altogether in Ulster when the order came; and as
we had<br>
been, for the preceding two years, doing duty in the south and
west, we<br>
concluded that the island was tolerably the same in all parts. We
opened<br>
our campaign in the maiden city exactly as we had been doing
with<br>
'unparalleled success' in Cashel, Fermoy, Tuam, etc.,&mdash;that is to
say, we<br>
announced garrison balls and private theatricals; offered a cup
to be run<br>
for in steeple-chase; turned out a four-in-hand drag, with
mottled grays;<br>
and brought over two Deal boats to challenge the north."</p>

<p>"The 18th found the place stupid," said his companions.</p>

<p>"To be sure, they did; slow fellows like them must find any
place stupid.<br>
No dinners; but they gave none. No fun; but they had none in
themselves.<br>
In fact, we knew better; we understood how the thing was to be
done, and<br>
resolved that, as a mine of rich ore lay unworked, it was
reserved for us<br>
to produce the shining metal that others, less discerning, had
failed to<br>
discover. Little we knew of the matter; never was there a blunder
like<br>
ours. Were you ever in Derry?"</p>

<p>"Never," said the three listeners.</p>

<p>"Well, then, let me inform you that the place has its own
peculiar<br>
features. In the first place, all the large towns in the south
and west<br>
have, besides the country neighborhood that surrounds them, a
certain<br>
sprinkling of gentlefolk, who, though with small fortunes and not
much<br>
usage of the world, are still a great accession to society, and
make up the<br>
blank which, even in the most thickly peopled country, would be
sadly<br>
felt without them. Now, in Derry, there is none of this. After
the great<br>
guns&mdash;and, <i>per Baccho!</i> what great guns they are!&mdash;you have
nothing but<br>
the men engaged in commerce,&mdash;sharp, clever, shrewd,
well-informed fellows;<br>
they are deep in flax-seed, cunning in molasses, and not to be
excelled<br>
in all that pertains to coffee, sassafras, cinnamon, gum, oakum,
and<br>
elephants' teeth. The place is a rich one, and the spirit of
commerce is<br>
felt throughout it. Nothing is cared for, nothing is talked of,
nothing<br>
alluded to, that does not bear upon this; and, in fact, if you
haven't a<br>
venture in Smyrna figs, Memel timber, Dutch dolls, or some such
commodity,<br>
you are absolutely nothing, and might as well be at a ball with a
cork leg,<br>
or go deaf to the opera."</p>

<p>"Now, when I've told thus much, I leave you to guess what
impression our<br>
triumphal entry into the city produced. Instead of the admiring
crowds<br>
that awaited us elsewhere, as we marched gayly into quarters,
here we saw<br>
nothing but grave, sober-looking, and, I confess it,
intelligent-looking<br>
faces, that scrutinized our appearance closely enough, but
evidently with<br>
no great approval and less enthusiasm. The men passed on
hurriedly to the<br>
counting-houses and wharves; the women, with almost as little
interest,<br>
peeped at us from the windows, and walked away again. Oh, how we
wished for<br>
Galway, glorious Galway, that paradise of the infantry that lies
west of<br>
the Shannon! Little we knew, as we ordered the band, in lively
anticipation<br>
of the gayeties before us, to strike up 'Payne's first set,'
that, to the<br>
ears of the fair listeners in Ship Quay Street, the rumble of a
sugar<br>
hogshead or the crank of a weighing crane were more delightful
music."</p>

<p>"By Jove!" interrupted Power, "you are quite right. Women are
strongly<br>
imitative in their tastes. The lovely Italian, whose very costume
is a<br>
natural following of a Raphael, is no more like the pretty
Liverpool damsel<br>
than Genoa is to Glasnevin; and yet what the deuce have they,
dear souls,<br>
with their feet upon a soft carpet and their eyes upon the pages
of Scott<br>
or Byron, to do with all the cotton or dimity that ever was
printed? But<br>
let us not repine; that very plastic character is our greatest
blessing."</p>

<p>"I'm not so sure that it always exists," said the doctor,
dubiously, as<br>
though his own experience pointed otherwise.</p>

<p>"Well, go ahead!" said the skipper, who evidently disliked the
digression<br>
thus interrupting the adjutant's story.</p>

<p>"Well, we marched along, looking right and left at the pretty
faces&mdash;and<br>
there were plenty of them, too&mdash;that a momentary curiosity drew
to the<br>
windows; but although we smiled and ogled and leered as only a
newly<br>
arrived regiment can smile, ogle, or leer, by all that's
provoking we might<br>
as well have wasted our blandishments upon the Presbyterian
meeting-house,<br>
that frowned upon us with its high-pitched roof and round
windows.</p>

<p>"'Droll people, these,' said one; 'Rayther rum ones,' cried
another; 'The<br>
black north, by Jove!' said a third: and so we went along to the
barracks,<br>
somewhat displeased to think that, though the 18th were slow,
they might<br>
have met their match.</p>

<p>"Disappointed, as we undoubtedly felt, at the little
enthusiasm that marked<br>
our <i>entr&eacute;e</i>, we still resolved to persist in our
original plan, and<br>
accordingly, early the following morning, announced our intention
of giving<br>
amateur theatricals. The mayor, who called upon our colonel, was
the first<br>
to learn this, and received the information with pretty much the
same<br>
kind of look the Archbishop of Canterbury might be supposed to
assume if<br>
requested by a a friend to ride 'a Derby.' The incredulous
expression of<br>
the poor man's face, as he turned from one of us to the other,
evidently<br>
canvassing in his mind whether we might not, by some special
dispensation<br>
of Providence, be all insane, I shall never forget.</p>

<p>"His visit was a very short one; whether concluding that we
were not quite<br>
safe company, or whether our notification was too much for his
nerves, I<br>
know not.</p>

<p>"We were not to be balked, however. Our plans for gayety, long
planned and<br>
conned over, wore soon announced in all form; and though we made
efforts<br>
almost super-human in the cause, our plays were performed to
empty benches,<br>
our balls were unattended, our picnic invitations politely
declined, and,<br>
in a word, all our advances treated with a cold and chilling
politeness<br>
that plainly said, 'We'll none of you.'</p>

<p>"Each day brought some new discomfiture, and as we met at
mess, instead<br>
of having, as heretofore, some prospect of pleasure and amusement
to chat<br>
over, it was only to talk gloomily over our miserable failures,
and lament<br>
the dreary quarters that our fates had doomed us to.</p>

<p>"Some months wore on in this fashion, and at length&mdash;what will
not time<br>
do?&mdash;we began, by degrees, to forget our woes. Some of us took to
late<br>
hours and brandy-and-water; others got sentimental, and wrote
journals and<br>
novels and poetry; some made acquaintances among the townspeople,
and out<br>
in to a quiet rubber to pass the evening; while another
detachment, among<br>
which I was, got up a little love affair to while away the
tedious hours,<br>
and cheat the lazy sun.</p>

<p>"I have already said something of my taste in beauty; now,
Mrs. Boggs<br>
was exactly the style of woman I fancied. She was a widow; she
had black<br>
eyes,&mdash;not your jet-black, sparkling, Dutch-doll eyes, that roll
about and<br>
twinkle, but mean nothing; no, hers had a soft, subdued,
downcast, pensive<br>
look about them, and were fully as melting a pair of orbs as any
blue eyes<br>
you ever looked at.</p>

<p>"Then, she had a short upper lip, and sweet teeth; by Jove,
they were<br>
pearls! and she showed them too, pretty often. Her figure was
well-rounded,<br>
plump, and what the French call <i>nette</i>. To complete all,
her instep and<br>
ankle were unexceptional; and lastly, her jointure was seven
hundred pounds<br>
per annum, with a trifle of eight thousand more that the late
lamented<br>
Boggs bequeathed, when, after four months of uninterrupted bliss,
he left<br>
Derry for another world.</p>

<p>"When chance first threw me in the way of the fair widow, some
casual<br>
coincidence of opinion happened to raise me in her estimation,
and I soon<br>
afterwards received an invitation to a small evening party at her
house, to<br>
which I alone of the regiment was asked.</p>

<p>"I shall not weary you with the details of my intimacy; it is
enough that I<br>
tell you I fell desperately in love. I began by visiting twice or
thrice a<br>
week, and in less than two months, spent every morning at her
house, and<br>
rarely left it till the 'Roast beef' announced mess.</p>

<p>"I soon discovered the widow's cue; she was serious. Now, I
had conducted<br>
all manner of flirtatious in my previous life; timid young
ladies, manly<br>
young ladies, musical, artistical, poetical, and
hysterical,&mdash;bless you, I<br>
knew them all by heart; but never before had I to deal with a
serious one,<br>
and a widow to boot. The case was a trying one. For some weeks it
was all<br>
very up-hill work; all the red shot of warm affection I used to
pour in on<br>
other occasions was of no use here. The language of love, in
which I was<br>
no mean proficient, availed me not. Compliments and flattery,
those rare<br>
skirmishers before the engagement, were denied me; and I verily
think that<br>
a tender squeeze of the hand would have cost me my dismissal.</p>

<p>"'How very slow, all this!' thought I, as, at the end of two
months siege,<br>
I still found myself seated in the trenches, and not a single
breach in the<br>
fortress; 'but, to be sure, it's the way they have in the north,
and one<br>
must be patient.'</p>

<p>"While thus I was in no very sanguine frame of mind as to my
prospects, in<br>
reality my progress was very considerable. Having become a member
of Mr.<br>
M'Phun's congregation, I was gradually rising in the estimation
of the<br>
widow and her friends, whom my constant attendance at meeting,
and my very<br>
serious demeanor had so far impressed that very grave
deliberation was held<br>
whether I should not be made an elder at the next brevet.</p>

<p>"If the widow Boggs had not been a very lovely and wealthy
widow; had she<br>
not possessed the eyes, lips, hips, ankles, and jointure
aforesaid,&mdash;I<br>
honestly avow that neither the charms of that sweet man Mr.
M'Phun's<br>
eloquence, nor even the flattering distinction in store for me,
would have<br>
induced me to prolong my suit. However, I was not going to
despair when in<br>
sight of land. The widow was evidently softened. A little time
longer, and<br>
the most scrupulous moralist, the most rigid advocate for
employing time<br>
wisely, could not have objected to my daily system of courtship.
I was<br>
none of your sighing, dying, ogling, hand-squeezing,
waist-pressing,<br>
oath-swearing, everlasting-adoring affairs, with an interchange
of rings<br>
and lockets; not a bit of it. It was confoundedly like a
controversial<br>
meeting at the Rotundo, and I myself had a far greater
resemblance to<br>
Father Tom Maguire than a gay Lothario.</p>

<p>"After all, when mess-time came, when the 'Roast beef' played,
and we<br>
assembled at dinner, and the soup and fish had gone round, with
two glasses<br>
of sherry in, my spirits rallied, and a very jolly evening
consoled me for<br>
all my fatigues and exertions, and supplied me with energy for
the morrow;<br>
for, let me observe here, that I only made love before dinner.
The evenings<br>
I reserved for myself, assuring Mrs. Boggs that my regimental
duties<br>
required all my time after mess hour, in which I was perfectly
correct:<br>
for at six we dined; at seven I opened the claret No. 1; at eight
I had<br>
uncorked my second bottle; by half-past eight I was returning to
the<br>
sherry; and at ten, punctual to the moment, I was repairing to my
quarters<br>
on the back of my servant, Tim Daly, who had carried me safely
for eight<br>
years, without a single mistake, as the fox-hunters say. This was
a way we<br>
had in the &mdash;th. Every man was carried away from mess, some
sooner, some<br>
later. I was always an early riser, and went betimes.</p>

<p>"Now, although I had very abundant proof, from circumstantial
evidence,<br>
that I was nightly removed from the mess-room to my bed in the
mode I<br>
mention, it would have puzzled me sorely to prove the fact in any
direct<br>
way; inasmuch as by half-past nine, as the clock chimed, and Tim
entered to<br>
take me, I was very innocent of all that was going on, and except
a certain<br>
vague sense of regret at leaving the decanter, felt nothing
whatever.</p>

<p>"It so chanced&mdash;what mere trifles are we ruled by in our
destiny!&mdash;that<br>
just as my suit with the widow had assumed its most favorable
footing, old<br>
General Hinks, that commanded the district, announced his coming
over to<br>
inspect our regiment. Over he came accordingly, and to be sure,
we had a<br>
day of it. We were paraded for six mortal hours; then we were
marching and<br>
countermarching, moving into line, back again into column, now
forming open<br>
column, then into square; till at last, we began to think that
the old<br>
general was like the Flying Dutchman, and was probably condemned
to keep on<br>
drilling us to the day of judgment. To be sure, he enlivened the
proceeding<br>
to me by pronouncing the regiment the worst-drilled and appointed
corps in<br>
the service, and the adjutant (me!) the stupidest
dunderhead&mdash;these were<br>
his words&mdash;he had ever met with.</p>

<p>"'Never mind,' thought I; 'a few days more, and it's little
I'll care for<br>
the eighteen manoeuvres. It's small trouble your eyes right or
your left,<br>
shoulders forward, will give me. I'll sell out, and with the
Widow Boggs<br>
and seven hundred a year,&mdash;but no matter.'</p>

<p>"This confounded inspection lasted till half-past five in the
afternoon; so<br>
that our mess was delayed a full hour in consequence, and it was
past seven<br>
as we sat down to dinner. Our faces were grim enough as we met
together at<br>
first; but what will not a good dinner and good wine do for the
surliest<br>
party? By eight o'clock we began to feel somewhat more
convivially<br>
disposed; and before nine, the decanters were performing a
quick-step round<br>
the table, in a fashion very exhilarating and very jovial to look
at.</p>

<p>"'No flinching to-night,' said the senior major. 'We've had a
severe day;<br>
let us also have a merry evening.'</p>

<p>"'By Jove! Ormond,' cried another, 'we must not leave this
to-night.<br>
Confound the old humbugs and their musty whist party; throw them
over.'</p>

<p>"'I say, Adjutant,' said Forbes; addressing me, 'you've
nothing particular<br>
to say to the fair widow this evening? You'll not bolt, I
hope?'</p>

<p>"'That he sha'n't,' said one near me; 'he must make up for his
absence<br>
to-morrow, for to-night we all stand fast.'</p>

<p>"'Besides,' said another, 'she's at meeting by this.<br>
Old&mdash;what-d'ye-call-him?&mdash;is at fourteenthly before now.'</p>

<p>"'A note for you, sir,' said the mess waiter, presenting me
with a<br>
rose-colored three-cornered billet. It was from <i>la
ch&egrave;re</i> Boggs herself,<br>
and ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    DEAR SIR,&mdash;Mr. M'Phun and a few friends are coming to tea
at<br>
    my house after meeting; perhaps you will also favor us with
your<br>
    company.<br>
    Yours truly,<br>
    ELIZA BOGGS.</p>

<p>"What was to be done? Quit the mess; leave a jolly party just
at the<br>
jolliest moment; exchange Lafitte and red hermitage for a
<i>soir&eacute;e</i> of<br>
elders, presided over by that sweet man, Mr. M'Phun! It was too
bad!&mdash;but<br>
then, how much was in the scale! What would the widow say if I
declined?<br>
What would she think? I well knew that the invitation meant
nothing less<br>
than a full-dress parade of me before her friends, and that to
decline was<br>
perhaps to forfeit all my hopes in that quarter forever.</p>

<p>"'Any answer, sir?' said the waiter.</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said I, in a half-whisper, 'I'll go,&mdash;tell the
servant, I'll go.'</p>

<p>"At this moment my tender epistle was subtracted from before
me, and ere I<br>
had turned round, had made the tour of half the table. I never
perceived<br>
the circumstance, however, and filling my glass, professed my
resolve to<br>
sit to the last, with a mental reserve to take my departure at
the very<br>
first opportunity. Ormond and the paymaster quitted the room for
a moment,<br>
as if to give orders for a broil at twelve, and now all seemed to
promise a<br>
very convivial and well-sustained party for the night.</p>

<p>"'Is that all arranged?' inquired the major, as Ormond
entered.</p>

<p>"'All right,' said he; 'and now let us have a bumper and a
song. Adjutant,<br>
old boy, give us a chant.'</p>

<p>"'What shall it be, then?' inquired I, anxious to cover my
intended retreat<br>
by any appearance of joviality.</p>

<p>"'Give us&mdash;</p>

<p>    "When I was in the Fusiliers<br>
    Some fourteen years ago."'</p>

<p>"'No, no; confound it! I've heard nothing else since I joined
the regiment.<br>
Let us have the "Paymaster's Daughter."'</p>

<p>"'Ah! that's pathetic; I like that,' lisped a young
ensign.</p>

<p>"'If I'm to have a vote,' grunted out the senior major, 'I
pronounce for<br>
"West India Quarters."'</p>

<p>"'Yes, yes,' said half-a-dozen voices together; 'let's have
"West India<br>
Quarters." Come, give him a glass of sherry, and let him
begin.'</p>

<p>"I had scarcely finished off my glass, and cleared my throat
for my song,<br>
when the clock on the chimney-piece chimed half-past nine, and
the same<br>
instant I felt a heavy hand fall upon my shoulder. I turned and
beheld my<br>
servant Tim. This, as I have already mentioned, was the hour at
which Tim<br>
was in the habit of taking me home to my quarters; and though we
had dined<br>
an hour later, he took no notice of the circumstance, but true to
his<br>
custom, he was behind my chair. A very cursory glance at my
'familiar' was<br>
quite sufficient to show me that we had somehow changed sides;
for Tim, who<br>
was habitually the most sober of mankind, was, on the present
occasion,<br>
exceedingly drunk, while I, a full hour before that consummation,
was<br>
perfectly sober.</p>

<p>"'What d'ye want, sir?' inquired I, with something of severity
in my<br>
manner.</p>

<p>"'Come home,' said Tim, with a hiccough that set the whole
table in a roar.</p>

<p>"'Leave the room this instant,' said I, feeling wrath at being
thus made<br>
a butt of for his offences. 'Leave the room, or I'll kick you out
of it.'<br>
Now, this, let me add in a parenthesis, was somewhat of a boast,
for Tim<br>
was six feet three, and strong in proportion, and when in liquor,
fearless<br>
as a tiger.</p>

<p>"'You'll kick me out of the room, eh, will you? Try, only try
it, that's<br>
all.' Here a new roar of laughter burst forth, while Tim, again
placing an<br>
enormous paw upon my shoulder, continued, 'Don't be sitting
there, making a<br>
baste of yourself, when you've got enough. Don't you see you're
drunk?'</p>

<p>"I sprang to my legs on this, and made a rush to the fireplace
to secure<br>
the poker; but Tim was beforehand with me, and seizing me by the
waist with<br>
both hands, flung me across his shoulders as though I were a
baby, saying,<br>
at the same time, 'I'll take you away at half-past eight
to-morrow, as<br>
you're as rampageous again.' I kicked, I plunged, I swore, I
threatened, I<br>
even begged and implored to be set down; but whether my voice was
lost in<br>
the uproar around me, or that Tim only regarded my denunciations
in the<br>
light of cursing, I know not, but he carried me bodily down the
stairs,<br>
steadying himself by one hand on the banisters, while with the
other he<br>
held me as in a vice. I had but one consolation all this while;
it was<br>
this, that as my quarters lay immediately behind the mess-room,
Tim's<br>
excursion would soon come to an end, and I should be free once
more; but<br>
guess my terror to find that the drunken scoundrel, instead of
going as<br>
usual to the left, turned short to the right hand, and marched
boldly<br>
into Ship Quay Street. Every window in the mess-room was filled
with our<br>
fellows, absolutely shouting with laughter. 'Go it Tim! That's
the fellow!<br>
Hold him tight! Never let go!' cried a dozen voices; while<br>
the wretch, with the tenacity of drunkenness, gripped me still
harder, and<br>
took his way down the middle of the street.</p>

<a name="0260"></a>
<img alt="0260.jpg (124K)" src="0260.jpg" height="534" width="657">

<p>[THE ADJUTANT'S AFTER DINNER RIDE.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"It was a beautiful evening in July, a soft summer night, as I
made this<br>
pleasing excursion down the most frequented thoroughfare in the
maiden<br>
city, my struggles every moment exciting roars of laughter from
an<br>
increasing crowd of spectators, who seemed scarcely less amused
than<br>
puzzled at the exhibition. In the midst of a torrent of
imprecations<br>
against my torturer, a loud noise attracted me. I turned my head,
and<br>
saw,&mdash;horror of horrors!&mdash;the door of the meeting-house just
flung open,<br>
and the congregation issuing forth <i>en masse</i>. Is it any
wonder if I<br>
remember no more? There I was, the chosen one of the widow Boggs,
the elder<br>
elect, the favored friend and admired associate of Mr. M'Phun,
taking an<br>
airing on a summer's evening on the back of a drunken Irishman.
Oh, the<br>
thought was horrible! and certainly the short and pithy epithets
by which I<br>
was characterized in the crowd, neither improved my temper nor
assuaged my<br>
wrath, and I feel bound to confess that my own language was
neither serious<br>
nor becoming. Tim, however, cared little for all this, and
pursued the even<br>
tenor of his way through the whole crowd, nor stopped till,
having made<br>
half the circuit of the wall, he deposited me safe at my own
door; adding,<br>
as he set me down, 'Oh, av you're as throublesome every evening,
it's a<br>
wheelbarrow I'll be obleeged to bring for you!'</p>

<p>"The next day I obtained a short leave of absence, and ere a
fortnight<br>
expired, exchanged into the &mdash;th, preferring Halifax itself to
the ridicule<br>
that awaited me in Londonderry."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXX.</p>

<p>FRED POWER'S ADVENTURE IN PHILIPSTOWN.</p>

<p>The lazy hours of the long summer day crept slowly over. The
sea, unbroken<br>
by foam or ripple, shone like a broad blue mirror, reflecting
here and<br>
there some fleecy patches of snow-white cloud as they stood
unmoved in the<br>
sky. The good ship rocked to and fro with a heavy and lumbering
motion, the<br>
cordage rattled, the bulkheads creaked, the sails flapped lazily
against<br>
the masts, the very sea-gulls seemed to sleep as they rested on
the long<br>
swell that bore them along, and everything in sea and sky bespoke
the calm.<br>
No sailor trod the deck; no watch was stirring; the very tiller
ropes were<br>
deserted; and as they traversed backwards and forwards with every
roll of<br>
the vessel, told that we had no steerage-way, and lay a mere log
upon the<br>
water.</p>

<p>I sat alone in the bow, and fell into a musing fit upon the
past and<br>
the future. How happily for us is it ordained that in the most
stirring<br>
existences there are every here and there such little
resting-spots of<br>
reflection, from which, as from some eminence, we look back upon
the road<br>
we have been treading in life, and cast a wistful glance at the
dark vista<br>
before us! When first we set out upon our worldly pilgrimage,
these are<br>
indeed precious moments, when with buoyant heart and spirit high,
believing<br>
all things, trusting all things, our very youth comes back to us,
reflected<br>
from every object we meet; and like Narcissus, we are but
worshipping our<br>
own image in the water. As we go on in life, the cares, the
anxieties, and<br>
the business of the world engross us more and more, and such
moments become<br>
fewer and shorter. Many a bright dream has been dissolved, many a
fairy<br>
vision replaced, by some dark reality; blighted hopes, false
friendships<br>
have gradually worn callous the heart once alive to every gentle
feeling,<br>
and time begins to tell upon us,&mdash;yet still, as the
well-remembered melody<br>
to which we listened with delight in infancy brings to our mature
age a<br>
touch of early years, so will the very association of these happy
moments<br>
recur to us in our revery, and make us young again in thought.
Then it is<br>
that, as we look back upon our worldly career, we become
convinced how<br>
truly is the child the father of the man, how frequently are the
projects<br>
of our manhood the fruit of some boyish predilection; and that in
the<br>
emulative ardor that stirs the schoolboy's heart, we may read
the<br>
<i>prestige</i> of that high daring that makes a hero of its
possessor.</p>

<p>These moments, too, are scarcely more pleasurable than they
are salutary to<br>
us. Disengaged for the time from every worldly anxiety, we pass
in review<br>
before our own selves, and in the solitude of our own hearts are
we judged.<br>
That still small voice of conscience, unheard and unlistened to
amidst the<br>
din and bustle of life, speaks audibly to us now; and while
chastened<br>
on one side by regrets, we are sustained on the other by some
approving<br>
thought; and with many a sorrow for the past, and many a promise
for the<br>
future, we begin to feel "how good it is for us to be here."</p>

<p>The evening wore later; the red sun sank down upon the sea,
growing larger<br>
and larger; the long line of mellow gold that sheeted along the
distant<br>
horizon grew first of a dark ruddy tinge, then paler and paler,
till it<br>
became almost gray; a single star shone faintly in the east, and
darkness<br>
soon set in. With night came the wind, for almost imperceptibly
the sails<br>
swelled slowly out, a slight rustle at the bow followed, the ship
lay<br>
gently over, and we were once more in motion. It struck four
bells; some<br>
casual resemblance in the sound of the old pendulum that marked
the hour at<br>
my uncle's house startled me so that I actually knew not where I
was. With<br>
lightning speed my once home rose up before me with its happy
hearts; the<br>
old familiar faces were there; the gay laugh was in my ears;
there sat<br>
my dear old uncle, as with bright eye and mellow voice he looked
a very<br>
welcome to his guests; there Boyle; there Considine; there the
grim-visaged<br>
portraits that graced the old walls whose black oak wainscot
stood in broad<br>
light and shadow, as the blazing turf fire shone upon it; there
was my own<br>
place, now vacant; methought my uncle's eye was turned towards it
and that<br>
I heard him say, "My poor boy! I wonder where is he now!" My
heart swelled,<br>
my chest heaved, the tears coursed slowly down my cheeks, as I
asked<br>
myself, "Shall I ever see them more?" Oh, how little, how very
little to us<br>
are the accustomed blessings of our life till some change has
robbed us of<br>
them, and how dear are they when lost to us! My uncle's dark
foreboding<br>
that we should never meet again on earth, came for the first time
forcibly<br>
to my mind, and my heart was full to bursting. What could repay
me for<br>
the agony of that moment as I thought of him, my first, my best,
my only<br>
friend, whom I had deserted? And how gladly would I have resigned
my bright<br>
day-dawn of ambition to be once more beside his chair, to hear
his voice,<br>
to see his smile, to feel his love for me! A loud laugh from the
cabin<br>
roused me from my sad, depressing revery, and at the same
instant<br>
Mike's well-known voice informed me that the captain was looking
for me<br>
everywhere, as supper was on the table. Little as I felt disposed
to join<br>
the party at such a moment, as I knew there was no escaping
Power, I<br>
resolved to make the best of matters; so after a few minutes I
followed<br>
Mickey down the companion and entered the cabin.</p>

<p>The scene before me was certainly not calculated to perpetuate
depressing<br>
thoughts. At the head of a rude old-fashioned table, upon which
figured<br>
several black bottles and various ill-looking drinking vessels of
every<br>
shape and material, sat Fred Power; on his right was placed the
skipper, on<br>
his left the doctor,&mdash;the bronzed, merry-looking, weather-beaten
features<br>
of the one contrasting ludicrously with the pale, ascetic,
acute-looking<br>
expression of the other. Sparks, more than half-drunk, with the
mark of a<br>
red-hot cigar upon his nether lip, was lower down; while Major
Monsoon, to<br>
preserve the symmetry of the party, had protruded his head,
surmounted by a<br>
huge red nightcap, from the berth opposite, and held out his
goblet to be<br>
replenished from the punch-bowl.</p>

<p>"Welcome, thrice welcome, thou man of Galway!" cried out
Power, as he<br>
pointed to a seat, and pushed a wine-glass towards me. "Just in
time, too,<br>
to pronounce upon a new brewery. Taste that; a little more of the
lemon you<br>
would say, perhaps? Well, I agree with you. Rum and brandy,
glenlivet<br>
and guava jelly, limes, green tea, and a slight suspicion of
preserved<br>
ginger,&mdash;nothing else, upon honor,&mdash;and the most simple mixture
for the<br>
cure, the radical cure, of blue devils and debt I know of; eh,
Doctor? You<br>
advise it yourself, to be taken before bed-time; nothing
inflammatory in<br>
it, nothing pugnacious; a mere circulation of the better juices
and more<br>
genial spirits of the marly clay, without arousing any of the
baser<br>
passions; whiskey is the devil for that."</p>

<p>"I canna say that I dinna like whiskey toddy," said the
doctor; "in the<br>
cauld winter nights it's no sae bad."</p>

<p>"Ah, that's it," said Power; "there's the pull you Scotch have
upon us poor<br>
Patlanders,&mdash;cool, calculating, long-headed fellows, you only
come up to<br>
the mark after fifteen tumblers; whereas we hot-brained devils,
with a<br>
blood at 212 degrees of Fahrenheit and a high-pressure engine of
good<br>
spirits always ready for an explosion, we go clean mad when
tipsy; not but<br>
I am fully convinced that a mad Irishman is worth two sane people
of any<br>
other country under heaven."</p>

<p>"If you mean by that insin&mdash;insin&mdash;sinuation to imply any
disrespect to the<br>
English," stuttered out Sparks, "I am bound to say that I for
one, and the<br>
doctor, I am sure, for another&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Na, na," interrupted the doctor, "ye mauna coont upon me; I'm
no disposed<br>
to fetch ower our liquor."</p>

<p>"Then, Major Monsoon, I'm certain&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Are ye, faith?" said the major, with a grin; "blessed are
they who expect<br>
nothing,&mdash;of which number you are not,&mdash;for most decidedly you
shall be<br>
disappointed."</p>

<p>"Never mind, Sparks, take the whole fight to your own proper
self, and<br>
do battle like a man; and here I stand, ready at all arms to
prove my<br>
position,&mdash;that we drink better, sing better, court better, fight
better,<br>
and make better punch than every John Bull, from Berwick to the
Land's<br>
End."</p>

<p>Sparks, however, who seemed not exactly sure how far his
antagonist was<br>
disposed to quiz, relapsed into a half-tipsy expression of
contemptuous<br>
silence, and sipped his liquor without reply.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Power, after a pause, "bad luck to it for whiskey;
it nearly<br>
got me broke once, and poor Tom O'Reilly of the 5th, too, the
best-tempered<br>
fellow in the service. We were as near it as touch and go; and
all for some<br>
confounded Loughrea spirits that we believed to be perfectly
innocent, and<br>
used to swill away freely without suspicion of any kind."</p>

<p>"Let's hear the story," said I, "by all means."</p>

<p>"It's not a long one," said Power, "so I don't care if I tell
it; and<br>
besides, if I make a clean breast of my own sins, I'll insist
upon<br>
Monsoon's telling you afterwards how he stocked his cellar in
Cadiz. Eh,<br>
Major; there's worse tipple than the King of Spain's sherry?"</p>

<p>"You shall judge for yourself, old boy," said Monsoon,
good-humoredly; "and<br>
as for the narrative, it is equally at your service. Of course it
goes no<br>
further. The commander-in-chief, long life to him! is a glorious
fellow;<br>
but he has no more idea of a joke than the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and it<br>
might chance to reach him."</p>

<p>"Recount, and fear not!" cried Power; "we are discreet as the
worshipful<br>
company of apothecaries."</p>

<p>"But you forget you are to lead the way."</p>

<p>"Here goes, then," said the jolly captain; "not that the story
has any<br>
merit in it, but the moral is beautiful.</p>

<p>"Ireland, to be sure, is a beautiful country; but somehow it
would prove a<br>
very dull one to be quartered in, if it were not that the people
seem to<br>
have a natural taste for the army. From the belle of Merrion
Square down<br>
to the inn-keeper's daughter in Tralee, the loveliest part of
the<br>
creation seem to have a perfect appreciation of our high
acquirements and<br>
advantages; and in no other part of the globe, the Tonga Islands
included,<br>
is a red-coat more in favor. To be sure, they would be very
ungrateful if<br>
it were not the case; for we, upon our side, leave no stone
unturned to<br>
make ourselves agreeable. We ride, drink, play, and make love to
the ladies<br>
from Fairhead to Killarney, in a way greatly calculated to render
us<br>
popular; and as far as making the time pass pleasantly, we are
the boys for<br>
the 'greatest happiness' principle. I repeat it; we deserve our
popularity.<br>
Which of us does not get head and ears in debt with garrison
balls and<br>
steeple-chases, picnics, regattas, and the thousand-and-one
inventions to<br>
get rid of one's spare cash,&mdash;so called for being so sparingly
dealt out<br>
by our governors? Now and then, too, when all else fails, we take
a<br>
newly-joined ensign and make him marry some pretty but penniless
lass in<br>
a country town, just to show the rest that we are not joking, but
have<br>
serious ideas of matrimony in the midst of all our flirtations.
If it were<br>
all like this, the Green Isle would be a paradise; but unluckily
every now<br>
and then one is condemned to some infernal place where there is
neither a<br>
pretty face nor tight ankle, where the priest himself is not a
good fellow,<br>
and long, ill-paved, straggling streets, filled on market days
with booths<br>
of striped calico and soapy cheese, is the only promenade, and a
ruinous<br>
barrack, with mouldy walls and a tumbling chimney, the only
quarters.</p>

<p>"In vain, on your return from your morning stroll or afternoon
canter, you<br>
look on the chimney-piece for a shower of visiting-cards and pink
notes of<br>
invitation; in vain you ask your servant, Has any one called.
Alas,<br>
your only visitor has been the ganger, to demand a party to
assist in<br>
still-hunting amidst that interesting class of the population
who, having<br>
nothing to eat, are engaged in devising drink, and care as much
for the<br>
life of a red-coat as you do for that of a crow or a curlew. This
may seem<br>
overdrawn; but I would ask you, Were you ever for your sins
quartered in<br>
that capital city of the Bog of Allen they call Philipstown? Oh,
but it is<br>
a romantic spot! They tell us somewhere that much of the
expression of the<br>
human face divine depends upon the objects which constantly
surround us.<br>
Thus the inhabitants of mountain districts imbibe, as it were, a
certain<br>
bold and daring character of expression from the scenery, very
different<br>
from the placid and monotonous look of those who dwell in plains
and<br>
valleys; and I can certainly credit the theory in this instance,
for every<br>
man, woman, and child you meet has a brown, baked, scruffy,
turf-like face,<br>
that fully satisfies you that if Adam were formed of clay the
Philipstown<br>
people were worse treated and only made of bog mould.</p>

<p>"Well, one fine morning poor Tom and myself were marched off
from Birr,<br>
where one might 'live and love forever,' to take up our quarters
at this<br>
sweet spot. Little we knew of Philipstown; and like my friend the
adjutant<br>
there, when he laid siege to Deny, we made our
<i>entr&eacute;e</i> with all the pomp<br>
we could muster, and though we had no band, our drums and fifes
did duty<br>
for it; and we brushed along through turf-creels and
wicker-baskets of new<br>
brogues that obstructed the street till we reached the
barrack,&mdash;the only<br>
testimony of admiration we met with being, I feel bound to admit,
from a<br>
ragged urchin of ten years, who, with a wattle in his hand,
imitated me as<br>
I marched along, and when I cried halt, took his leave of us by
dexterously<br>
fixing his thumb to the side of his nose and outstretching his
fingers, as<br>
if thus to convey a very strong hint that we were not half so
fine fellows<br>
as we thought ourselves. Well, four mortal summer months of hot
sun and<br>
cloudless sky went over, and still we lingered in that vile
village, the<br>
everlasting monotony of our days being marked by the same brief
morning<br>
drill, the same blue-legged chicken dinner, the same smoky
Loughrea<br>
whiskey, and the same evening stroll along the canal bank to
watch for<br>
the Dublin packet-boat, with its never-varying cargo of
cattle-dealers,<br>
priests, and peelers on their way to the west country, as though
the demand<br>
for such colonial productions in these parts was insatiable. This
was<br>
pleasant, you will say; but what was to be done? We had nothing
else. Now,<br>
nothing saps a man's temper like <i>ennui</i>. The cranky,
peevish people one<br>
meets with would be excellent folk, if they only had something to
do. As<br>
for us, I'll venture to say two men more disposed to go
pleasantly down<br>
the current of life it were hard to meet with; and yet, such was
the<br>
consequence of these confounded four months' sequestration from
all other<br>
society, we became sour and cross-grained, everlastingly
disputing<br>
about trifles, and continually arguing about matters which
neither were<br>
interested in, nor, indeed, knew anything about. There were, it
is true,<br>
few topics to discuss; newspapers we never saw; sporting there
was<br>
none,&mdash;but then, the drill, the return of duty, the probable
chances of our<br>
being ordered for service, were all daily subjects to be talked
over, and<br>
usually with considerable asperity and bitterness. One point,
however,<br>
always served us when hard pushed for a bone of contention; and
which,<br>
begun by a mere accident at first, gradually increased to a sore
and<br>
peevish subject, and finally led to the consequences which I have
hinted at<br>
in the beginning. This was no less than the respective merits of
our mutual<br>
servants; each everlastingly indulging in a tirade against the
other for<br>
awkwardness, incivility, unhandiness,&mdash;charges, I am bound to
confess, most<br>
amply proved on either side.</p>

<p>"'Well, I am sure, O'Reilly, if you can stand that fellow,
it's no affair<br>
of mine; but such an ungainly savage I never met,' I would
say.</p>

<p>"To which he would reply, 'Bad enough he is, certainly; but,
by Jove! when<br>
I only think of your Hottentot, I feel grateful for what I've
got.'</p>

<p>"Then ensued a discussion, with attack, rejoinder, charge,
and<br>
recrimination till we retired for the night, wearied with our
exertions,<br>
and not a little ashamed of ourselves at bottom for our absurd
warmth and<br>
excitement. In the morning the matter would be rigidly avoided by
each<br>
party until some chance occasion had brought it on the
<i>tapis</i>, when<br>
hostilities would be immediately renewed, and carried on with the
same<br>
vigor, to end as before.</p>

<p>"In this agreeable state of matters we sat one warm summer
evening before<br>
the mess-room, under the shade of a canvas awning, discussing, by
way of<br>
refrigerant, our eighth tumbler of whiskey punch. We had, as
usual, been<br>
jarring away about everything under heaven. A lately arrived
post-chaise,<br>
with an old, stiff-looking gentleman in a queue, had formed a
kind of<br>
'godsend' for debate, as to who he was, whither he was going,
whether<br>
he really had intended to spend the night there, or that he only
put up<br>
because the chaise was broken; each, as was customary,
maintaining his own<br>
opinion with an obstinacy we have often since laughed at, though,
at the<br>
time, we had few mirthful thoughts about the matter.</p>

<p>"As the debate waxed warm, O'Reilly asserted that he
positively knew<br>
the individual in question to be a United Irishman, travelling
with<br>
instructions from the French government; while I laughed him to
scorn by<br>
swearing that he was the rector of Tyrrell's Pass, that I knew
him well,<br>
and, moreover, that he was the worst preacher in Ireland.
Singular enough<br>
it was that all this while the disputed identity was himself
standing<br>
coolly at the inn window, with his snuff-box in his hand,
leisurely<br>
surveying us as we sat, appearing, at least, to take a very
lively interest<br>
in our debate.</p>

<p>"'Come, now,' said O'Reilly, 'there's only one way to conclude
this, and<br>
make you pay for your obstinacy. What will you bet that he's the
rector of<br>
Tyrrell's Pass?'</p>

<p>"'What odds will you take that he's Wolfe Tone?' inquired I,
sneeringly.</p>

<p>"'Five to one against the rector,' said he, exultingly.</p>

<p>"'An elephant's molar to a toothpick against Wolfe Tone,'
cried I.</p>

<p>"'Ten pounds even that I'm nearer the mark than you,' said
Tom, with a<br>
smash of his fist upon the table.</p>

<p>"'Done,' said I,&mdash;'done. But how are we to decide the
wager?'</p>

<p>"'That's soon done,' said he. At the same instant he sprang to
his legs and<br>
called out: 'Pat, I say, Pat, I want you to present my respects
to&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'No, no, I bar that; no <i>ex parte</i> statements. Here,
Jem, do you simply<br>
tell that&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'That fellow can't deliver a message. Do come here, Pat. Just
beg of&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'He'll blunder it, the confounded fool; so, Jem, do you
go.'</p>

<p>"The two individuals thus addressed were just in the act of
conveying a<br>
tray of glasses and a spiced round of beef for supper into the
mess-room;<br>
and as I may remark that they fully entered into the feelings of
jealousy<br>
their respective masters professed, each eyed the other with a
look of very<br>
unequivocal dislike.</p>

<p>"'Arrah! you needn't be pushing me that way,' said Pat, 'an'
the round o'<br>
beef in my hands.'</p>

<p>"'Devil's luck to ye, it's the glasses you'll be breaking with
your awkward<br>
elbow!'</p>

<p>"'Then, why don't ye leave the way? Ain't I your
suparior?'</p>

<p>"'Ain't I the captain's own man?'</p>

<p>"'Ay, and if you war. Don't I belong to his betters? Isn't my
master the<br>
two liftenants?'</p>

<p>"This, strange as it may sound, was so far true, as I held a
commission in<br>
an African corps, with my lieutenancy in the 5th.</p>

<p>"'Be-gorra, av he was six&mdash;There now, you done it!'</p>

<p>"At the same moment, a tremendous crash took place and the
large dish<br>
fell in a thousand pieces on the pavement, while the spiced round
rolled<br>
pensively down the yard.</p>

<a name="0271"></a>
<img alt="0271.jpg (104K)" src="0271.jpg" height="538" width="630">

<p>[THE RIVAL FLUNKIES.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Scarcely was the noise heard when, with one vigorous kick,
the tray of<br>
glasses was sent spinning into the air, and the next moment the
disputants<br>
were engaged in bloody battle. It was at this moment that our
attention was<br>
first drawn towards them, and I need not say with what feelings
of interest<br>
we looked on.</p>

<p>"'Hit him, Pat&mdash;there, Jem, under the guard! That's it&mdash;go in!
Well done,<br>
left hand! By Jove! that was a facer! His eye's closed&mdash;he's
down! Not a<br>
bit of it-how do you like that? Unfair, unfair! No such thing! I
say it<br>
was! Not at all&mdash;I deny it!'</p>

<p>"By this time we had approached the combatants, each man
patting his own<br>
fellow on the back, and encouraging him by the most lavish
promises. Now it<br>
was, but in what way I never could exactly tell, that I threw out
my right<br>
hand to stop a blow that I saw coming rather too near me, when,
by some<br>
unhappy mischance, my doubled fist lighted upon Tom O'Reilly's
nose. Before<br>
I could express my sincere regret for the accident, the blow was
returned<br>
with double force, and the next moment we were at it harder than
the<br>
others. After five minutes' sharp work, we both stopped for
breath, and<br>
incontinently burst out a-laughing. There was Tom, with a nose as
large as<br>
three, a huge cheek on one side, and the whole head swinging
round like a<br>
harlequin's; while I, with one eye closed, and the other like a
half-shut<br>
cockle-shell, looked scarcely less rueful. We had not much time
for mirth,<br>
for at the same instant a sharp, full voice called out close
beside us&mdash;</p>

<p>"To your quarters, sirs. I put you both under arrest, from
which you are<br>
not to be released until the sentence of a court-martial decide
if conduct<br>
such as this becomes officers and gentlemen.'</p>

<p>"I looked round, and saw the old fellow in the queue.</p>

<p>"'Wolfe Tone, by all that's unlucky!' said I, with an attempt
at a smile.</p>

<p>"'The rector of Tyrrell's Pass,' cried out Tom, with a
snuffle; 'the worst<br>
preacher in Ireland&mdash;eh, Fred?'</p>

<p>"We had not much time for further commentaries upon our
friend, for he at<br>
once opened his frock coat, and displayed to our horrified gaze
the uniform<br>
of a general officer.</p>

<p>"'Yes, sir, General Johnson, if you will allow me to present
him to your<br>
acquaintance; and now, guard, turn out.'</p>

<p>"In a few minutes more the orders were issued, and poor Tom
and myself<br>
found ourselves fast confined to our quarters, with a sentinel at
the door,<br>
and the pleasant prospect that, in the space of about ten days,
we should<br>
be broke, and dismissed the service; which verdict, as the
general order<br>
would say, the commander of the forces has been graciously
pleased to<br>
approve.</p>

<p>"However, when morning came the old general, who was really a
trump,<br>
inquired a little further into the matter, saw it was partly
accidental,<br>
and after a severe reprimand, and a caution about Loughrea
whiskey after<br>
the sixth tumbler, released us from arrest, and forgave the whole
affair."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXI.</p>

<p>THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.</p>

<p>Ugh, what a miserable thing is a voyage! Here we are now eight
days at sea,<br>
the eternal sameness of all around growing every hour less
supportable.<br>
Sea and sky are beautiful things when seen from the dark woods
and waving<br>
meadows on shore; but their picturesque effect is sadly marred
from want<br>
of contrast. Besides that, the "<i>toujours</i> pork," with
crystals of salt as<br>
long as your wife's fingers; the potatoes that seemed varnished
in French<br>
polish; the tea seasoned with geological specimens from the basin
of<br>
London, ycleped maple sugar; and the butter&mdash;ye gods, the butter!
But why<br>
enumerate these smaller features of discomfort and omit the more
glaring<br>
ones?&mdash;the utter selfishness which blue water suggests, as
inevitably as<br>
the cold fit follows the ague. The good fellow that shares his
knapsack<br>
or his last guinea on land, here forages out the best corner to
hang his<br>
hammock; jockeys you into a comfortless crib, where the uncalked
deck-butt<br>
filters every rain from heaven on your head; votes you the
corner<br>
at dinner, not only that he may place you with your back to
the<br>
thorough-draught of the gangway ladder, but that he may eat,
drink, and lie<br>
down before you have even begun to feel the qualmishness that the
dinner of<br>
a troop-ship is well calculated to suggest; cuts his pencil with
your best<br>
razor; wears your shirts, as washing is scarce; and winds up all
by having<br>
a good story of you every evening for the edification of the
other "sharp<br>
gentlemen," who, being too wide awake to be humbugged themselves,
enjoy his<br>
success prodigiously. This, gentle reader, is neither confession
nor avowal<br>
of mine. The passage I have here presented to you I have taken
from<br>
the journal of my brother officer, Mr. Sparks, who, when not
otherwise<br>
occupied, usually employed his time in committing to paper his
thoughts<br>
upon men, manners, and things at sea in general; though, sooth to
say, his<br>
was not an idle life. Being voted by unanimous consent "a
junior," he was<br>
condemned to offices that the veriest fag in Eton or Harrow had
rebelled<br>
against. In the morning, under the pseudonym of <i>Mrs</i>.
Sparks, he presided<br>
at breakfast, having previously made tea, coffee, and chocolate
for the<br>
whole cabin, besides boiling about twenty eggs at various degrees
of<br>
hardness; he was under heavy recognizances to provide a plate of
buttered<br>
toast of very alarming magnitude, fried ham, kidneys, etc., to no
end.<br>
Later on, when others sauntered about the deck, vainly
endeavoring to fix<br>
their attention upon a novel or a review, the poor cornet might
be seen<br>
with a white apron tucked gracefully round his spare proportions,
whipping<br>
eggs for pancakes, or, with upturned shirt-sleeves, fashioning
dough for<br>
a pudding. As the day waned, the cook's galley became his haunt,
where,<br>
exposed to a roasting fire, he inspected the details of a
<i>cuisine</i>; for<br>
which, whatever his demerits, he was sure of an ample
remuneration in abuse<br>
at dinner. Then came the dinner itself, that dread ordeal, where
nothing<br>
was praised and everything censured. This was followed by the
punch-making,<br>
where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were
to be<br>
exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the
supper at<br>
night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening
grown<br>
quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and
most<br>
unmeasured reprobation.</p>

<p>"I say, Sparks, it's getting late. The spatch-cock, old boy.
Don't be<br>
slumbering."</p>

<p>"By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup
to-day! By<br>
Jove, I never felt so ill in my life!"</p>

<p>"Na, na; it was na the soup. It was something he pit in the
punch, that's<br>
burning me ever since I tuk it. Ou, man, but ye're an awfu'
creture wi'<br>
vittals!"</p>

<p>"He'll improve, Doctor; he'll improve. Don't discourage him;
the boy's<br>
young. Be alive now, there. Where's the toast?&mdash;confound you,
where's the<br>
toast?"</p>

<p>"There, Sparks, you like a drumstick, I know. Mustn't muzzle
the ox, eh?<br>
Scripture for you, old boy. Eat away; hang the expense. Hand him
over the<br>
jug. Empty&mdash;eh, Charley? Come, Sparkie, bear a hand; the liquor's
out."</p>

<p>"But won't you let me eat?"</p>

<p>"Eat! Heavens, what a fellow for eating! By George, such an
appetite is<br>
clean against the articles of war! Come, man, it's drink we're
thinking of.<br>
There's the rum, sugar, limes; see to the hot water. Well,
Skipper, how are<br>
we getting on?"</p>

<p>"Lying our course; eight knots off the log. Pass the rum. Why,
Mister<br>
Sparks!"</p>

<p>"Eh, Sparks, what's this?"</p>

<p>"Sparks, my man, confound it!"</p>

<p>And then, <i>omnes</i> chorussing "Sparks!" in every key of
the gamut, the<br>
luckless fellow would be obliged to jump up from his meagre fare
and set to<br>
work at a fresh brewage of punch for the others. The bowl and the
glasses<br>
filled, by some little management on Power's part our friend the
cornet<br>
would be <i>drawn out</i>, as the phrase is, into some confession
of his<br>
early years, which seemed to have been exclusively spent in<br>
love-making,&mdash;devotion to the fair being as integral a portion of
his<br>
character as tippling was of the worthy major's.</p>

<p>Like most men who pass their lives in over-studious efforts
to<br>
please,&mdash;however ungallant the confession be,&mdash;the amiable Sparks
had<br>
had little success. His love, if not, as it generally happened,
totally<br>
unrequited, was invariably the source of some awkward
catastrophe, there<br>
being no imaginable error he had not at some time or other fallen
into, nor<br>
any conceivable mischance to which he had not been exposed.
Inconsolable<br>
widows, attached wives, fond mothers, newly-married brides,
engaged<br>
young ladies were by some <i>contretemps</i> continually the
subject of his<br>
attachments; and the least mishap which followed the avowal of
his passion<br>
was to be heartily laughed at and obliged to leave the
neighborhood.<br>
Duels, apologies, actions at law, compensations, etc., were of
every-day<br>
occurrence, and to such an extent, too, that any man blessed with
a smaller<br>
bump upon the occiput would eventually have long since abandoned
the<br>
pursuit, and taken to some less expensive pleasure. But poor
Sparks, in the<br>
true spirit of a martyr, only gloried the more, the more he
suffered; and<br>
like the worthy man who continued to purchase tickets in the
lottery for<br>
thirty years, with nothing but a succession of blanks, he ever
imagined<br>
that Fortune was only trying his patience, and had some cool
forty thousand<br>
pounds of happiness waiting his perseverance in the end. Whether
this prize<br>
ever did turn up in the course of years, I am unable to say; but
certainly,<br>
up to the period of his history I now speak of, all had been as
gloomy<br>
and unrequiting as need be. Power, who knew something of every
man's<br>
adventures, was aware of so much of poor Sparks's career, and
usually<br>
contrived to lay a trap for a confession that generally served to
amuse us<br>
during an evening,&mdash;as much, I acknowledge, from the manner of
the recital<br>
as anything contained in the story. There was a species of
serious<br>
matter-of-fact simplicity in his detail of the most ridiculous
scenes that<br>
left you convinced that his bearing upon the affair in question
must have<br>
greatly heightened the absurdity,&mdash;nothing, however comic or
droll in<br>
itself, ever exciting in him the least approach to a smile. He
sat with his<br>
large light-blue eyes, light hair, long upper lip, and retreating
chin,<br>
lisping out an account of an adventure, with a look of Listen
about him<br>
that was inconceivably amusing.</p>

<p>"Come, Sparks," said Power, "I claim a promise you made me the
other night,<br>
on condition we let you off making the oyster-patties at ten
o'clock; you<br>
can't forget what I mean." Here the captain knowingly touched the
tip of<br>
his ear, at which signal the cornet colored slightly, and drank
off his<br>
wine in a hurried, confused way. "He promised to tell us, Major,
how<br>
he lost the tip of his left ear. I have myself heard hints of
the<br>
circumstance, but would much rather hear Sparks's own version of
it."</p>

<p>"Another love story," said the doctor, with a grin, "I'll be
bound."</p>

<p>"Shot off in a duel?" said I, inquiringly. "Close work,
too."</p>

<p>"No such thing," replied Power; "but Sparks will enlighten
you. It is,<br>
without exception, the most touching and beautiful thing I ever
heard. As a<br>
simple story, it beats the 'Vicar of Wakefield' to sticks."</p>

<p>"You don't say so?" said poor Sparks, blushing.</p>

<p>"Ay, that I do; and maintain it, too. I'd rather be the hero
of that little<br>
adventure, and be able to recount it as you do,&mdash;for, mark me,
that's no<br>
small part of the effect,&mdash;than I'd be full colonel of the
regiment. Well,<br>
I am sure I always thought it affecting. But, somehow, my dear
friend, you<br>
don't know your powers; you have that within you would make the
fortune of<br>
half the periodicals going. Ask Monsoon or O'Malley there if I
did not say<br>
so at breakfast, when you were grilling the old hen,&mdash;which,
by-the-bye,<br>
let me remark, was not one of your <i>chefs-d'oeuvre</i>."</p>

<p>"A tougher beastie I never put a tooth in."</p>

<p>"But the story, the story," said I.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Power, with a tone of command, "the story,
Sparks."</p>

<p>"Well, if you really think it worth telling, as I have always
felt it a<br>
very remarkable incident, here goes."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXII</p>

<p>MR. SPARKS'S STORY.</p>

<p>"I sat at breakfast one beautiful morning at the Goat Inn at
Barmouth,<br>
looking out of a window upon the lovely vale of Barmouth, with
its tall<br>
trees and brown trout-stream struggling through the woods, then
turning<br>
to take a view of the calm sea, that, speckled over with
white-sailed<br>
fishing-boats, stretched away in the distance. The eggs were
fresh; the<br>
trout newly caught; the cream delicious. Before me lay the
'Plwdwddlwn<br>
Advertiser,' which, among the fashionable arrivals at the
seaside, set<br>
forth Mr. Sparks, nephew of Sir Toby Sparks, of Manchester,&mdash;a
paragraph,<br>
by the way, I always inserted. The English are naturally an
aristocratic<br>
people, and set a due value upon a title."</p>

<p>"A very just observation," remarked Power, seriously, while
Sparks<br>
continued.</p>

<p>"However, as far as any result from the announcement, I might
as well have<br>
spared myself the trouble, for not a single person called. Not
one solitary<br>
invitation to dinner, not a picnic, not a breakfast, no, nor even
a<br>
tea-party, was heard of. Barmouth, at the time I speak of, was
just in that<br>
transition state at which the caterpillar may be imagined, when,
having<br>
abandoned his reptile habits, he still has not succeeded in
becoming a<br>
butterfly. In fact, it had ceased to be a fishing village, but
had not<br>
arrived at the dignity of a watering-place. Now, I know nothing
as bad as<br>
this. You have not, on one hand, the quiet retirement of a little
peaceful<br>
hamlet, with its humble dwellings and cheap pleasures, nor have
you the gay<br>
and animated tableau of fashion in miniature, on the other; but
you have<br>
noise, din, bustle, confusion, beautiful scenery and lovely
points of view<br>
marred and ruined by vulgar associations. Every bold rock and
jutting<br>
promontory has its citizen occupants; every sandy cove or
tide-washed bay<br>
has its myriads of squalling babes and red baize-clad bathing
women,&mdash;those<br>
veritable descendants of the nymphs of old. Pink parasols,
donkey-carts,<br>
baskets of bread-and-butter, reticules, guides to Barmouth,
specimens of<br>
ore, fragments of gypsum meet you at every step, and destroy
every illusion<br>
of the picturesque."</p>

<p>"'I shall leave this,' thought I. 'My dreams, my
long-cherished dreams of<br>
romantic walks upon the sea-shore, of evening strolls by
moonlight, through<br>
dell and dingle, are reduced to a short promenade through an
alley of<br>
bathing-boxes, amidst a screaming population of nursery-maids and
sick<br>
children, with a thorough-bass of "Fresh shrimps!" discordant
enough to<br>
frighten the very fish from the shores. There is no peace, no
quiet, no<br>
romance, no poetry, no love.' Alas, that most of all was wanting!
For,<br>
after all, what is it which lights up the heart, save the flame
of a mutual<br>
attachment? What gilds the fair stream of life, save the bright
ray of warm<br>
affection? What&mdash;"</p>

<p>"In a word," said Power, "it is the sugar in the punch-bowl of
our<br>
existence. <i>Perge</i>, Sparks; push on."</p>

<p>"I was not long in making up my mind. I called for my bill; I
packed my<br>
clothes; I ordered post-horses; I was ready to start; one item in
the bill<br>
alone detained me. The frequent occurrence of the enigmatical
word 'crw,'<br>
following my servant's name, demanded an explanation, which I was
in the<br>
act of receiving, when a chaise-and-four drove rapidly up to the
house. In<br>
a moment the blinds were drawn up, and such a head appeared at
the window!<br>
Let me pause for one moment to drink in the remembrance of that
lovely<br>
being,&mdash;eyes where heaven's own blue seemed concentrated were
shaded by<br>
long, deep lashes of the darkest brown; a brow fair, noble, and
expansive,<br>
at each side of which masses of dark-brown hair waved half in
ringlets,<br>
half in loose falling bands, shadowing her pale and downy cheek,
where one<br>
faint rosebud tinge seemed lingering; lips slightly parted, as
though to<br>
speak, gave to the features all the play of animation which
completed this<br>
intellectual character, and made up&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What I should say was a devilish pretty girl," interrupted
Power.</p>

<p>"Back the widow against her at long odds, any day," murmured
the adjutant.</p>

<p>"She was an angel! an angel!" cried Sparks with
enthusiasm.</p>

<p>"So was the widow, if you go to that," said the adjutant,
hastily.</p>

<p>"And so is Matilda Dalrymple," said Power, with a sly look at
me. "We are<br>
all honorable men; eh, Charley?"</p>

<p>"Go ahead with the story," said the skipper; "I'm beginning to
feel an<br>
interest in it."</p>

<p>"'Isabella,' said a man's voice, as a large, well-dressed
personage<br>
assisted her to alight,&mdash;'Isabella, love, you must take a little
rest here<br>
before we proceed farther.'</p>

<p>"'I think she had better, sir,' said a matronly-looking woman,
with a plaid<br>
cloak and a black bonnet.</p>

<p>"They disappeared within the house, and I was left alone. The
bright dream<br>
was past: she was there no longer; but in my heart her image
lived, and I<br>
almost felt she was before me. I thought I heard her voice, I saw
her move;<br>
my limbs trembled; my hands tingled; I rang the bell, ordered my
trunks<br>
back again to No. 5, and as I sank upon the sofa, murmured to
myself, 'This<br>
is indeed love at first sight.'"</p>

<p>"How devilish sudden it was," said the skipper.</p>

<p>"Exactly like camp fever," responded the doctor. "One moment
ye are vara<br>
well; the next ye are seized wi' a kind of shivering; then comes
a kind of<br>
mandering, dandering, travelling a'overness."</p>

<p>"D&mdash;&mdash; the camp fever," interrupted Power.</p>

<p>"Well, as I observed, I fell in love; and here let me take the
opportunity<br>
of observing that all that we are in the habit of hearing about
single or<br>
only attachments is mere nonsense. No man is so capable of
feeling deeply<br>
as he who is in the daily practice of it. Love, like everything
else in<br>
this world, demands a species of cultivation. The mere tyro in an
affair of<br>
the heart thinks he has exhausted all its pleasures and pains;
but only<br>
he who has made it his daily study for years, familiarizing his
mind with<br>
every phase of the passion, can properly or adequately appreciate
it. Thus,<br>
the more you love, the better you love; the more frequently has
your heart<br>
yielded&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It's vara like the mucous membrane," said the doctor.</p>

<p>"I'll break your neck with the decanter if you interrupt him
again!"<br>
exclaimed Power.</p>

<p>"For days I scarcely ever left the house," resumed Sparks,
"watching to<br>
catch one glance of the lovely Isabella. My farthest excursion
was to the<br>
little garden of the inn, where I used to set every imaginable
species of<br>
snare, in the event of her venturing to walk there. One day I
would leave a<br>
volume of poetry; another, a copy of Paul and Virginia with a
marked page;<br>
sometimes my guitar, with a broad, blue ribbon, would hang
pensively from a<br>
tree,&mdash;but, alas! all in vain; she never appeared. At length I
took courage<br>
to ask the waiter about her. For some minutes he could not
comprehend what<br>
I meant; but, at last, discovering my object, he cried out, 'Oh,
No. 8,<br>
sir; it is No. 8 you mean?'</p>

<p>"'It may be,' said I. 'What of her, then?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, sir, she's gone these three days.'</p>

<p>"'Gone!' said I, with a groan.</p>

<p>"'Yes, sir; she left this early on Tuesday with the same old
gentleman and<br>
the old woman in a chaise-and-four. They ordered horses at
Dolgelly to meet<br>
them; but I don't know which road they took afterwards.'</p>

<p>"I fell back on my chair unable to speak. Here was I enacting
Romeo for<br>
three mortal days to a mere company of Welsh waiters and
chamber-maids,<br>
sighing, serenading, reciting, attitudinizing, rose-plucking,<br>
soliloquizing, half-suiciding, and all for the edification of a
set of<br>
savages, with about as much civilization as their own goats.</p>

<p>"'The bill,' cried I, in a voice of thunder; 'my bill this
instant.'</p>

<p>"I had been imposed upon shamefully, grossly imposed upon, and
would not<br>
remain another hour in the house. Such were my feelings at least,
and so<br>
thinking, I sent for my servant, abused him for not having my
clothes ready<br>
packed. He replied; I reiterated, and as my temper mounted,
vented every<br>
imaginable epithet upon his head, and concluded by paying him his
wages and<br>
sending him about his business. In one hour more I was upon the
road.</p>

<p>"'What road, sir,' said the postilion, as he mounted into the
saddle.</p>

<p>"'To the devil, if you please,' said I, throwing myself back
in the<br>
carriage.</p>

<p>"'Very well, sir,' replied the boy, putting spurs to his
horse.</p>

<p>"That evening I arrived in Bedgellert.</p>

<p>"The little humble inn of Bedgellert, with its thatched roof
and earthen<br>
floor, was a most welcome sight to me, after eleven hours'
travelling on a<br>
broiling July day. Behind the very house itself rose the mighty
Snowdon,<br>
towering high above the other mountains, whose lofty peaks were
lost amidst<br>
the clouds; before me was the narrow valley&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Wake me up when he's under way again," said the skipper,
yawning<br>
fearfully.</p>

<p>"Go on, Sparks," said Power, encouragingly; "I was never more
interested in<br>
my life; eh, O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"Quite thrilling," responded I, and Sparks resumed.</p>

<p>"Three weeks did I loiter about that sweet spot, my mind
filled with images<br>
of the past and dreams of the future, my fishing-rod my only
companion.<br>
Not, indeed, that I ever caught anything; for, somehow, my tackle
was<br>
always getting foul of some willow-tree or water-lily, and at
last, I gave<br>
up even the pretence of whipping the streams. Well, one day&mdash;I
remember it<br>
as well as though it were but yesterday, it was the 4th of
August&mdash;I had<br>
set off upon an excursion to Llanberris. I had crossed Snowdon
early, and<br>
reached the little lake on the opposite side by breakfast time.
There I sat<br>
down near the ruined tower of Dolbadern, and opening my knapsack,
made a<br>
hearty meal. I have ever been a day-dreamer; and there are few
things I<br>
like better than to lie, upon some hot and sunny day, in the tall
grass<br>
beneath the shade of some deep boughs, with running water
murmuring near,<br>
hearing the summer bee buzzing monotonously, and in the distance,
the<br>
clear, sharp tinkle of the sheep-bell. In such a place, at such a
time,<br>
one's fancy strays playfully, like some happy child, and none but
pleasant<br>
thoughts present themselves. Fatigued by my long walk, and
overcome by<br>
heat, I fell asleep. How long I lay there I cannot tell, but the
deep<br>
shadows were half way down the tall mountain when I awoke. A
sound had<br>
startled me; I thought I heard a voice speaking close to me. I
looked up,<br>
and for some seconds I could not believe that I was not dreaming.
Beside<br>
me, within a few paces, stood Isabella, the beautiful vision that
I had<br>
seen at Barmouth, but far, a thousand times, more beautiful. She
was<br>
dressed in something like a peasant's dress, and wore the round
hat which,<br>
in Wales at least, seems to suit the character of the female face
so well;<br>
her long and waving ringlets fell carelessly upon her shoulders,
and her<br>
cheek flushed from walking. Before I had a moment's notice to
recover my<br>
roving thought, she spoke; her voice was full and round, but soft
and<br>
thrilling, as she said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'I beg pardon, sir, for having disturbed you unconsciously;
but, having<br>
done so, may I request you will assist me to fill this pitcher
with water?'</p>

<p>"She pointed at the same time to a small stream which trickled
down a<br>
fissure in the rock, and formed a little well of clear water
beneath. I<br>
bowed deeply, and murmuring something, I know not what, took the
pitcher<br>
from her hand, and scaling the rocky cliff, mounted to the clear
source<br>
above, where having filled the vessel, I descended. When I
reached the<br>
ground beneath, I discovered that she was joined by another
person whom,<br>
in an instant, I recognized to be the old gentleman I had seen
with her at<br>
Barmouth, and who in the most courteous manner apologized for the
trouble I<br>
had been caused, and informed me that a party of his friends were
enjoying<br>
a little picnic quite near, and invited me to make one of
them.</p>

<p>"I need not say that I accepted the invitation, nor that with
delight I<br>
seized the opportunity of forming an acquaintance with Isabella,
who, I<br>
must confess, upon her part showed no disinclination to the
prospect of my<br>
joining the party.</p>

<p>"After a few minutes' walking, we came to a small rocky point
which<br>
projected for some distance into the lake, and offered a view for
several<br>
miles of the vale of Llanberris. Upon this lovely spot we found
the party<br>
assembled; they consisted of about fourteen or fifteen persons,
all busily<br>
engaged in the arrangement of a very excellent cold dinner, each
individual<br>
having some peculiar province allotted to him or her, to be
performed by<br>
their own hands. Thus, one elderly gentlemen was whipping cream
under a<br>
chestnut-tree, while a very fashionably-dressed young man was
washing<br>
radishes in the lake; an old lady with spectacles was frying
salmon over a<br>
wood-fire, opposite to a short, pursy man with a bald head and
drab shorts,<br>
deep in the mystery of a chicken salad, from which he never
lifted his eyes<br>
when I came up. It was thus I found how the fair Isabella's lot
had been<br>
cast, as a drawer of water; she, with the others, contributing
her share of<br>
exertion for the common good. The old gentleman who accompanied
her seemed<br>
the only unoccupied person, and appeared to be regarded as the
ruler of the<br>
feast; at least, they all called him general, and implicitly
followed every<br>
suggestion he threw out. He was a man of a certain grave and
quiet manner,<br>
blended with a degree of mild good-nature and courtesy, that
struck me much<br>
at first, and gained greatly on me, even in the few minutes I
conversed<br>
with him as we came along. Just before he presented me to his
friends, he<br>
gently touched my arm, and drawing me aside, whispered in my
ear:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Don't be surprised at anything you may hear to-day here; for
I must<br>
inform you this is a kind of club, as I may call it, where every
one<br>
assumes a certain character, and is bound to sustain it under a
penalty. We<br>
have these little meetings every now arid then; and as strangers
are never<br>
present, I feel some explanation necessary, that you may be able
to enjoy<br>
the thing,&mdash;you understand?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, perfectly,' said I, overjoyed at the novelty of the
scene, and<br>
anticipating much pleasure from my chance meeting with such very
original<br>
characters.</p>

<p>"'Mr. Sparks, Mrs. Winterbottom. Allow me to present Mr.
Sparks.'</p>

<p>"'Any news from Batavia, young gentleman?' said the sallow old
lady<br>
addressed. 'How is coffee!'</p>

<p>"The general passed on, introducing me rapidly as he went.</p>

<p>"'Mr. Doolittle, Mr. Sparks.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, how do you do, old boy?' said Mr. Doolittle; 'sit down
beside me. We<br>
have forty thousand acres of pickled cabbage spoiling for want of
a little<br>
vinegar.'</p>

<p>"'Fie, fie, Mr. Doolittle,' said the general, and passed on to
another.</p>

<p>"'Mr. Sparks, Captain Crosstree.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, Sparks, Sparks! son of old Blazes! ha, ha, ha!' and the
captain fell<br>
back into an immoderate fit of laughter.</p>

<p>"'Le Rio est serci,' said the thin meagre figure in nankeens,
bowing, cap<br>
in hand, before the general; and accordingly, we all assumed our
places<br>
upon the grass.</p>

<p>"'Say it again! Say it again, and I'll plunge this dagger in
your heart!'<br>
said a hollow voice, tremulous with agitation and rage, close
beside me. I<br>
turned my head, and saw an old gentleman with a wart on his nose,
sitting<br>
opposite a meat-pie, which he was contemplating with a look of
fiery<br>
indignation. Before I could witness the sequel of the scene, I
felt a soft<br>
hand pressed upon mine. I turned. It was Isabella herself, who,
looking at<br>
me with an expression I shall never forget, said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Don't mind poor Faddy; he never hurts any one.'</p>

<p>"Meanwhile the business of dinner went on rapidly. The
servants, of whom<br>
enormous numbers were now present, ran hither and thither; and
duck, ham,<br>
pigeon-pie, cold veal, apple tarts, cheese, pickled salmon,
melon, and rice<br>
pudding, flourished on every side. As for me, whatever I might
have gleaned<br>
from the conversation around under other circumstances, I was too
much<br>
occupied with Isabella to think of any one else. My suit&mdash;for
such it<br>
was&mdash;progressed rapidly. There was evidently something favorable
in the<br>
circumstances we last met under; for her manner had all the
warmth and<br>
cordiality of old friendship. It is true that, more than once, I
caught the<br>
general's eye fixed upon us with anything but an expression of
pleasure,<br>
and I thought that Isabella blushed and seemed confused also.
'What care<br>
I?' however, was my reflection; 'my views are honorable; and the
nephew and<br>
heir of Sir Toby Sparks&mdash;' Just in the very act of making this
reflection,<br>
the old man in the shorts hit me in the eye with a roasted apple,
calling<br>
out at the moment:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'When did you join, thou child of the pale-faces?'</p>

<p>"'Mr. Murdocks!' cried the general, in a voice of thunder; and
the little<br>
man hung down his head, and spoke not.</p>

<p>"'A word with you, young gentleman,' said a fat old lady,
pinching my arm<br>
above the elbow.</p>

<p>"'Never mind her,' said Isabella, smiling; 'poor dear old
Dorking, she<br>
thinks she's an hour-glass. How droll, isn't it?'</p>

<p>"'Young man, have you any feelings of humanity?' inquired the
old lady,<br>
with tears in her eyes as she spoke; 'will you, dare you assist
a<br>
fellow-creature under my sad circumstances?'</p>

<p>"'What can I do for you, Madam?' said I, really feeling for
her distress.</p>

<p>"'Just like a good dear soul, just turn me up, for I'm nearly
run out.'</p>

<p>"Isabella burst out a laughing at the strange request,&mdash;an
excess which, I<br>
confess, I was unable myself to repress; upon which the old lady,
putting<br>
on a frown of the most ominous blackness, said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'You may laugh, Madam; but first before you ridicule the
misfortunes of<br>
others, ask yourself are you, too, free from infirmity? When did
you see<br>
the ace of spades, Madam? Answer me that.'</p>

<p>"Isabella became suddenly pale as death; her very lips
blanched, and her<br>
voice, almost inaudible, muttered:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Am I, then, deceived? Is not this he?' So saying, she placed
her hand<br>
upon my shoulder.</p>

<p>"'That the ace of spades?' exclaimed the old lady, with a
sneer,&mdash;'that the<br>
ace of spades!'</p>

<p>"'Are you, or are you not, sir?' said Isabella, fixing her
deep and languid<br>
eyes upon me. 'Answer me, as you are honest; are you the ace of
spades?'</p>

<p>"'He is the King of Tuscarora. Look at his war paint!' cried
an elderly<br>
gentleman, putting a streak of mustard across my nose and
cheek.</p>

<p>"'Then am I deceived,' said Isabella. And flying at me, she
plucked a<br>
handful of hair out of my whiskers.</p>

<p>"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' shouted one; 'Bow-wow-wow!' roared another;
'Phiz!' went<br>
a third; and in an instant, such a scene of commotion and riot
ensued.<br>
Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and decanters flew right and left;
every<br>
one pitched into his neighbor with the most fearful cries, and
hell itself<br>
seemed broke loose. The hour-glass and the Moulah of Oude had got
me down<br>
and were pummelling me to death, when a short, thickset man came
on all<br>
fours slap down upon them shouting out, 'Way, make way for the
royal Bengal<br>
tiger!' at which they both fled like lightning, leaving me to the
encounter<br>
single-handed. Fortunately, however, this was not of very long
duration,<br>
for some well-disposed Christians pulled him from off me; not,
however,<br>
before he had seized me in his grasp, and bitten off a portion of
my left<br>
ear, leaving me, as you see, thus mutilated for the rest of my
days."</p>

<p>"What an extraordinary club," broke in the doctor.</p>

<p>"Club, sir, club! it was a lunatic asylum. The general was no
other than<br>
the famous Dr. Andrew Moorville, that had the great madhouse at
Bangor, and<br>
who was in the habit of giving his patients every now and then a
kind of<br>
country party; it being one remarkable feature of their malady
that when<br>
one takes to his peculiar flight, whatever it be, the others
immediately<br>
take the hint and go off at score. Hence my agreeable adventure:
the Bengal<br>
tiger being a Liverpool merchant, and the most vivacious madman
in England;<br>
while the hour-glass and the Moulah were both on an experimental
tour to<br>
see whether they should not be pronounced totally incurable for
life."</p>

<p>"And Isabella?" inquired Power.</p>

<p>"Ah, poor Isabella had been driven mad by a card-playing aunt
at Bath, and<br>
was in fact the most hopeless case there. The last words I heard
her speak<br>
confirmed my mournful impression of her case,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said she, as they removed her to her carriage, 'I
must, indeed,<br>
have but a weak intellect, when I could have taken the nephew of
a<br>
Manchester cotton-spinner, with a face like a printed calico, for
a trump<br>
card, and the best in the pack!'"</p>

<p>Poor Sparks uttered these last words with a faltering accent,
and finishing<br>
his glass at one draught withdrew without wishing us
good-night.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIII.</p>

<p>THE SKIPPER.</p>

<p>In such like gossipings passed our days away, for our voyage
itself had<br>
nothing of adventure or incident to break its dull monotony; save
some few<br>
hours of calm, we had been steadily following our seaward track
with a fair<br>
breeze, and the long pennant pointed ever to the land where our
ardent<br>
expectations were hurrying before it.</p>

<p>The latest accounts which had reached us from the Peninsula
told that our<br>
regiment was almost daily engaged; and we burned with impatience
to share<br>
with the others the glory they were reaping. Power, who had seen
service,<br>
felt less on this score than we who had not "fleshed our maiden
swords;"<br>
but even he sometimes gave way, and when the wind fell toward
sunset, he<br>
would break out into some exclamation of discontent, half fearing
we should<br>
be too late. "For," said he, "if we go on in this way the
regiment will be<br>
relieved and ordered home before we reach it."</p>

<p>"Never fear, my boys, you'll have enough of it. Both sides
like the work<br>
too well to give in; they've got a capital ground and plenty of
spare<br>
time," said the major.</p>

<p>"Only to think," cried Power, "that we should be lounging away
our idle<br>
hours when these gallant fellows are in the saddle late and
early. It is<br>
too bad; eh, O'Malley? You'll not be pleased to go back with the
polish on<br>
your sabre? What will Lucy Dashwood say?"</p>

<p>This was the first allusion Power had ever made to her, and I
became red to<br>
the very forehead.</p>

<p>"By-the-bye," added he, "I have a letter for Hammersley, which
should<br>
rather have been entrusted to your keeping."</p>

<p>At these words I felt cold as death, while he continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Poor fellow! certainly he is most desperately smitten; for,
mark me, when<br>
a man at his age takes the malady, it is forty times as severe as
with a<br>
younger fellow, like you. But then, to be sure, he began at the
wrong end<br>
in the matter; why commence with papa? When a man has his own
consent for<br>
liking a girl, he must be a contemptible fellow if he can't get
her; and as<br>
to anything else being wanting, I don't understand it. But the
moment you<br>
begin by influencing the heads of the house, good-by to your
chances with<br>
the dear thing herself, if she have any spirit whatever. It is,
in fact,<br>
calling on her to surrender without the honors of war; and what
girl would<br>
stand that?"</p>

<p>"It's vara true," said the doctor; "there's a strong speerit
of opposition<br>
in the sex, from physiological causes."</p>

<p>"Curse your physiology, old Galen; what you call opposition,
is that<br>
piquant resistance to oppression that makes half the charm of the
sex.<br>
It is with them&mdash;with reverence be it spoken&mdash;as with horses: the
dull,<br>
heavy-shouldered ones, that bore away with the bit in their
teeth, never<br>
caring whether you are pulling to the right or to the left, are
worth<br>
nothing; the real luxury is in the management of your
arching-necked<br>
curvetter, springing from side to side with every motion of your
wrist,<br>
madly bounding at restraint, yet, to the practised hand, held in
check with<br>
a silk tread. Eh, Skipper, am I not right?"</p>

<p>"Well, I can't say I've had much to do with horse-beasts, but
I believe<br>
you're not far wrong. The lively craft that answers the helm
quick, goes<br>
round well in stays, luffs up close within a point or two, when
you want<br>
her, is always a good sea-boat, even though she pitches and rolls
a bit;<br>
but the heavy lugger that never knows whether your helm is up or
down,<br>
whether she's off the wind or on it, is only fit for
firewood,&mdash;you can do<br>
nothing with a ship or a woman if she hasn't got steerage way on
her."</p>

<p>"Come, Skipper, we've all been telling our stories; let us
hear one of<br>
yours?"</p>

<p>"My yarn won't come so well after your sky-scrapers of love
and courting<br>
and all that. But if you like to hear what happened to me once, I
have no<br>
objection to tell you.</p>

<p>"I often think how little we know what's going to happen to us
any minute<br>
of our lives. To-day we have the breeze fair in our favor, we are
going<br>
seven knots, studding-sails set, smooth water, and plenty of
sea-room;<br>
to-morrow the wind freshens to half a gale, the sea gets up, a
rocky coast<br>
is seen from the lee bow, and may be&mdash;to add to all&mdash;we spring a
leak<br>
forward; but then, after all, bad as it looks, mayhap, we rub
through even<br>
this, and with the next day, the prospect is as bright and
cheering as<br>
ever. You'll perhaps ask me what has all this moralizing to do
with women<br>
and ships at sea? Nothing at all with them, except that I was a
going to<br>
say, that when matters look worst, very often the best is in
store for us,<br>
and we should never say strike when there is a timber together.
Now for my<br>
story:&mdash;</p>

<p>"It's about four years ago, I was strolling one evening down
the side of<br>
the harbor at Cove, with my hands in my pocket, having nothing to
do, nor<br>
no prospect of it, for my last ship had been wrecked off the
Bermudas, and<br>
nearly all the crew lost; and somehow, when a man is in
misfortune, the<br>
underwriters won't have him at no price. Well, there I was,
looking about<br>
me at the craft that lay on every side waiting for a fair wind to
run down<br>
channel. All was active and busy; every one getting his vessel
ship-shape<br>
and tidy,&mdash;tarring, painting, mending sails, stretching new
bunting, and<br>
getting in sea-store; boats were plying on every side, signals
flying, guns<br>
firing from the men-of-war, and everything was lively as might
be,&mdash;all but<br>
me. There I was, like an old water-logged timber ship, never
moving a spar,<br>
but looking for all the world as though I were a settling fast to
go down<br>
stern foremost: may be as how I had no objection to that same;
but that's<br>
neither here nor there. Well, I sat down on the fluke of an
anchor, and<br>
began a thinking if it wasn't better to go before the mast than
live on<br>
that way. Just before me, where I sat down, there was an old
schooner that<br>
lay moored in the same place for as long as I could remember. She
was there<br>
when I was a boy, and never looked a bit the fresher nor newer as
long as I<br>
recollected; her old bluff bows, her high poop, her round stern,
her flush<br>
deck, all Dutch-like, I knew them well, and many a time I
delighted to<br>
think what queer kind of a chap he was that first set her on the
stocks,<br>
and pondered in what trade she ever could have been. All the
sailors about<br>
the port used to call her Noah's Ark, and swear she was the
identical craft<br>
that he stowed away all the wild beasts in during the rainy
season. Be that<br>
as it might, since I fell into misfortune, I got to feel a liking
for the<br>
old schooner; she was like an old friend; she never changed to
me, fair<br>
weather or foul; there she was, just the same as thirty years
before, when<br>
all the world were forgetting and steering wide away from me.
Every morning<br>
I used to go down to the harbor and have a look at her, just to
see that<br>
all was right and nothing stirred; and if it blew very hard at
night, I'd<br>
get up and go down to look how she weathered it, just as if I was
at sea in<br>
her. Now and then I'd get some of the watermen to row me aboard
of her, and<br>
leave me there for a few hours; when I used to be quite happy
walking the<br>
deck, holding the old worm-eaten wheel, looking out ahead, and
going down<br>
below, just as though I was in command of her. Day after day this
habit<br>
grew on me, and at last my whole life was spent in watching her
and looking<br>
after her,&mdash;-there was something so much alike in our fortunes,
that<br>
I always thought of her. Like myself, she had had her day of life
and<br>
activity; we had both braved the storm and the breeze; her
shattered<br>
bulwarks and worn cutwater attested that she had, like myself,
not escaped<br>
her calamities. We both had survived our dangers, to be neglected
and<br>
forgotten, and to lie rotting on the stream of life till the
crumbling hand<br>
of Time should break us up, timber by timber. Is it any wonder if
I loved<br>
the old craft; nor if by any chance the idle boys would venture
aboard<br>
of her to play and amuse themselves that I hallooed them away; or
when a<br>
newly-arrived ship, not caring for the old boat, would run foul
of her, and<br>
carry away some spar or piece of running rigging, I would
suddenly call out<br>
to them to sheer off and not damage us? By degrees, they came all
to notice<br>
this; and I found that they thought me out of my senses, and many
a trick<br>
was played off upon old Noah, for that was the name the sailors
gave me.</p>

<p>"Well, this evening, as I was saying, I sat upon the fluke of
the anchor,<br>
waiting for a chance boat to put me aboard. It was past sunset,
the tide<br>
was ebbing, and the old craft was surging to the fast current
that ran by<br>
with a short, impatient jerk, as though she were well weary, and
wished to<br>
be at rest; her loose stays creaked mournfully, and as she yawed
over, the<br>
sea ran from many a breach in her worn sides, like blood
trickling from a<br>
wound. 'Ay, ay,' thought I, 'the hour is not far off; another
stiff gale,<br>
and all that remains of you will be found high and dry upon the
shore.' My<br>
heart was very heavy as I thought of this; for in my loneliness,
the old<br>
Ark&mdash;though that was not her name, as I'll tell you
presently&mdash;was all<br>
the companion I had. I've heard of a poor prisoner who, for many
and many<br>
years, watched a spider that wove his web within his window, and
never lost<br>
sight of him from morning till night; and somehow, I can believe
it well.<br>
The heart will cling to something, and if it has no living object
to press<br>
to, it will find a lifeless one,&mdash;it can no more stand alone than
the<br>
shrouds can without the mast. The evening wore on, as I was
thinking thus;<br>
the moon shone out, but no boat came, and I was just determining
to go home<br>
again for the night, when I saw two men standing on the steps of
the wharf<br>
below me, and looking straight at the Ark. Now, I must tell you I
always<br>
felt uneasy when any one came to look at her; for I began to fear
that some<br>
shipowner or other would buy her to break up, though, except the
copper<br>
fastenings, there was little of any value about her. Now, the
moment I saw<br>
the two figures stop short, and point to her, I said to myself,
'Ah, my old<br>
girl, so they won't even let the blue water finish you, but they
must<br>
set their carpenters and dockyard people to work upon you.' This
thought<br>
grieved me more and more. Had a stiff sou'-wester laid her over,
I should<br>
have felt it more natural, for her sand was run out; but just as
this<br>
passed through my mind, I heard a voice from one of the persons,
that I at<br>
once knew to be the port admiral's:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Well, Dawkins,' said he to the other, 'if you think she'll
hold together,<br>
I'm sure I've no objection. I don't like the job, I confess; but
still the<br>
Admiralty must be obeyed.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, my lord,' said the other, 'she's the very thing; she's
a<br>
rakish-looking craft, and will do admirably. Any repair we want,
a few days<br>
will effect; secrecy is the great thing.'</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said the admiral, after a pause, 'as you observed,
secrecy is the<br>
great thing.'</p>

<p>"'Ho! ho!' thought I, 'there's something in the wind, here;'
so I laid<br>
myself out upon the anchor-stock, to listen better,
unobserved.</p>

<p>"'We must find a crew for her, give her a few carronades, make
her as<br>
ship-shape as we can, and if the skipper&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Ay, but there is the real difficulty,' said the admiral,
hastily; 'where<br>
are we to find a fellow that will suit us? We can't every day
find a man<br>
willing to jeopardize himself in such a cause as this, even
though the<br>
reward be a great one.'</p>

<p>"'Very true, my lord; but I don't think there is any necessity
for our<br>
explaining to him the exact nature of the service.'</p>

<p>"'Come, come, Dawkins, you can't mean that you'll lead a poor
fellow into<br>
such a scrape blindfolded?'</p>

<p>"'Why, my lord, you never think it requisite to give a plan of
your cruise<br>
to your ship's crew before clearing out of harbor.'</p>

<p>"'This may be perfectly just, but I don't like it,' said the
admiral.</p>

<p>"'In that case, my lord, you are imparting the secrets of the
Admiralty to<br>
a party who may betray the whole plot.'</p>

<p>"'I wish, with all my soul, they'd given the order to any one
else,' said<br>
the admiral, with a sigh; and for a few moments neither spoke a
word.</p>

<p>"'Well, then, Dawkins, I believe there is nothing for it but
what you say;<br>
meanwhile, let the repairs be got in hand, and see after a
crew.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, as to that,' said the other, 'there are plenty of
scoundrels in the<br>
fleet here fit for nothing else. Any fellow who has been thrice
up for<br>
punishment in six months, we'll draft on board of her; the
fellows who have<br>
only been once to the gangway, we'll make the officers.'</p>

<p>"'A pleasant ship's company,' thought I, 'if the Devil would
only take the<br>
command.</p>

<p>"'And with a skipper proportionate to their merit,' said
Dawkins.</p>

<p>"'Begad, I'll wish the French joy of them,' said the
admiral.</p>

<p>"'Ho, ho!' thought I, 'I've found you out at last; so this is
a secret<br>
expedition. I see it all; they're fitting her out as a fire-ship,
and going<br>
to send her slap in among the French fleet at Brest. Well,'
thought I,<br>
'even that's better; that, at least, is a glorious end, though
the poor<br>
fellows have no chance of escape.'</p>

<p>"'Now, then,' said the admiral, 'to-morrow you'll look out for
the fellow<br>
to take the command. He must be a smart seaman, a bold fellow,
too,<br>
otherwise the ruffianly crew will be too much for him; he may bid
high,<br>
we'll come to his price.'</p>

<p>"'So you may,' thought I, 'when you're buying his life.'</p>

<p>"'I hope sincerely,' continued the admiral, 'that we may light
upon some<br>
one without wife or child; I never could forgive myself&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Never fear, my lord,' said the other; 'my care shall be to
pitch upon one<br>
whose loss no one would feel; some one without friend or home,
who, setting<br>
his life for nought, cares less for the gain than the very
recklessness of<br>
the adventure.'</p>

<p>"'That's me,' said I, springing up from the anchor-stock, and
springing<br>
between them; 'I'm that man.'</p>

<p>"Had the very Devil himself appeared at the moment, I doubt if
they would<br>
have been more scared. The admiral started a pace or two
backwards, while<br>
Dawkins, the first surprise over, seized me by the collar, and
hold me<br>
fast.</p>

<p>"'Who are you, scoundrel, and what brings you here?' said he,
in a voice<br>
hoarse with passion.</p>

<p>"'I'm old Noah,' said I; for somehow, I had been called by no
other name<br>
for so long, I never thought of my real one.</p>

<p>"'Noah!' said the admiral,&mdash;'Noah! Well, but Noah, what were
you doing here<br>
at this time of night?'</p>

<p>"'I was a watching the Ark, my lord,' said I, bowing, as I
took off my hat.</p>

<p>"'I've heard of this fellow before, my lord,' said Dawkins;
'he's a poor<br>
lunatic that is always wandering about the harbor, and, I
believe, has no<br>
harm in him.'</p>

<p>"'Yes, but he has been listening, doubtless, to our
conversation,' said the<br>
admiral. 'Eh, have you heard all we have been saying?'</p>

<p>"'Every word of it, my lord.'</p>

<p>"At this the admiral and Dawkins looked steadfastly at each
other for some<br>
minutes, but neither spoke; at last Dawkins said, 'Well, Noah,
I've been<br>
told you are a man to be depended on; may we rely upon your not
repeating<br>
anything you overheard this evening,&mdash;at least, for a year to
come?'</p>

<p>"'You may,' said I.</p>

<p>"'But, Dawkins,' said the admiral, in a half-whisper, 'if the
poor fellow<br>
be mad?'</p>

<p>"'My lord,' said I, boldly, 'I am not mad. Misfortune and
calamity I have<br>
had enough of to make me so; but, thank God, my brain has been
tougher than<br>
my poor heart. I was once the part-owner and commander of a
goodly craft,<br>
that swept the sea, if not with a broad pennon at her mast-head,
with as<br>
light a spirit as ever lived beneath one. I was rich, I had a
home and a<br>
child; I am now poor, houseless, childless, friendless, and an
outcast. If<br>
in my solitary wretchedness I have loved to look upon that old
bark, it is<br>
because its fortune seemed like my own. It had outlived all that
needed or<br>
cared for it. For this reason have they thought me mad, though
there are<br>
those, and not few either, who can well bear testimony if stain
or reproach<br>
lie at my door, and if I can be reproached with aught save bad
luck. I have<br>
heard by chance what you have said this night. I know that you
are fitting<br>
out a secret expedition; I know its dangers, its inevitable
dangers, and I<br>
here offer myself to lead it. I ask no reward; I look for no
price. Alas,<br>
who is left to me for whom I could labor now? Give me but the
opportunity<br>
to end my clays with honor on board the old craft, where my heart
still<br>
clings; give me but that. Well, if you will not do so much, let
me serve<br>
among the crew; put me before the mast. My lord, you'll not
refuse this.<br>
It is an old man asks; one whose gray hairs have floated many a
year ago<br>
before the breeze.'</p>

<p>"'My poor fellow, you know not what you ask; this is no common
case of<br>
danger.'</p>

<p>"'I know it all, my lord; I have heard it all.'</p>

<p>"'Dawkins, what is to be done here?' inquired the admiral.</p>

<p>"'I say, friend,' inquired Dawkins, laying his hand upon my
arm, 'what is<br>
your real name? Are you he who commanded the "Dwarf" privateer in
the Isle<br>
of France?'</p>

<p>"'The same.'</p>

<p>"'Then you are known to Lord Collingwood?'</p>

<p>"'He knows me well, and can speak to my character.'</p>

<p>"'What he says of himself is all true, my lord.'</p>

<p>"'True,' said I, 'true! You did not doubt it, did you?'</p>

<p>"'We,' said the admiral, 'must speak together again. Be here
to-morrow<br>
night at this hour; keep your own counsel of what has passed, and
now<br>
good-night.' So saying, the admiral took Dawkins by the arm and
returned<br>
slowly towards the town, leaving me where I stood, meditating on
this<br>
singular meeting and its possible consequences.</p>

<p>"The whole of the following day was passed by me in a state of
feverish<br>
excitement which I cannot describe; this strange adventure
breaking in so<br>
suddenly upon the dull monotony of my daily existence had so
aroused and<br>
stimulated me that I could neither rest nor eat. How I longed for
night to<br>
come; for sometimes, as the day wore later, I began to fear that
the whole<br>
scene of my meeting with the admiral had been merely some excited
dream of<br>
a tortured and fretted mind; and as I stood examining the ground
where<br>
I believed the interview to have occurred, I endeavored to recall
the<br>
position of different objects as they stood around, to
corroborate my own<br>
failing remembrance.</p>

<p>"At last the evening closed in; but unlike the preceding one,
the sky<br>
was covered with masses of dark arid watery cloud that drifted
hurriedly<br>
across; the air felt heavy and thick, and unnaturally still and
calm; the<br>
water of the harbor looked of a dull, leaden hue, and all the
vessels<br>
seemed larger than they were, and stood out from the landscape
more clearly<br>
than usual; now and then a low rumbling noise was heard, somewhat
alike in<br>
sound, but far too faint for distant thunder, while occasionally
the boats<br>
and smaller craft rocked to and fro, as though some ground swell
stirred<br>
them without breaking the languid surface of the sea above.</p>

<p>"A few drops of thick, heavy rain fell just as the darkness
came on, and<br>
then all felt still and calm as before. I sat upon the
anchor-stock, my<br>
eyes fixed upon the old Ark, until gradually her outline grew
fainter<br>
and fainter against the dark sky, and her black hull could
scarcely be<br>
distinguished from the water beneath. I felt that I was looking
towards<br>
her; for long after I had lost sight of the tall mast and
high-pitched<br>
bowsprit, I feared to turn away my head lest I should lose the
place where<br>
she lay.</p>

<p>"The time went slowly on, and although in reality I had not
been long<br>
there, I felt as if years themselves had passed over my head.
Since I<br>
had come there my mind brooded over all the misfortunes of my
life; as I<br>
contrasted its outset, bright with hope and rich in promise, with
the sad<br>
reality, my heart grew heavy and my chest heaved painfully. So
sunk was I<br>
in my reflections, so lost in thought, that I never knew that the
storm had<br>
broken loose, and that the heavy rain was falling in torrents.
The very<br>
ground, parched with long drought, smoked as it pattered upon it;
while the<br>
low, wailing cry of the sea-gull, mingled with the deep growl of
far-off<br>
thunder, told that the night was a fearful one for those at sea.
Wet<br>
through and shivering, I sat still, now listening amidst the
noise of the<br>
hurricane and the creaking of the cordage for any footstep to
approach, and<br>
now relapsing back into half-despairing dread that my heated
brain<br>
alone had conjured up the scene of the day before. Such were my
dreary<br>
reflections when a loud crash aboard the schooner told me that
some old<br>
spar had given way. I strained my eyes through the dark to see
what had<br>
happened, but in vain; the black vapor, thick with falling rain,
obscured<br>
everything, and all was hid from view. I could hear that she
worked<br>
violently as the waves beat against her worn sides, and that her
iron<br>
cable creaked as she pitched to the breaking sea. The wind was
momentarily<br>
increasing, and I began to fear lest I should have taken my last
look at<br>
the old craft, when my attention was called off by hearing a loud
voice cry<br>
out, 'Halloo there! Where are you?'</p>

<p>"'Ay, ay, sir, I'm here.' In a moment the admiral and his
friend were<br>
beside me.</p>

<p>"'What a night!' exclaimed the admiral, as he shook the rain
from the heavy<br>
boat-cloak and cowered in beneath some tall blocks of granite
near. 'I<br>
began half to hope that you might not have been here, my poor
fellow,' said<br>
the admiral; 'it's a dreadful time for one so poorly clad for a
storm. I<br>
say, Dawkins, let him have a pull at your flask.' The brandy
rallied me a<br>
little, and I felt that it cheered my drooping courage.</p>

<p>"'This is not a time nor is it a place for much parley,' said
the admiral,<br>
'so that we must even make short work of it. Since we met here
last night I<br>
have satisfied myself that you are to be trusted, that your
character<br>
and reputation have nothing heavier against them than misfortune,
which<br>
certainly, if I have been rightly informed, has been largely
dealt out to<br>
you. Now, then, I am willing to accept of your offer of service
if you<br>
are still of the same mind as when you made it, and if you are
willing to<br>
undertake what we have to do without any question and inquiry as
to points<br>
on which we must not and dare not inform you. Whatever you may
have<br>
overheard last night may or may not have put you in possession of
our<br>
secret. If the former, your determination can be made at once; if
the<br>
latter, you have only to decide whether you are ready to go
blindfolded in<br>
the business.'</p>

<p>"'I am ready, my lord,' said I.</p>

<p>"'You perhaps are then aware what is the nature of the
service?'</p>

<p>"'I know it not,' said I. 'All that I heard, sir, leads me to
suppose it<br>
one of danger, but that's all.'</p>

<p>"'I think, my lord,' said Dawkins, 'that no more need now be
said. Cupples<br>
is ready to engage, we are equally so to accept; the thing is
pressing.<br>
When can you sail?'</p>

<p>"'To-night,' said I, 'if you will.'</p>

<p>"'Really, Dawkins,' said the admiral, 'I don't see why&mdash;'</p>

<p>'"My lord, I beg of you,' said the other, interrupting, 'let
me now<br>
complete the arrangement. This is the plan,' said he, turning
towards me<br>
as he spoke: 'As soon as that old craft can be got ready for sea,
or some<br>
other if she be not worth, it, you will sail from this port with
a strong<br>
crew, well armed and supplied with ammunition. Your destination
is Malta,<br>
your object to deliver to the admiral stationed there the
despatches<br>
with which you will be entrusted; they contain information of
immense<br>
importance, which for certain reasons cannot be sent through a
ship of war,<br>
but must be forwarded by a vessel that may not attract peculiar
notice. If<br>
you be attacked, your orders are to resist; if you be taken, on
no account<br>
destroy the papers, for the French vessel can scarcely escape
capture from<br>
our frigates, and it is of great consequence these papers should
remain.<br>
Such is a brief sketch of our plan; the details can be made known
to you<br>
hereafter.'</p>

<p>"'I am quite ready, my lord. I ask for no terms; I make no
stipulations. If<br>
the result be favorable it will be time enough to speak of that.
When am I<br>
to sail?'</p>

<p>"As I spoke, the admiral turned suddenly round and said
something in a<br>
whisper to Dawkins, who appeared to overrule it, whatever it
might be, and<br>
finally brought him over to his own opinion.</p>

<p>"'Come, Cupples,' said Dawkins, 'the affair is now settled;
to-morrow a<br>
boat will be in waiting for you opposite Spike Island to convey
you on<br>
board the "Semiramis," where every step in the whole business
shall be<br>
explained to you; meanwhile you have only to keep your own
counsel and<br>
trust the secret to no one.'</p>

<p>"'Yes, Cupples,' said the admiral, 'we rely upon you for that,
so<br>
good-night.' As he spoke he placed within my hands a crumpled
note for ten<br>
pounds, and squeezing my fingers, departed.</p>

<p>"My yarn is spinning out to a far greater length than I
intended, so I'll<br>
try and shorten it a bit. The next day I went aboard the
'Semiramis,'<br>
where, when I appeared upon the quarter-deck, I found myself an
object<br>
of some interest. The report that I was the man about to command
the<br>
'Brian,'&mdash;that was the real name of the old craft,&mdash;had caused
some<br>
curiosity among the officers, and they all spoke to me with great
courtesy.<br>
After waiting a short time I was ordered to go below, where the
admiral,<br>
his flag-captain, Dawkins, and the others were seated. They
repeated at<br>
greater length the conversation of the night before, and finally
decided<br>
that I was to sail in three weeks; for although the old schooner
was sadly<br>
damaged, they had lost no time, but had her already high in dock,
with two<br>
hundred ship-carpenters at work upon her.</p>

<p>"I do not shorten sail here to tell you what reports were
circulated about<br>
Cove as to my extraordinary change in circumstances, nor how I
bore my<br>
altered fortunes. It is enough if I say that in less than three
weeks I<br>
weighed anchor and stood out to sea one beautiful morning in
autumn, and<br>
set out upon my expedition.</p>

<p>"I have already told you something of the craft. Let me
complete the<br>
picture by informing you that before twenty-four hours passed
over I<br>
discovered that so ungainly, so awkward, so unmanageable a vessel
never<br>
put to sea. In light winds she scarcely stirred or moved, as if
she were<br>
waterlogged; if it came to blow upon the quarter, she fell off
from her<br>
helm at a fearful rate; in wearing, she endangered every spar she
had; and<br>
when you put her in stays, when half round she would fall back
and nearly<br>
carry away every stitch of canvas with the shock. If the ship was
bad, the<br>
crew was ten times worse. What Dawkins said turned out to be
literally<br>
true. Every ill-conducted, disorderly fellow who had been up the
gangway<br>
once a week or so, every unreclaimed landsman of bad character
and no<br>
seamanship, was sent on board of us: and in fact, except that
there was<br>
scarcely any discipline and no restraint, we appeared like a
floating<br>
penitentiary of convicted felons.</p>

<p>So long as we ran down channel with a slack sea and fair wind,
so long all<br>
went on tolerably well; to be sure they only kept watch when they
were<br>
tired below, when they came up, reeled about the deck, did all
just as they<br>
pleased, and treated me with no manner of respect. After some
vain efforts<br>
to repress their excesses,&mdash;vain, for I had but one to second
me,&mdash;I<br>
appeared to take no notice of their misconduct, and contented
myself with<br>
waiting for the time when, my dreary voyage over, I should quit
the command<br>
and part company with such associates forever. At last, however,
it came on<br>
to blow, and the night we passed the Lizard was indeed a fearful
one.<br>
As morning broke, a sea running mountains high, a wind strong
from<br>
the northwest, was hurrying the old craft along at a rate I
believed<br>
impossible. I shall not stop to recount the frightful scenes of
anarchy,<br>
confusion, drunkenness, and insubordination which our crew
exhibited,&mdash;the<br>
recollection is too bad already, and I would spare you and myself
the<br>
recital; but on the fourth day from the setting in of the gale,
as we<br>
entered the Bay of Biscay, some one aloft descried a strange sail
to<br>
windward bearing down as if in pursuit of us. Scarcely did the
news reach<br>
the deck when, bad as it was before, matters became now ten times
worse,<br>
some resolving to give themselves up if the chase happened to be
French,<br>
and vowing that before surrendering the spirit-room should be
forced, and<br>
every man let drink as he pleased. Others proposed if there were
anything<br>
like equality in the force, to attack, and convert the captured
vessel, if<br>
they succeeded, into a slaver, and sail at once for Africa. Some
were for<br>
blowing up the old 'Brian' with all on board; and in fact every
counsel<br>
that drunkenness, insanity, and crime combined could suggest was
offered<br>
and descanted on. Meanwhile the chase gained rapidly upon us, and
before<br>
noon we discovered her to be a French letter-of-marque with four
guns and a<br>
long brass swivel upon the poop deck. As for us, every sheet of
canvas we<br>
could crowd was crammed on, but in vain. And as we labored
through the<br>
heavy sea, our riotous crew grew every moment worse, and sitting
down<br>
sulkily in groups upon the deck, declared that, come what might,
they would<br>
neither work the ship nor fight her; that they had been sent to
sea in a<br>
rotten craft merely to effect their destruction; and that they
cared little<br>
for the disgrace of a flag they detested. Half furious with the
taunting<br>
sarcasm I heard on every side, and nearly mad from passion, and
bewildered,<br>
my first impulse was to run among them with my drawn cutlass, and
ere I<br>
fell their victim, take heavy vengeance upon the ringleaders,
when suddenly<br>
a sharp booming noise came thundering along, and a round shot
went flying<br>
over our heads.</p>

<p>"'Down with the ensign; strike at once!' cried eight or ten
voices<br>
together, as the ball whizzed through the rigging. Anticipating
this, and<br>
resolving, whatever might happen, to fight her to the last, I had
made the<br>
mate, a staunch-hearted, resolute fellow, to make fast the signal
sailyard<br>
aloft, so that it was impossible for any one on deck to lower the
bunting.<br>
Bang! went another gun; and before the smoke cleared away, a
third, which,<br>
truer in its aim than the rest, went clean through the lower part
of our<br>
mainsail.</p>

<p>"'Steady, then, boys, and clear for action,' said the
mate.</p>

<p>'She's a French smuggling craft that will sheer off when we
show fight, so<br>
that we must not fire a shot till she comes alongside.'</p>

<p>"'And harkee, lads,' said I, taking up the tone of
encouragement he spoke<br>
with, 'if we take her, I promise to claim nothing of the prize.
Whatever we<br>
capture you shall divide among yourselves.'</p>

<p>"'It's very easy to divide what we never had,' said one;
'Nearly as easy as<br>
to give it,' cried another; 'I'll never light match or draw
cutlass in the<br>
cause,' said a third.</p>

<p>"'Surrender!' 'Strike the flag!' 'Down with the colors!'
roared several<br>
voices together.</p>

<p>"By this time the Frenchman was close up, and ranging his long
gun to<br>
sweep our decks; his crew were quite perceptible,&mdash;about twenty
bronzed,<br>
stout-looking follows, stripped to the waist, and carrying
pistols in broad<br>
flat belts slung over the shoulder.</p>

<p>"'Come, my lads,' said I, raising my voice, as I drew a pistol
from my side<br>
and cocked it, 'our time is short now; I may as well tell you
that the<br>
first shot that strikes us amidship blows up the whole craft and
every man<br>
on board. We are nothing less than a fireship, destined for Brest
harbor<br>
to blow up the French fleet. If you are willing to make an effort
for your<br>
lives, follow me!'</p>

<p>"The men looked aghast. Whatever recklessness crime and
drunkenness had<br>
given them, the awful feeling of inevitable death at once
repelled.<br>
Short as was the time for reflection, they felt that there were
many<br>
circumstances to encourage the assertion,&mdash;the nature of the
vessel, her<br>
riotous, disorderly crew, the secret nature of the service, all
confirmed<br>
it,&mdash;and they answered with a shout of despairing vengeance,
'We'll board<br>
her; lead us on!' As the cry rose up, the long swivel from the
chase rang<br>
sharply in our ears, and a tremendous discharge of grape flew
through our<br>
rigging. None of our men, however, fell; and animated now with
the desire<br>
for battle, they sprang to the binnacle, and seized their
arms.</p>

<p>"In an instant the whole deck became a scene of excited
bustle; and<br>
scarcely was the ammunition dealt out, and the boarding party
drawn up,<br>
when the Frenchman broached to and lashed his bowsprit to our
own.</p>

<p>"One terrific yell burst from our fellows as they sprang from
the rigging<br>
and the poop upon the astonished Frenchmen, who thought that the
victory<br>
was already their own; with death and ruin behind, their only
hope before,<br>
they dashed forward like madmen to the fray.</p>

<p>"The conflict was bloody and terrific, though not a long one.
Nearly equal<br>
in number, but far superior in personal strength, and stimulated
by their<br>
sense of danger, our fellows rushed onward, carrying all before
them to the<br>
quarter-deck. Here the Frenchmen rallied, and for some minutes
had rather<br>
the advantage, until the mate, turning one of their guns against
them,<br>
prepared to sweep them down in a mass. Then it was that they
ceased their<br>
fire and cried out for quarter,&mdash;all save their captain, a short,
thick-set<br>
fellow, with a grizzly beard and mustache, who, seeing his men
fall back,<br>
turned on them one glance of scowling indignation, and rushing
forward,<br>
clove our boatswain to the deck with one blow. Before the example
could<br>
have been followed, he lay a bloody corpse upon the deck; while
our<br>
people, roused to madness by the loss of a favorite among the
men, dashed<br>
impetuously forward, and dealing death on every side, left not
one man<br>
living among their unresisting enemies. My story is soon told
now. We<br>
brought our prize safe into Malta, which we reached in five days.
In less<br>
than a week our men were drafted into different men-of-war on the
station.<br>
I was appointed a warrant officer in the 'Sheerwater,' forty-four
guns; and<br>
as the admiral opened the despatch, the only words he spoke
puzzled me for<br>
many a day after.</p>

<p>"'You have accomplished your orders too well,' said he; 'that
privateer is<br>
but a poor compensation for the whole French navy.'"</p>

<p>"Well," inquired Power, "and did you never hear the meaning of
the words?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said he; "many years after I found out that our
despatches were<br>
false ones, intended to have fallen into the hands of the French
and<br>
mislead them as to Lord Nelson's fleet, which at that time was
cruising<br>
to the southward to catch them. This, of course, explained what
fate was<br>
destined for us,&mdash;a French prison, if not death; and after all,
either was<br>
fully good enough for the crew that sailed in the old
'Brian.'"</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIV.</p>

<p>THE LAND.</p>

<p>It was late when we separated for the night, and the morning
was already<br>
far advanced ere I awoke; the monotonous tramp overhead showed me
that the<br>
others were stirring, and I gently moved the shutter of the
narrow window<br>
beside me to look out.</p>

<p>The sea, slightly rippled upon its surface, shone like a plate
of fretted<br>
gold,&mdash;not a wave, not a breaker appeared; but the rushing sound
close by<br>
showed that we were moving fast through the water.</p>

<p>"Always calm hereabouts," said a gruff voice on deck, which I
soon<br>
recognized as the skipper's; "no sea whatever."</p>

<p>"I can make nothing of it," cried out Power, from the forepart
of the<br>
vessel. "It appears to me all cloud."</p>

<p>"No, no, sir, believe me; it's no fog-bank, that large dark
mass to leeward<br>
there,&mdash;that's Cintra."</p>

<p>"Land!" cried I, springing up, and rushing upon deck;
"where,<br>
Skipper,&mdash;where is the land?"</p>

<p>"I say, Charley," said Power, "I hope you mean to adopt a
little more<br>
clothing on reaching Lisbon; for though the climate is a warm
one&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Never mind, O'Malley," said the major, "the Portuguese will
only be<br>
flattered by the attention, if you land as you are."</p>

<p>"Why, how so?"</p>

<p>"Surely, you remember what the niggers said when they saw the
79th<br>
Highlanders landing at St. Lucie. They had never seen a Scotch
regiment<br>
before, and were consequently somewhat puzzled at the costume;
till at<br>
last, one more cunning than the rest explained it by saying:
'They are in<br>
such a hurry to kill the poor black men that they came away
without their<br>
breeches.'"</p>

<p>"Now, what say you?" cried the skipper, as he pointed with his
telescope to<br>
a dark-blue mass in the distance; "see there!"</p>

<p>"Ah, true enough; that's Cintra!"</p>

<p>"Then we shall probably be in the Tagus River before
morning?"</p>

<p>"Before midnight, if the wind holds," said the skipper. We
breakfasted on<br>
deck beneath an awning. The vessel scarcely seemed to move as she
cut her<br>
way through the calm water.</p>

<p>The misty outline of the coast grew gradually more defined,
and at length<br>
the blue mountains could be seen; at first but dimly, but as the
day wore<br>
on, their many-colored hues shone forth, and patches of green
verdure,<br>
dotted with sheep or sheltered by dark foliage, met the eye. The
bulwarks<br>
were crowded with anxious faces; each looked pointedly towards
the shore,<br>
and many a stout heart beat high, as the land drew near, fated to
cover<br>
with its earth more than one among us.</p>

<p>"And that's Portingale, Mister Charles," said a voice behind
me. I turned<br>
and saw my man Mike, as with anxious joy, he fixed his eyes upon
the shore.</p>

<p>"They tell me it's a beautiful place, with wine for nothing
and spirits for<br>
less. Isn't it a pity they won't be raisonable and make peace
with us?"</p>

<p>"Why, my good fellow, we are excellent friends; it's the
French who want to<br>
beat us all."</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience, that's not right. There's an ould saying
in Connaught,<br>
'It's not fair for one to fall upon twenty.' Sergeant Haggarty
says that<br>
I'll see none of the divarsion at all."</p>

<p>"I don't well understand&mdash;"</p>

<p>"He does be telling me that, as I'm only your footboy, he'll
send me away<br>
to the rear, where there's nothing but wounded and wagons and
women."</p>

<p>"I believe the sergeant is right there; but after all, Mike,
it's a safe<br>
place."</p>

<p>"Ah, then, musha for the safety! I don't think much of it.
Sure, they might<br>
circumvint us. And av it wasn't displazing to you, I'd rather
list."</p>

<p>"Well, I've no objection, Mickey. Would you like to join my
regiment?"</p>

<p>"By coorse, your honor. I'd like to be near yourself; bekase,
too, if<br>
anything happens to you,&mdash;the Lord be betune us and harm," here
he crossed<br>
himself piously,&mdash;"sure, I'd like to be able to tell the master
how you<br>
died; and sure, there's Mr. Considine&mdash;God pardon him! He'll be
beating my<br>
brains out av I couldn't explain it all."</p>

<p>"Well, Mike, I'll speak to some of my friends here about you,
and we'll<br>
settle it all properly. Here's the doctor."</p>

<p>"Arrah, Mr. Charles, don't mind him. He's a poor crayture
entirely. Devil a<br>
thing he knows."</p>

<p>"Why, what do you mean, man? He's physician to the
forces."</p>

<p>"Oh, be-gorra, and so he may be!" said Mike, with a toss of
his head.<br>
"Those army docthers isn't worth their salt. It's thruth I'm
telling you.<br>
Sure, didn't he come to see me when I was sick below in the
hould?</p>

<p>"'How do you feel?' says he.</p>

<p>"'Terribly dhry in the mouth,' says I.</p>

<p>"'But your bones,' says he; 'how's them?'</p>

<p>"'As if cripples was kicking me,' says I.</p>

<p>"Well, with that he wint away, and brought back two
powders.</p>

<p>"'Take them,' says he, 'and you'll be cured in no time.'</p>

<p>"'What's them?' says I.</p>

<p>"'They're ematics,' says he.</p>

<p>"'Blood and ages!' says I, 'are they?'</p>

<p>"'Devil a lie,' says he; 'take them immediately.'</p>

<p>"And I tuk them; and would you believe me, Mister
Charles?&mdash;it's thruth I'm<br>
telling you,&mdash;devil a one o' them would stay on my stomach. So
you see what<br>
a docther he is!"</p>

<p>I could not help smiling at Mike's ideas of medicine, as I
turned away<br>
to talk to the major, who was busily engaged beside me. His
occupation<br>
consisted in furbishing up a very tarnished and faded uniform,
whose white<br>
seams and threadbare lace betokened many years of service.</p>

<p>"Getting up our traps, you see, O'Malley," said he, as he
looked with no<br>
small pride at the faded glories of his old vestment. "Astonish
them at<br>
Lisbon, we flatter ourselves. I say, Power, what a bad style of
dress<br>
they've got into latterly, with their tight waist and strapped
trousers;<br>
nothing free, nothing easy, nothing <i>d&eacute;gag&eacute;</i>
about it. When in a campaign,<br>
a man ought to be able to stow prog for twenty-four hours about
his person,<br>
and no one the wiser. A very good rule, I assure you, though it
sometimes<br>
leads to awkward results. At Vimeira, I got into a sad scrape
that way. Old<br>
Sir Harry, that commanded there, sent for the sick return. I was
at dinner<br>
when the orderly came, so I packed up the eatables about me, and
rode off.<br>
Just, however, as I came up to the quarters, my horse stumbled
and threw me<br>
slap on my head.</p>

<p>"'Is he killed?' said Sir Harry.</p>

<p>"'Only stunned, your Excellency,' said some one.</p>

<p>"'Then he'll come to, I suppose. Look for the papers in his
pocket.'</p>

<p>"So they turned me on my back, and plunged a hand into my
side-pocket;<br>
but, the devil take it! they pulled out a roast hen. Well, the
laugh was<br>
scarcely over at this, when another fellow dived into my coat
behind, and<br>
lugged out three sausages; and so they went on, till the ground
was covered<br>
with ham, pigeon-pie, veal, kidney, and potatoes; and the only
thing like a<br>
paper was a mess-roll of the 4th, with a droll song about Sir
Harry written<br>
in pencil on the back of it. Devil of a bad affair for me! I was
nearly<br>
broke for it; but they only reprimanded me a little, and I was
afterwards<br>
attached to the victualling department."</p>

<p>What an anxious thing is the last day of a voyage! How slowly
creep the<br>
hours, teeming with memories of the past and expectations of the
future!</p>

<p>Every plan, every well-devised expedient to cheat the long and
weary<br>
days is at once abandoned; the chess-board and the new novel are
alike<br>
forgotten, and the very quarter-deck walk, with its merry gossip
and<br>
careless chit-chat, becomes distasteful. One blue and misty
mountain, one<br>
faint outline of the far-off shore, has dispelled all thought of
these; and<br>
with straining eye and anxious heart, we watch for land.</p>

<p>As the day wears on apace, the excitement increases; the faint
and shadowy<br>
forms of distant objects grow gradually clearer. Where before
some tall and<br>
misty mountain peak was seen, we now descry patches of deepest
blue and<br>
sombre olive; the mellow corn and the waving woods, the village
spire and<br>
the lowly cot, come out of the landscape; and like some
well-remembered<br>
voice, they speak of home. The objects we have seen, the sounds
we have<br>
heard a hundred times before without interest, become to us now
things that<br>
stir the heart.</p>

<p>For a time the bright glare of the noonday sun dazzles the
view and renders<br>
indistinct the prospect; but as evening falls, once more is all
fair and<br>
bright and rich before us. Rocked by the long and rolling swell,
I lay<br>
beside the bowsprit, watching the shore-birds that came to rest
upon the<br>
rigging, or following some long and tangled seaweed as it floated
by; my<br>
thoughts now wandering back to the brown hills and the broad
river of my<br>
early home, now straying off in dreary fancies of the future.</p>

<p>How flat and unprofitable does all ambition seem at such
moments as these;<br>
how valueless, how poor, in our estimation, those worldly
distinctions<br>
we have so often longed and thirsted for, as with lowly heart and
simple<br>
spirit we watch each humble cottage, weaving to ourselves some
story of its<br>
inmates as we pass!</p>

<p>The night at length closed in, but it was a bright and starry
one, lending<br>
to the landscape a hue of sombre shadow, while the outlines of
the objects<br>
were still sharp and distinct as before. One solitary star
twinkled near<br>
the horizon. I watched it as, at intervals disappearing, it would
again<br>
shine out, marking the calm sea with a tall pillar of light.</p>

<p>"Come down, Mr. O'Malley," cried the skipper's well-known
voice,&mdash;"come<br>
down below and join us in a parting glass; that's the Lisbon
light to<br>
leeward, and before two hours we drop our anchor in the
Tagus."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXV.</p>

<p>MAJOR MONSOON.</p>

<p>Of my travelling companions I have already told my readers
something. Power<br>
is now an old acquaintance; to Sparks I have already presented
them; of the<br>
adjutant they are not entirely ignorant; and it therefore only
remains for<br>
me to introduce to their notice Major Monsoon. I should have some
scruple<br>
for the digression which this occasions in my narrative, were it
not that<br>
with the worthy major I was destined to meet subsequently; and
indeed<br>
served under his orders for some months in the Peninsula. When
Major<br>
Monsoon had entered the army or in what precise capacity, I never
yet met<br>
the man who could tell. There were traditionary accounts of his
having<br>
served in the East Indies and in Canada in times long past. His
own<br>
peculiar reminiscences extended to nearly every regiment in the
service,<br>
"horse, foot, and dragoons." There was not a clime he had not
basked in;<br>
not an engagement he had not witnessed. His memory, or, if you
will, his<br>
invention, was never at fault; and from the siege of Seringapatam
to<br>
the battle of Corunna he was perfect. Besides this, he possessed
a mind<br>
retentive of even the most trifling details of his
profession,&mdash;from the<br>
formation of a regiment to the introduction of a new button, from
the<br>
laying down of a parallel to the price of a camp-kettle, he knew
it all. To<br>
be sure, he had served in the commissary-general's department for
a number<br>
of years, and nothing instils such habits as this.</p>

<p>"The commissaries are to the army what the special pleaders
are to the<br>
bar," observed my friend Power,&mdash;"dry dogs, not over creditable
on the<br>
whole, but devilish useful."</p>

<p>The major had begun life a two-bottle man; but by a studious
cultivation of<br>
his natural gifts, and a steady determination to succeed, he had,
at the<br>
time I knew him, attained to his fifth. It need not be wondered
at, then,<br>
that his countenance bore some traces of his habits. It was of a
deep<br>
sunset-purple, which, becoming tropical, at the tip of the nose
verged<br>
almost upon a plum-color; his mouth was large, thick-lipped,
and<br>
good-humored; his voice rich, mellow, and racy, and contributed,
with the<br>
aid of a certain dry, chuckling laugh, greatly to increase the
effect of<br>
the stories which he was ever ready to recount; and as they most
frequently<br>
bore in some degree against some of what he called his little
failings,<br>
they were ever well received, no man being so popular with the
world as he<br>
who flatters its vanity at his own expense. To do this the major
was ever<br>
ready, but at no time more so than when the evening wore late,
and the last<br>
bottle of his series seemed to imply that any caution regarding
the<br>
nature of his communication was perfectly unnecessary. Indeed,
from the<br>
commencement of his evening to the close, he seemed to pass
through a<br>
number of mental changes, all in a manner preparing him for this
final<br>
consummation, when he confessed anything and everything; and so
well<br>
regulated had those stages become, that a friend dropping in upon
him<br>
suddenly could at once pronounce from the tone of his
conversation on what<br>
precise bottle the major was then engaged.</p>

<p>Thus, in the outset he was gastronomic,&mdash;discussed the dinner
from the soup<br>
to the Stilton; criticised the cutlets; pronounced upon the
merits of the<br>
mutton; and threw out certain vague hints that he would one day
astonish<br>
the world by a little volume upon cookery.</p>

<p>With bottle No. 2 he took leave of the <i>cuisine</i>, and
opened his battery<br>
upon the wine. Bordeaux, Burgundy, hock, and hermitage, all
passed in<br>
review before him,&mdash;their flavor discussed, their treatment
descanted<br>
upon, their virtues extolled; from humble port to imperial tokay,
he was<br>
thoroughly conversant with all, and not a vintage escaped as to
when the<br>
sun had suffered eclipse, or when a comet had wagged his tail
over it.</p>

<p>With No. 3 he became pipeclay,&mdash;talked army list and eighteen
manoeuvres,<br>
lamented the various changes in equipments which modern
innovation had<br>
introduced, and feared the loss of pigtails might sap the
military spirit<br>
of the nation.</p>

<p>With No. 4 his anecdotic powers came into play,&mdash;he recounted
various<br>
incidents of the war with his own individual adventures and
experience,<br>
told with an honest <i>na&iuml;vet&eacute;</i>, that proved
personal vanity; indeed,<br>
self-respect never marred the interest of the narrative, besides,
as he had<br>
ever regarded a campaign something in the light of a foray, and
esteemed<br>
war as little else than a pillage excursion, his sentiments were
singularly<br>
amusing.</p>

<p>With his last bottle, those feelings that seemed inevitably
connected<br>
with whatever is last appeared to steal over him,&mdash;a tinge of
sadness for<br>
pleasures fast passing and nearly passed, a kind of retrospective
glance at<br>
the fallacy of all our earthly enjoyments, insensibly suggesting
moral and<br>
edifying reflections, led him by degrees to confess that he was
not quite<br>
satisfied with himself, though "not very bad for a commissary;"
and<br>
finally, as the decanter waxed low, he would interlard his
meditations by<br>
passages of Scripture, singularly perverted by his misconception
from<br>
their true meaning, and alternately throwing out prospects of
censure or<br>
approval. Such was Major Monsoon; and to conclude in his own
words this<br>
brief sketch, he "would have been an excellent officer if
Providence had<br>
not made him such a confounded, drunken, old scoundrel."</p>

<p>"Now, then, for the King of Spain's story. Out with it, old
boy; we are all<br>
good men and true here," cried Power, as we slowly came along
upon the tide<br>
up the Tagus, "so you've nothing to fear."</p>

<p>"Upon my life," replied the major, "I don't half like the tone
of our<br>
conversation. There is a certain freedom young men affect now
a-days<br>
regarding morals that is not at all to my taste. When I was five
or six and<br>
twenty&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You were the greatest scamp in the service," cried Power.</p>

<p>"Fie, fie, Fred. If I was a little wild or so,"&mdash;here the
major's eyes<br>
twinkled maliciously,&mdash;"it was the ladies that spoiled me; I was
always<br>
something of a favorite, just like our friend Sparks there. Not
that we<br>
fared very much alike in our little adventures; for somehow, I
believe I<br>
was generally in fault in most of mine, as many a good man and
many an<br>
excellent man has been before." Here his voice dropped into a
moralizing<br>
key, as he added, "David, you know, didn't behave well to old
Uriah. Upon<br>
my life he did not, and he was a very respectable man."</p>

<p>"The King of Spain's sherry! the sherry!" cried I, fearing
that the major's<br>
digression might lose us a good story.</p>

<p>"You shall not have a drop of it," replied the major.</p>

<p>"But the story, Major, the story!"</p>

<p>"Nor the story, either."</p>

<p>"What," said Power, "will you break faith with us?"</p>

<p>"There's none to be kept with reprobates like you. Fill my
glass."</p>

<p>"Hold there! stop!" cried Power. "Not a spoonful till he
redeems his<br>
pledge."</p>

<p>"Well, then, if you must have a story,&mdash;for most assuredly I
must drink,&mdash;I<br>
have no objection to give you a leaf from my early reminiscences;
and in<br>
compliment to Sparks there, my tale shall be of love."</p>

<p>"I dinna like to lose the king's story. I hae my thoughts it
was na a bad<br>
ane."</p>

<p>"Nor I neither, Doctor; but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come, come, you shall have that too, the first night we meet
in a bivouac,<br>
and as I fear the time may not be very far distant, don't be
impatient;<br>
besides a love-story&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Quite true," said Power, "a love-story claims precedence;
<i>place aux<br>
dames</i>. There's a bumper for you, old wickedness; so go
along."</p>

<p>The major cleared off his glass, refilled it, sipped twice,
and ogled it as<br>
though he would have no peculiar objection to sip once more, took
a long<br>
pinch of snuff from a box nearly as long as, and something the
shape of a<br>
child's coffin, looked around to see that we were all attention,
and thus<br>
began:&mdash;</p>

<p>"When I have been in a moralizing mood, as I very frequently
am about this<br>
hour in the morning, I have often felt surprised by what little,
trivial,<br>
and insignificant circumstances our lot in life seems to be cast;
I mean<br>
especially as regards the fair sex. You are prospering, as it
were, to-day;<br>
to-morrow a new cut of your whiskers, a novel tie of your cravat,
mars your<br>
destiny and spoils your future, <i>varium et mutabile</i>, as
Horace has it.<br>
On the other hand, some equally slight circumstance will do what
all your<br>
ingenuity may have failed to effect. I knew a fellow who married
the<br>
greatest fortune in Bath, from the mere habit he had of squeezing
one's<br>
hand. The lady in question thought it particular, looked
conscious, and all<br>
that; he followed up the blow; and, in a word, they were married
in a week.<br>
So a friend of mine, who could not help winking his left eye,
once opened<br>
a flirtation with a lively widow which cost him a special license
and a<br>
settlement. In fact you are never safe. They are like the
guerillas, and<br>
they pick you off when you least expect it, and when you think
there is<br>
nothing to fear. Therefore, as young fellows beginning life, I
would<br>
caution you. On this head you can never be too circumspect. Do
you know, I<br>
was once nearly caught by so slight a habit as sitting thus, with
my legs<br>
across."</p>

<p>Here the major rested his right foot on his left knee, in
illustration, and<br>
continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"We were quartered in Jamaica. I had not long joined, and was
about as raw<br>
a young gentleman as you could see; the only very clear ideas in
my head<br>
being that we were monstrous fine fellows in the 50th, and that
the<br>
planters' daughters were deplorably in love with us. Not that I
was much<br>
wrong on either side. For brandy-and-water, sangaree, Manilla
cigars, and<br>
the ladies of color, I'd have backed the corps against the
service.<br>
Proof was, of eighteen only two ever left the island; for what
with the<br>
seductions of the coffee plantations, the sugar canes, the new
rum, the<br>
brown skins, the rainy season, and the yellow fever, most of us
settled<br>
there."</p>

<p>"It's very hard to leave the West Indies if once you've been
quartered<br>
there."</p>

<p>"So I have heard," said Power.</p>

<p>"In time, if you don't knock under to the climate, you become
soon totally<br>
unfit for living anywhere else. Preserved ginger, yams, flannel
jackets,<br>
and grog won't bear exportation; and the free-and-easy chuck
under the<br>
chin, cherishing, waist-pressing kind of way we get with the
ladies would<br>
be quite misunderstood in less favored regions, and lead to very
unpleasant<br>
consequences."</p>

<p>"It is a curious fact how much climate has to do with
love-making. In our<br>
cold country the progress is lamentably slow. Fogs, east winds,
sleet,<br>
storms, and cutting March weather nip many a budding flirtation;
whereas<br>
warm, sunny days and bright moonlight nights, with genial air and
balmy<br>
zephyrs, open the heart like the cup of a camelia, and let us
drink in the<br>
soft dew of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Devilish poetical, that," said Power, evolving a long blue
line of smoke<br>
from the corner of his mouth.</p>

<p>"Isn't it, though?" said the major, smiling graciously. "'Pon
my life, I<br>
thought so myself. Where was I?"</p>

<p>"Out of my latitude altogether," said the poor skipper, who
often found it<br>
hard to follow the thread of a story.</p>

<p>"Yes, I remember. I was remarking that sangaree and calipash,
mangoes and<br>
guava jelly, dispose the heart to love, and so they do. I was not
more than<br>
six weeks in Jamaica when I felt it myself. Now, it was a very
dangerous<br>
symptom, if you had it strong in you, for this reason. Our
colonel, the<br>
most cross-grained old crabstick that ever breathed, happened
himself to be<br>
taken in when young, and resolving, like the fox who lost his
tail and said<br>
it was not the fashion to wear one, to pretend he did the thing
for fun,<br>
determined to make every fellow marry upon the slightest
provocation.<br>
Begad, you might as well enter a powder magazine with a branch of
candles<br>
in your hand, as go into society in the island with a leaning
towards the<br>
fair sex. Very hard this was for me particularly; for like poor
Sparks<br>
there, my weakness was ever for the petticoats. I had, besides,
no<br>
petty, contemptible prejudices as to nation, habits, language,
color, or<br>
complexion; black, brown, or fair, from the Muscovite to the
Malabar, from<br>
the voluptuous <i>embonpoint</i> of the adjutant's widow,&mdash;don't
be angry old<br>
boy,&mdash;to the fairy form of Isabella herself, I loved them all
round. But<br>
were I to give a preference anywhere I should certainly do so to
the West<br>
Indians, if it were only for the sake of the planters' daughters.
I say it<br>
fearlessly, these colonies are the brightest jewels in the crown.
Let's<br>
drink their health, for I'm as husky as a lime-kiln."</p>

<p>This ceremony being performed with suitable enthusiasm, the
major cried<br>
out, "Another cheer for Polly Hackett, the sweetest girl in
Jamaica. By<br>
Jove, Power, if you only saw her as I did five and forty years
ago, with<br>
eyes black as jet, twinkling, ogling, leering, teasing, and
imploring,<br>
all at once, do you mind, and a mouthful of downright pearls
pouting<br>
and smiling at you, why, man, you'd have proposed for her in the
first<br>
half-hour, and shot yourself the next, when she refused you. She
was,<br>
indeed, a perfect little beauty, <i>rayther</i> dark, to be
sure,&mdash;a little upon<br>
the rosewood tinge, but beautifully polished, and a very nice
piece of<br>
furniture for a cottage <i>orn&eacute;</i>, as the French call
it. Alas, alas, how<br>
these vanities do catch hold of us! My recollections have made me
quite<br>
feverish and thirsty. Is there any cold punch in the bowl? Thank
you,<br>
O'Malley, that will do,&mdash;merely to touch my lips. Well, well,
it's all past<br>
and gone now; but I was very fond of Tolly Hackett, and she was
of me.<br>
We used to take our little evening walks together through the
coffee<br>
plantation: very romantic little strolls they were, she in white
muslin<br>
with a blue sash and blue shoes; I in a flannel jacket and
trousers, straw<br>
hat and cravat, a Virginia cigar as long as a walking-stick in
my<br>
mouth, puffing and courting between times; then we'd take a turn
to the<br>
refining-house, look in at the big boilers, quiz the niggers, and
come back<br>
to Twangberry Moss to supper, where old Hackett, the father,
sported a<br>
glorious table at eleven o'clock. Great feeding it was; you were
always<br>
sure of a preserved monkey, a baked land-crab, or some such
delicacy. And<br>
such Madeira; it makes me dry to think of it.</p>

<p>"Talk of West India slavery, indeed. It's the only land of
liberty.<br>
There is nothing to compare with the perfect free-and-easy,<br>
devil-may-care-kind-of-a-take-yourself way that every one has
there. If it<br>
would be any peculiar comfort for you to sit in the saddle of
mutton, and<br>
put your legs in a soup tureen at dinner, there would be found
very few to<br>
object to it. There is no nonsense of any kind about etiquette.
You eat,<br>
drink, and are merry, or, if you prefer, are sad; just as you
please. You<br>
may wear uniform, or you may not, it's your own affair; and
consequently,<br>
it may be imagined how insensibly such privileges gain upon one,
and how<br>
very reluctant we become ever to resign or abandon them.</p>

<p>"I was the man to appreciate it all. The whole course of
proceeding seemed<br>
to have been invented for my peculiar convenience, and not a man
in the<br>
island enjoyed a more luxurious existence than myself, not
knowing all the<br>
while how dearly I was destined to pay for my little comforts.
Among my<br>
plenary after-dinner indulgences I had contracted an inveterate
habit of<br>
sitting cross-legged, as I showed you. Now, this was become a
perfect<br>
necessity of existence to me. I could have dispensed with cheese,
with my<br>
glass of port, my pickled mango, my olive, my anchovy toast, my
nutshell of<br>
cura&ccedil;oa, but not my favorite lounge. You may smile; but
I've read of a man<br>
who could never dance except in a room with an old hair-brush.
Now, I'm<br>
certain my stomach would not digest if my legs were
perpendicular. I<br>
don't mean to defend the thing. The attitude was not graceful, it
was not<br>
imposing; but it suited me somehow, and I liked it.</p>

<p>"From what I have already mentioned, you may suppose that West
India habits<br>
exercised but little control over my favorite practice, which I
indulged<br>
in every evening of my life. Well, one day old Hackett gave us a
great<br>
blow-out,&mdash;a dinner of two-and-twenty souls; six days' notice;
turtle from<br>
St. Lucie, guinea-fowl, claret of the year forty, Madeira
&agrave; discr&eacute;tion,<br>
and all that. Very well done the whole thing; nothing wrong,
nothing<br>
wanting. As for me, I was in great feather. I took Polly in to
dinner,<br>
greatly to the discomfiture of old Belson, our major, who was
making up in<br>
that quarter; for you must know, she was an only daughter, and
had a very<br>
nice thing of it in molasses and niggers. The papa preferred the
major,<br>
but Polly looked sweetly upon me. Well, down we went, and really
a most<br>
excellent feed we had. Now, I must mention here that Polly had a
favorite<br>
Blenheim spaniel the old fellow detested; it was always tripping
him up and<br>
snarling at him,&mdash;for it was, except to herself, a beast of
rather vicious<br>
inclinations. With a true Jamaica taste, it was her pleasure to
bring the<br>
animal always into the dinner-room, where, if papa discovered
him, there<br>
was sure to be a row. Servants sent in one direction to hunt him
out,<br>
others endeavoring to hide him, and so on; in fact, a tremendous
hubbub<br>
always followed his introduction and accompanied his exit, upon
which<br>
occasions I invariably exercised my gallantry by protecting the
beast,<br>
although I hated him like the devil all the time.</p>

<p>"To return to our dinner. After two mortal hours of hard
eating, the pace<br>
began to slacken, and as evening closed in, a sense of peaceful
repose<br>
seemed to descend upon our labors. Pastels shed an aromatic
vapor<br>
through the room. The well-iced decanters went with measured pace
along;<br>
conversation, subdued to the meridian of after-dinner comfort,
just<br>
murmured; the open <i>jalousies</i> displayed upon the broad
veranda the<br>
orange-tree in full blossom, slightly stirring with the cool
sea-breeze."</p>

<p>"And the piece of white muslin beside you, what of her?"</p>

<p>"Looked twenty times more bewitching than ever. Well, it was
just the hour<br>
when, opening the last two buttons of your white waistcoat
(remember we<br>
were in Jamaica), you stretch your legs to the full extent, throw
your arm<br>
carelessly over the back of your chair, look contemplatively
towards the<br>
ceiling, and wonder, within yourself, why it is not all 'after
dinner' in<br>
this same world of ours. Such, at least, were my reflections as I
assumed<br>
my attitude of supreme comfort, and inwardly ejaculated a health
to Sneyd<br>
and Barton. Just at this moment I heard Polly's voice gently
whisper,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Isn't he a love? Isn't he a darling?'</p>

<p>"'Zounds!' thought I, as a pang of jealousy shot through my
heart, 'is it<br>
the major she means?' For old Belson, with his bag wig and rouged
cheeks,<br>
was seated on the other side of her.</p>

<p>"'What a dear thing it is!' said Polly.</p>

<p>"'Worse and worse,' said I; 'it must be him.'</p>

<p>"'I do so love his muzzy face.'</p>

<p>"'It is him!' said I, throwing off a bumper, and almost
boiling over with<br>
passion at the moment.</p>

<p>"'I wish I could take one look at him,' said she, laying down
her head as<br>
she spoke.</p>

<p>"The major whispered something in her ear, to which she
replied,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Oh, I dare not; papa will see me at once.'</p>

<p>"'Don't be afraid, Madam,' said I, fiercely; 'your father
perfectly<br>
approves of your taste.'</p>

<p>"'Are you sure of it?' said she, giving me such a look.</p>

<p>"'I know it,' said I, struggling violently with my
agitation.</p>

<p>"The major leaned over as if to touch her hand beneath the
cloth. I almost<br>
sprang from my chair, when Polly, in her sweetest accents,
said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'You must be patient, dear thing, or you may be found out,
and then there<br>
will be such a piece of work. Though I'm sure, Major, you would
not betray<br>
me.' The major smiled till he cracked the paint upon his cheeks.
'And I am<br>
sure that Mr. Monsoon&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'You may rely upon me,' said I, half sneeringly.</p>

<p>"The major and I exchanged glances of defiance, while Polly
continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Now, come, don't be restless. You are very comfortable
there. Isn't he,<br>
Major?' The major smiled again more graciously than before, as he
added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'May I take a look?'</p>

<p>"'Just one peep, then, no more!' said she, coquettishly; 'poor
dear Wowski<br>
is so timid.'</p>

<p>"Scarcely had these words borne balm and comfort to my
heart,&mdash;for I<br>
now knew that to the dog, and not to my rival, were all the
flattering<br>
expressions applied,&mdash;when a slight scream from Polly, and a
tremendous<br>
oath from the major, raised me from my dream of happiness.</p>

<p>"'Take your foot down, sir. Mr. Monsoon, how could you do so?'
cried Polly.</p>

<p>"'What the devil, sir, do you mean?' shouted the major.</p>

<p>"'Oh, I shall die of shame,' sobbed she.</p>

<p>"'I'll shoot him like a riddle,' muttered old Belson.</p>

<p>"By this time the whole table had got at the story, and such
peals of<br>
laughter, mingled with suggestions for my personal maltreatment,
I never<br>
heard. All my attempts at explanation were in vain. I was not
listened to,<br>
much less believed; and the old colonel finished the scene by
ordering me<br>
to my quarters, in a voice I shall never forget, the whole room
being, at<br>
the time I made my exit, one scene of tumultuous laughter from
one end to<br>
the other. Jamaica after this became too hot for me. The story
was repeated<br>
on every side; for, it seems, I had been sitting with my foot on
Polly's<br>
lap; but so occupied was I with my jealous vigilance of the major
I was not<br>
aware of the fact until she herself discovered it.</p>

<p>"I need not say how the following morning brought with it
every possible<br>
offer of <i>amende</i> upon my part; anything from a written
apology to a<br>
proposition to marry the lady I was ready for, and how the matter
might<br>
have ended I know not; for in the middle of the negotiations, we
were<br>
ordered off to Halifax where, be assured, I abandoned my Oriental
attitude<br>
for many a long day after."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVI.</p>

<p>THE LANDING.</p>

<p>What a contrast to the dull monotony of our life at sea did
the scene<br>
present which awaited us on landing in Lisbon. The whole quay was
crowded<br>
with hundreds of people eagerly watching the vessel which bore
from her<br>
mast the broad ensign of Britain. Dark-featured, swarthy,
mustached faces,<br>
with red caps rakishly set on one side, mingled with the Saxon
faces and<br>
fair-haired natives of our own country. Men-of-war boats plied
unceasingly<br>
to and fro across the tranquil river, some slender reefer in
the<br>
stern-sheets, while behind him trailed the red pennon of some
"tall<br>
admiral."</p>

<p>The din and clamor of a mighty city mingled with the far-off
sounds of<br>
military music; and in the vistas of the opening street, masses
of troops<br>
might be seen in marching order; and all betokened the near
approach of<br>
war.</p>

<p>Our anchor had scarcely been dropped, when an eight-oar gig,
with a<br>
midshipman steering, came alongside.</p>

<p>"Ship ahoy, there! You've troops on board?"</p>

<p>"Ay, ay, sir."</p>

<p>Before the answer could be spoken, he was on the deck.</p>

<p>"May I ask," said he, touching his cap slightly, "who is the
officer in<br>
command of the detachment?"</p>

<p>"Captain Power; very much at your service," said Fred,
returning the<br>
salute.</p>

<p>"Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Douglas requests that you will do him
the favor to<br>
come on board immediately, and bring your despatches with
you."</p>

<p>"I'm quite ready," said Power, as he placed his papers in his
sabretasche;<br>
"but first tell us what's doing here. Anything new lately?"</p>

<p>"I have heard nothing, except of some affair with the
Portuguese,&mdash;they've<br>
been drubbed again; but our people have not been engaged. I say,
we had<br>
better get under way; there's our first lieutenant with his
telescope up;<br>
he's looking straight at us. So, come along. Good-evening,
gentlemen." And<br>
in another moment the sharp craft was cutting the clear water,
while Power<br>
gayly waved us a good-by.</p>

<p>"Who's for shore?" said the skipper, as half-a-dozen boats
swarmed around<br>
the side, or held on by their boat-hooks to the rigging.</p>

<p>"Who is not?" said Monsoon, who now appeared in his old blue
frock covered<br>
with tarnished braiding, and a cocked hat that might have roofed
a pagoda.<br>
"Who is not, my old boy? Is not every man among us delighted with
the<br>
prospect of fresh prog, cool wine, and a bed somewhat longer than
four feet<br>
six? I say, O'Malley! Sparks! Where's the adjutant? Ah, there he
is! We'll<br>
not mind the doctor,&mdash;he's a very jovial little fellow, but a
damned bore,<br>
<i>entre nous</i>; and we'll have a cosy little supper at the Rue
di Toledo. I<br>
know the place well. Whew, now! Get away, boy. Sit steady,
Sparks; she's<br>
only a cockleshell. There; that's the Plaza de la Regna,&mdash;there,
to<br>
the left. There's the great cathedral,&mdash;you can't see it now.
Another<br>
seventy-four! Why there's a whole fleet here! I wish old Power
joy of his<br>
afternoon with old Douglas."</p>

<p>"Do you know him then, Major?"</p>

<p>"Do I?&mdash;I should rather think I do. He was going to put me in
irons here in<br>
this river once. A great shame it was; but I'll tell you the
story another<br>
time. There, gently now; that's it. Thank God! once more upon
land. How I<br>
do hate a ship; upon my life, a sauce-boat is the only boat
endurable in<br>
this world."</p>

<p>We edged our way with difficulty through the dense crowd, and
at last<br>
reached the Plaza. Here the numbers were still greater, but of a
different<br>
class: several pretty and well-dressed women, with their dark
eyes<br>
twinkling above their black mantillas as they held them across
their faces,<br>
watched with an intense curiosity one of the streets that opened
upon the<br>
square.</p>

<p>In a few moments the band of a regiment was heard, and very
shortly after<br>
the regular tramp of troops followed, as the Eighty-seventh
marched into<br>
the Plaza, and formed a line.</p>

<p>The music ceased; the drums rolled along the line; and the
next moment<br>
all was still. It was really an inspiriting sight to one whose
heart was<br>
interested in the career, to see those gallant fellows, as, with
their<br>
bronzed faces and stalwart frames, they stood motionless as a
rock. As I<br>
continued to look, the band marched into the middle of the
square, and<br>
struck up, "Garryowen." Scarcely was the first part played, when
a<br>
tremendous cheer burst from the troop-ship in the river. The
welcome notes<br>
had reached the poor fellows there; the well-known sounds that
told of home<br>
and country met their ears; and the loud cry of recognition
bespoke their<br>
hearts' fulness.</p>

<p>"There they go. Your wild countrymen have heard their <i>Ranz
des vaches</i>,<br>
it seems. Lord! how they frightened the poor Portuguese; look how
they're<br>
running!"</p>

<p>Such was actually the case. The loud cheer uttered from the
river was taken<br>
up by others straggling on shore, and one universal shout
betokened that<br>
fully one-third of the red-coats around came from the dear
island, and in<br>
their enthusiasm had terrified the natives to no small
extent.</p>

<p>"Is not that Ferguson there!" cried the major, as an officer
passed us with<br>
his arm in a sling. "I say, Joe&mdash;Ferguson! oh, knew it was!"</p>

<p>"Monsoon, my hearty, how goes it?&mdash;only just arrived, I see.
Delighted to<br>
meet you out here once more. Why, we've been as dull as a veteran
battalion<br>
without you. These your friends? Pray present me." The ceremony
of<br>
introduction over, the major invited Ferguson to join our party
at supper.<br>
"No, not to-night, Major," said he, "you must be my guests this
evening. My<br>
quarters are not five minutes' walk from this; I shall not
promise you very<br>
luxurious fare."</p>

<p>"A carbonade with olives, a roast duck, a bowl of bishop, and,
if you will,<br>
a few bottles of Burgundy," said the major; "don't put yourself
out for<br>
us,&mdash;soldier's fare, eh?"</p>

<p>I could not help smiling at the <i>na&iuml;ve</i> notion of
simplicity so cunningly<br>
suggested by old Monsoon. As I followed the party through the
streets,<br>
my step was light, my heart not less so; for what sensations are
more<br>
delightful than those of landing after a voyage? The escape from
the<br>
durance vile of shipboard, with its monotonous days and dreary
nights,<br>
its ill-regulated appointments, its cramped accommodation, its
uncertain<br>
duration, its eternal round of unchanging amusements, for the
freedom<br>
of the shore, with a land breeze, and a firm footing to tread
upon; and<br>
certainly, not least of all, the sight of that brightest part of
creation,<br>
whose soft eyes and tight ankles are, perhaps, the greatest of
all<br>
imaginable pleasures to him who has been the dweller on blue
water for<br>
several weeks long.</p>

<p>"Here we are," cried out Ferguson, as we stopped at the door
of a large<br>
and handsome house. We follow up a spacious stair into an ample
room,<br>
sparingly, but not uncomfortably furnished: plans of sieges, maps
of the<br>
seat of war, pistols, sabres, and belts decorated the white
walls, and a<br>
few books and a stray army list betokened the habits of the
occupant.</p>

<p>While Ferguson disappeared to make some preparations for
supper, Monsoon<br>
commenced a congratulation to the party upon the good fortune
that had<br>
befallen them. "Capital fellow is Joe; never without something
good, and<br>
a rare one to pass the bottle. Oh, here he comes. Be alive there,
Sparks,<br>
take a corner of the cloth; how deliciously juicy that ham looks.
Pass<br>
the Madeira down there; what's under that cover,&mdash;stewed
kidneys?" While<br>
Monsoon went on thus we took our places at the table, and set to
with an<br>
appetite which only a newly-landed traveller ever knows.</p>

<p>"Another spoonful of the gravy? Thank you. And so they say
we've not been<br>
faring over well latterly?" said the major.</p>

<p>"Not a word of truth in the report. Our people have not been
engaged. The<br>
only thing lately was a smart brush we had at the Tamega. Poor
Patrick, a<br>
countryman of ours, and myself were serving with the Portuguese
brigade,<br>
when Laborde drove us back upon the town and actually routed us.
The<br>
Portuguese general, caring little for anything save his own
safety, was<br>
making at once for the mountains when Patrick called upon his
battalion to<br>
face about and charge; and nobly they did it, too. Down they came
upon the<br>
advancing masses of the French, and literally hurled them back
upon the<br>
main body. The other regiments, seeing this gallant stand,
wheeled about<br>
and poured in a volley, and then, fixing bayonets, stormed a
little mount<br>
beside the hedge, which commanded the whole suburb of Villa Real.
The<br>
French, who soon recovered their order, now prepared for a second
attack,<br>
and came on in two dense columns, when Patrick, who had little
confidence<br>
in the steadiness of his people for any lengthened resistance,
resolved<br>
upon once more charging with the bayonet. The order was scarcely
given when<br>
the French were upon us, their flank defended by some of La
Houssaye's<br>
heavy dragoons. For an instant the conflict was doubtful, until
poor<br>
Patrick fell mortally wounded upon the parapet; when the men, no
longer<br>
hearing his bold cheer, nor seeing his noble figure in the
advance, turned<br>
and fled, pell-mell, back upon the town. As for me, blocked up
amidst the<br>
mass, I was cut down from the shoulder to the elbow by a young
fellow of<br>
about sixteen, who galloped about like a schoolboy on a holiday.
The wound<br>
was only dangerous from the loss of blood, and so I contrived to
reach<br>
Amacante without much difficulty; from whence, with three or four
others, I<br>
was ordered here until fit for service."</p>

<p>"But what news from our own head-quarters?" inquired I.</p>

<p>"All imaginable kind of rumors are afloat. Some say that
Craddock is<br>
retiring; others, that a part of the army is in motion upon
Caldas."</p>

<p>"Then we are not going to have a very long sojourn here, after
all, eh,<br>
Major? Donna Maria de Tormes will be inconsolable. By-the-bye,
their house<br>
is just opposite us. Have you never heard Monsoon mention his
friends<br>
there?"</p>

<p>"Come, come, Joe, how can you be so foolish?"</p>

<p>"But, Major, my dear friend, what signifies your modesty?
There is not a<br>
man in the service does not know it, save those in the last
gazette."</p>

<p>"Indeed, Joe, I am very angry with you."</p>

<p>"Well, then, by Jove! I must tell it, myself; though, faith,
lads, you lose<br>
not a little for want of Monsoon's tact in the narrative."</p>

<p>"Anything is better that trusting to such a biographer," cried
the major;<br>
"so here goes:&mdash;</p>

<p>"When I was acting commissary-general to the Portuguese forces
some few<br>
years ago, I obtained great experience of the habits of the
people; for<br>
though naturally of an unsuspecting temperament myself, I
generally<br>
contrive to pick out the little foibles of my associates, even
upon a short<br>
acquaintance. Now, my appointment pleased me very much on this
score,&mdash;it<br>
gave me little opportunities of examining the world. 'The
greatest study of<br>
mankind is man,'&mdash;Sparks would say woman, but no matter.</p>

<p>"Now, I soon discovered that our ancient and very excellent
allies, the<br>
Portuguese, with a beautiful climate, delicious wines, and very
delightful<br>
wives and daughters, were the most infernal rogues and scoundrels
ever met<br>
with. 'Make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the leading
features of the<br>
natives,' said old Sir Harry to me in a despatch from
head-quarters; and,<br>
faith, it was not difficult,&mdash;such open, palpable, undisguised
rascals<br>
never were heard of. I thought I knew a thing or two myself, when
I landed;<br>
but, Lord love you! I was a babe, I was an infant in swaddling
clothes,<br>
compared with them; and they humbugged me,&mdash;ay, <i>me!</i>&mdash;till
I began to<br>
suspect that I was only walking in my sleep.</p>

<p>"'Why, Monsoon,' said the general, 'they told me you were a
sharp fellow,<br>
and yet the people here seem to work round you every day. This
will never<br>
do. You must brighten up a little or I shall be obliged to send
you back.'</p>

<p>"'General,' said I, 'they used to call me no fool in England;
but, somehow,<br>
here&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'I understand,' said he; 'you don't know the Portuguese;
there's but one<br>
way with them,&mdash;strike quickly, and strike home. Never give them
time for<br>
roguery,&mdash;for if they have a moment's reflection, they'll cheat
the devil<br>
himself; but when you see the plot working, come slap down and
decide the<br>
thing your own way.'</p>

<p>"Well, now, there never was anything so true as this advice,
and for the<br>
eighteen months I acted upon it, I never knew it to fail.</p>

<p>"'I want a thousand measures of wheat.'</p>

<p>"'Senhor Excellenza, the crops have been miserably deficient,
and&mdash;&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Sergeant-major,' I would say, 'these poor people have no
corn; it's a<br>
wine country,&mdash;let them make up the rations that way.'</p>

<p>"The wheat came in that evening.</p>

<p>"'One hundred and twenty bullocks wanted for the reserve.'</p>

<p>"'The cattle are all up the mountains.'</p>

<p>"'Let the alcalde catch them before night or I'll catch
<i>him</i>.'</p>

<p>"Lord bless you! I had beef enough to feed the Peninsula. And
in this way,<br>
while the forces were eating short allowance and half rations
elsewhere,<br>
our brigade were plump as aldermen.</p>

<p>"When we lay in Andalusia this was easy enough. What a
country, to be sure!<br>
Such vineyards, such gardens, such delicious valleys, waving with
corn and<br>
fat with olives; actually, it seemed a kind of dispensation of
Providence<br>
to make war in. There was everything you could desire; and then,
the<br>
people, like all your wealthy ones, were so timid, and so
easily<br>
frightened, you could get what you pleased out of them by a
little terror.<br>
My scouts managed this very well.</p>

<p>"'He is coming,' they would say, 'after to-morrow.'</p>

<p>"'<i>Madre de Dios!</i>'</p>

<p>"'I hope he won't burn the village.'</p>

<p>"'<i>Questos infernales Ingleses!</i> how wicked they
are.'</p>

<p>"'You'd better try what a sack of moidores or doubloons might
do with him;<br>
he may refuse them, but make the effort.'</p>

<p>"Ha!" said the major, with a long-drawn sigh, "those were
pleasant times;<br>
alas, that they should ever come to an end! Well, among the old
hidalgos I<br>
met there was one Don Emanuel Selvio de Tormes, an awful old
miser, rich as<br>
Croesus, and suspicious as the arch-fiend himself. Lord, how I
melted him<br>
down! I quartered two squadrons of horse and a troop of flying
artillery<br>
upon him. How the fellows did eat! Such a consumption of wines
was never<br>
heard of; and as they began to slacken a little, I took care to
replace<br>
them by fresh arrivals,&mdash;fellows from the mountains,
<i>ca&ccedil;adores</i> they call<br>
them. At last, my friend Don Emanuel could stand it no longer,
and he sent<br>
me a diplomatic envoy to negotiate terms, which, upon the whole,
I must<br>
say, were fair enough; and in a few days after, the
<i>ca&ccedil;adores</i> were<br>
withdrawn, and I took up my quarters at the ch&acirc;teau. I have
had various<br>
chances and changes in this wicked world, but I am free to
confess that I<br>
never passed a more agreeable time than the seven weeks I spent
there. Don<br>
Emanuel, when properly managed, became a very pleasant little
fellow; Donna<br>
Maria, his wife, was a sweet creature. You need not be winking
that way.<br>
Upon my life she was: rather fat, to be sure, and her age
something verging<br>
upon the fifties; but she had such eyes, black as sloes, and
luscious as<br>
ripe grapes; and she was always smiling and ogling, and looking
so sweet.<br>
Confound me, if I think she wasn't the most enchanting being in
this world,<br>
with about ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels upon her fingers
and in<br>
her ears. I have her before me at this instant, as she used to
sit in the<br>
little arbor in the garden, with a Manilla cigar in her mouth,
and a little<br>
brandy-and-water&mdash;quite weak, you know&mdash;beside her.</p>

<p>"'Ah, General,' she used to say&mdash;she always called me
general&mdash;'what a<br>
glorious career yours is! A soldier is <i>indeed</i> a man.'</p>

<p>"Then she would look at poor Emanuel, who used to sit in a
corner, holding<br>
his hand to his face, for hours, calculating interest and cent
per cent,<br>
till he fell asleep.</p>

<p>"Now, he labored under a very singular malady,&mdash;not that I
ever knew it at<br>
the time,&mdash;a kind of luxation of the lower jaw, which, when it
came on,<br>
happened somehow to press upon some vital nerve or other, and
left him<br>
perfectly paralyzed till it was restored to its proper place. In
fact,<br>
during the time the agony lasted, he was like one in a trance;
for though<br>
he could see and hear, he could neither speak nor move, and
looked as if he<br>
had done with both for many a day to come.</p>

<p>"Well, as I was saying, I knew nothing of all this till a
slight<br>
circumstance made it known to me. I was seated one evening in the
little<br>
arbor I mentioned, with Donna Maria. There was a little table
before us<br>
covered with wines and fruits, a dish of olives, some Castile
oranges, and<br>
a fresh pine. I remember it well: my eye roved over the little
dessert set<br>
out in old-fashioned, rich silver dishes, then turned towards the
lady<br>
herself, with rings and brooches, earrings and chains enough to
reward one<br>
for sacking a town; and I said to myself, 'Monsoon, Monsoon, this
is better<br>
than long marches in the Pyrenees, with a cork-tree for a
bed-curtain, and<br>
wet grass for a mattress. How pleasantly one might jog on in this
world<br>
with this little country-house for his abode, and Donna Maria for
a<br>
companion!'</p>

<p>"I tasted the port; it was delicious. Now, I knew very little
Portuguese,<br>
but I made some effort to ask if there was much of it in the
cellar.</p>

<p>"She smiled, and said, 'Oh, yes.'</p>

<p>"'What a luxurious life one might lead here!' thought I; 'and
after all,<br>
perhaps Providence might remove Don Emanuel.'</p>

<p>"I finished the bottle as I thus meditated. The next was, if
possible, more<br>
crusty.</p>

<p>"'This is a delicious retreat,' said I, soliloquizing.</p>

<p>"Donna Maria seemed to know what was passing in my mind, for
she smiled,<br>
too.</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said I, in broken Portuguese, 'one ought to be very
happy here,<br>
Donna Maria.'</p>

<p>"She blushed, and I continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'What can one want for more in this life? All the charms that
rendered<br>
Paradise what it was'&mdash;I took her hand here&mdash;'and made Adam
blessed.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, General!' said she, with a sigh, 'you are such a
flatterer.'</p>

<p>"'Who could flatter,' said I, with enthusiasm, 'when there are
not words<br>
enough to express what he feels?' This was true, for my
Portuguese was fast<br>
failing me, 'But if I ever was happy, it is now.'</p>

<p>"I took another pull at the port.</p>

<p>"'If I only thought,' said I, 'that my presence here was not
thought<br>
unwelcome&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Fie, General,' said she, 'how could you say such a
thing?'</p>

<p>"'If I only thought I was not hated,' said I, tremblingly.</p>

<p>"'Oh!' said she, again.</p>

<p>"'Despised.'</p>

<p>"'Oh!'</p>

<p>"'Loathed.'</p>

<a name="0331"></a>
<img alt="0331.jpg (109K)" src="0331.jpg" height="475" width="643">

<p>[MAJOR MONSOON AND DONNA MARIA.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"She pressed my hand, I kissed hers; she hurriedly snatched it
from me, and<br>
pointed towards a lime-tree near, beneath which, in the cool
enjoyment of<br>
his cigar, sat the spare and detested figure of Don Emanuel.</p>

<p>"'Yes,' thought I, 'there he is,&mdash;the only bar to my good
fortune; were<br>
it not for him, I should not be long before I became possessor of
this<br>
excellent old ch&acirc;teau, with a most indiscretionary power
over the cellar.<br>
Don Mauricius Monsoon would speedily assume his place among the
grandees of<br>
Portugal.'</p>

<p>"I know not how long my revery lasted, nor, indeed, how the
evening passed;<br>
but I remember well the moon was up, and a sky, bright with a
thousand<br>
stars was shining, as I sat beside the fair Donna Maria,
endeavoring, with<br>
such Portuguese as it had pleased fate to bestow on me, to
instruct her<br>
touching my warlike services and deeds of arms. The fourth bottle
of port<br>
was ebbing beneath my eloquence, as responsively her heart beat,
when I<br>
heard a slight rustle in the branches near. I looked, and,
Heavens, what a<br>
sight did I behold! There was little Don Emanuel stretched upon
the grass<br>
with his mouth wide open, his face pale as death, his arms
stretched out at<br>
either side, and his legs stiffened straight out. I ran over and
asked if<br>
he were ill, but no answer came. I lifted up an arm, but it fell
heavily<br>
upon the ground as I let it go; the leg did likewise. I touched
his nose;<br>
it was cold.</p>

<p>"'Hollo,' thought I, 'is it so? This comes of mixing water
with your<br>
sherry. I saw where it would end.'</p>

<p>"Now, upon my life! I felt sorry for the little fellow; but
somehow, one<br>
gets so familiarized with this sort of thing in a campaign that
one only<br>
half feels in a case like this.</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said I, 'man is but grass; but I for one must make hay
when the sun<br>
shines. Now for the Donna Maria,'&mdash;for the poor thing was asleep
in the<br>
arbor all this while.</p>

<p>"'Donna,' said I, shaking her by the elbow,&mdash;'Donna, don't be
shocked at<br>
what I'm going to say.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, General,' said she, with a sigh, 'say no more; I must
not listen to<br>
you.'</p>

<p>"'You don't know that,' said I, with a knowing look,&mdash;'you
don't know<br>
that.'</p>

<p>"'Why, what can you mean?'</p>

<p>"'The little fellow is done for.' For the port was working
strong now,<br>
and destroyed all my fine sensibility. 'Yes, Donna,' said I, 'you
are<br>
free,'&mdash;here I threw myself upon my knees,&mdash;'free to make me the
happiest<br>
of commissaries and the jolliest grandee of Portugal that
ever&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'But Don Emanuel?'</p>

<p>"'Run out, dry, empty,' inverting a finished decanter to
typify my words as<br>
I spoke.</p>

<p>"'He is not dead?' said she, with a scream.</p>

<p>"'Even so,' said I, with a hiccough! 'ordered for service in a
better<br>
world, where there are neither inspections nor arrears.'</p>

<p>"Before the words were well out, she sprang from the bench and
rushed over<br>
to the spot where the little don lay. What she said or did I know
not, but<br>
the next moment he sat bolt upright on the grass, and as he held
his jaw<br>
with one hand and supported himself on the other, vented such a
torrent of<br>
abuse and insult at me, that, for want of Portuguese enough to
reply, I<br>
rejoined in English, in which I swore pretty roundly for five
minutes.<br>
Meanwhile the donna had summoned the servants, who removed Don
Emanuel to<br>
the house, where on my return I found my luggage displayed before
the door,<br>
with a civil hint to deploy in orderly time and take ground
elsewhere.</p>

<p>"In a few days, however, his anger cooled down, and I received
a polite<br>
note from Donna Maria, that the don at length began to understand
the joke,<br>
and begged that I would return to the ch&acirc;teau, and that he
would expect me<br>
at dinner the same day."</p>

<p>"With which, of course, you complied?"</p>

<p>"Which of course I did. Forgive your enemies, my dear boy,&mdash;it
is only<br>
Christian-like; and really, we lived very happily ever after. The
donna was<br>
a mighty clever woman, and a dear good soul besides."</p>

<p>It was late when the major concluded his story; so after
wishing Ferguson a<br>
good-night, we took our leave, and retired for the night to our
quarters.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVII</p>

<p>LISBON.</p>

<p>The tramp of horses' feet and the sound of voices beneath my
window roused<br>
me from a deep sleep. I sprang up and drew aside the curtain.
What a<br>
strange confusion beset me as I looked forth! Before me lay a
broad and<br>
tranquil river whose opposite shore, deeply wooded and studded
with villas<br>
and cottages, rose abruptly from the water's edge; vessels of war
lay<br>
tranquilly in the stream, their pennants trailing in the tide.
The loud<br>
boom of a morning gun rolled along the surface, awaking a hundred
echoes as<br>
it passed, and the lazy smoke rested for some minutes on the
glassy water<br>
as it blended with the thin air of the morning.</p>

<p>"Where am I?" was my first question to myself, as I continued
to look from<br>
side to side, unable to collect my scattered senses.</p>

<p>One word sufficed to recall me to myself, as I heard Power's
voice, from<br>
without, call out, "Charley! O'Malley, I say! Come down
here!"</p>

<p>I hurriedly threw on my clothes and went to the door.</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, I've been put in harness rather sooner than I
expected.<br>
Here's old Douglas has been sitting up all night writing
despatches; and<br>
I must hasten on to headquarters without a moment's delay.
There's work<br>
before us, that's certain; but when, where, and how, of that I
know<br>
nothing. You may expect the route every moment; the French are
still<br>
advancing. Meanwhile I have a couple of commissions for you to
execute.<br>
First, here's a packet for Hammersley; you are sure to meet him
with the<br>
regiment in a day or two. I have some scruples about asking you
this; but,<br>
confound it! you're too sensible a fellow to care&mdash;" Here he
hesitated;<br>
and as I colored to the eyes, for some minutes he seemed
uncertain how to<br>
proceed. At length, recovering himself, he went on: "Now for the
other.<br>
This is a most loving epistle from a poor devil of a midshipman,
written<br>
last night by a tallow candle, in the cock-pit, containing vows
of eternal<br>
adoration and a lock of hair. I promised faithfully to deliver it
myself;<br>
for the 'Thunderer' sails for Gibraltar next tide, and he cannot
go ashore<br>
for an instant. However, as Sir Arthur's billet may be of more
importance<br>
than the reefer's, I must intrust its safe keeping to your hands.
Now,<br>
then, don't look so devilish sleepy, but seem to understand what
I am<br>
saying. This is the address: 'La Senhora Inez da Silviero, Rua
Nuova,<br>
opposite the barber's.' You'll not neglect it. So now, my dear
boy, till<br>
our next meeting, <i>adios!</i>"</p>

<p>"Stop! For Heaven's sake, not so fast, I pray! Where's the
street?"</p>

<p>"The Rua Nuova. Remember Figaro, my boy. <i>Cinque
perruche</i>."</p>

<p>"But what am I to do?"</p>

<p>"To do! What a question! Anything; everything. Be a good
diplomate. Speak<br>
of the torturing agony of the lover, for which I can vouch. The
boy is only<br>
fifteen. Swear that he is to return in a month, first lieutenant
of the<br>
'Thunder Bomb,' with intentions that even Madame Dalrymple would
approve."</p>

<p>"What nonsense," said I, blushing to the eyes.</p>

<p>"And if that suffice not, I know of but one resource."</p>

<p>"Which is?"</p>

<p>"Make love to her yourself. Ay, even so. Don't look so
confoundedly<br>
vinegar; the girl, I hear, is a devilish pretty one, the house
pleasant,<br>
and I sincerely wish I could exchange duties with you, leaving
you to make<br>
your bows to his Excellency the C. O. F., and myself free to make
mine to<br>
La Senhora. And now, push along, old red cap."</p>

<p>So saying, he made a significant cut of his whip at the
Portuguese guide,<br>
and in another moment was out of sight.</p>

<p>My first thought was one of regret at Power's departure. For
some time past<br>
we had been inseparable companions; and notwithstanding the
reckless and<br>
wild gayety of his conduct, I had ever found him ready to assist
me in<br>
every difficulty, and that with an address and dexterity a more
calculating<br>
adviser might not have possessed. I was now utterly alone; for
though<br>
Monsoon and the adjutant were still in Lisbon, as was also
Sparks, I never<br>
could make intimates of them.</p>

<p>I ate my breakfast with a heavy heart, my solitary position
again<br>
suggesting thoughts of home and kindred. Just at this moment my
eyes fell<br>
upon the packet destined for Hammersley; I took it up and weighed
it in<br>
my hand. "Alas!" thought I, "how much of my destiny may lie
within that<br>
envelope! How fatally may my after-life be influenced by it!" It
felt heavy<br>
as though there was something besides letters. True, too true;
there was<br>
a picture, Lucy's portrait! The cold drops of perspiration stood
upon<br>
my forehead as my fingers traced the outline of a miniature-case
in the<br>
parcel. I became deadly weak, and sank, half-fainting, upon a
chair. And<br>
such is the end of my first dream of happiness! How have I duped,
how<br>
have I deceived myself! For, alas, though Lucy had never
responded to my<br>
proffered vows of affection, yet had I ever nurtured in my heart
a secret<br>
hope that I was not altogether uncared for. Every look she had
given me,<br>
every word she had spoken, the tone of her voice, her step, her
every<br>
gesture, were before me, all confirming my delusion, and yet,&mdash;I
could bear<br>
no more, and burst into tears.</p>

<p>The loud call of a cavalry trumpet aroused me.</p>

<p>How long I had passed in this state of despondency I knew not;
but it was<br>
long past noon when I rallied myself. My charger was already
awaiting me;<br>
and a second blast of the trumpet told that the inspection in the
Plaza was<br>
about to commence.</p>

<p>As I continued to dress, I gradually rallied from my
depressing thoughts;<br>
and ere I belted my sabretasche, the current of my ideas had
turned from<br>
their train of sadness to one of hardihood and daring. Lucy
Dashwood had<br>
treated me like a wilful schoolboy. Mayhap, I may prove myself as
gallant a<br>
soldier as even him she has preferred before me.</p>

<p>A third sound of the trumpet cut short my reflections, and I
sprang into<br>
the saddle, and hastened towards the Plaza. As I dashed along the
streets,<br>
my horse, maddened with the impulse that stirred my own heart,
curvetted<br>
and plunged unceasingly. As I reached the Plaza, the crowd became
dense,<br>
and I was obliged to pull up. The sound of the music, the parade,
the tramp<br>
of the infantry, and the neighing of the horses, were, however,
too much<br>
for my mettlesome steed, and he became nearly unmanageable; he
plunged<br>
fearfully, and twice reared as though he would have fallen back.
As I<br>
scattered the foot passengers right and left with terror, my eye
fell upon<br>
one lovely girl, who, tearing herself from her companion, rushed
wildly<br>
towards an open doorway for shelter; suddenly, however, changing
her<br>
intention, she came forward a few paces, and then, as if overcome
by fear,<br>
stood stock-still, her hands clasped upon her bosom, her eyes
upturned, her<br>
features deadly pale, while her knees seemed bending beneath her.
Never did<br>
I behold a more beautiful object. Her dark hair had fallen loose
upon her<br>
shoulder, and she stood the very <i>id&eacute;al</i> of the
"Madonna Supplicating."<br>
My glance was short as a lightning flash; for the same instant my
horse<br>
swerved, and dashed forward right at the place where she was
standing. One<br>
terrific cry rose from the crowd, who saw her danger. Beside her
stood a<br>
muleteer who had drawn up his mule and cart close beside the
footway for<br>
safety; she made one effort to reach it, but her outstretched
arms alone<br>
moved, and paralyzed by terror, she sank motionless upon the
pavement.<br>
There was but one course open to me now; so collecting myself for
the<br>
effort, I threw my horse upon his haunches, and then, dashing the
spurs<br>
into his flanks, breasted him at the mule cart. With one spring
he rose,<br>
and cleared it at a bound, while the very air rang with the
acclamations<br>
of the multitude, and a thousand bravos saluted me as I alighted
upon the<br>
opposite side.</p>

<p>"Well done, O'Malley!" sang out the little adjutant, as I flew
past and<br>
pulled up in the middle of the Plaza.</p>

<p>"Something devilish like Galway in that leap," said a very
musical voice<br>
beside me; and at the same instant a tall, soldier-like man, in
an undress<br>
dragoon frock, touched his cap, and said, "A 14th man, I
perceive, sir. May<br>
I introduce myself? Major O'Shaughnessy."</p>

<p>I bowed, and shook the major's proffered hand, while he
continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Old Monsoon mentioned your name to us this morning. You came
out together,<br>
if I mistake not?"</p>

<p>"Yes; but somehow, I've missed the major since my
landing."</p>

<p>"Oh, you'll see him presently; he'll be on parade. By-the-bye,
he wishes<br>
particularly to meet you. We dine to-day at the 'Quai de Soderi,'
and if<br>
you're not engaged&mdash;Yes, this is the person," said he, turning at
the<br>
moment towards a servant, who, with a card in his hand, seemed to
search<br>
for some one in the crowd.</p>

<p>The man approached, and handed it to me.</p>

<p>"What can this mean?" said I. "Don Emanuel de Blacas y
Silviero, Rua<br>
Nuova."</p>

<p>"Why, that's the great Portuguese contractor, the intendant of
half the<br>
army, the richest fellow in Lisbon. Have you known him long?"</p>

<p>"Never heard of him till now."</p>

<p>"By Jove, you're in luck! No man gives such dinners; he has
such a cellar!<br>
I'll wager a fifty it was his daughter you took in the flying
leap a while<br>
ago. I hear she is a beautiful creature."</p>

<p>"Yes," thought I, "that must be it; and yet, strange enough, I
think the<br>
name and address are familiar to me."</p>

<p>"Ten to one, you've heard Monsoon speak of him; he's most
intimate there.<br>
But here comes the major."</p>

<p>And as he spoke, the illustrious commissary came forward
holding a vast<br>
bundle of papers in one hand, and his snuff-box in the other,
followed by a<br>
long string of clerks, contractors, assistant-surgeons,
paymasters, etc.,<br>
all eagerly pressing forward to be heard.</p>

<p>"It's quite impossible; I can't do it to-day. Victualling and
physicking<br>
are very good things, but must be done in season. I have been up
all<br>
night at the accounts,&mdash;haven't I, O'Malley?" here he winked at
me most<br>
significantly; "and then I have the forage and stoppage fund to
look<br>
through ['we dine at six, sharp,' said he, <i>sotto voce</i>],
which will leave<br>
me without one minute unoccupied for the next twenty-four hours.
Look to<br>
your toggery this evening; I've something in my eye for you,
O'Malley."</p>

<p>"Officers unattached to their several corps will fall into the
middle of<br>
the Plaza," said a deep voice among the crowd; and in obedience
to the<br>
order I rode forward and placed myself with a number of others,
apparently<br>
newly joined, in the open square. A short, gray-haired old
colonel, with a<br>
dark, eagle look, proceeded to inspect us, reading from a paper
as he came<br>
along,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mr. Hepton, 6th Foot; commission bearing date 11th January;
drilled,<br>
proceed to Ovar, and join his regiment.</p>

<p>"Mr. Gronow, Fusilier Guards, remains with the depot.</p>

<p>"Captain Mortimer, 1st Dragoons, appointed aide-de-camp to the
general<br>
commanding the cavalry brigade.</p>

<p>"Mr. Sparks,&mdash;where is Mr. Sparks? Mr. Sparks absent from
parade; make a<br>
note of it.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, 14th Light Dragoons. Mr. O'Malley,&mdash;oh, I
remember! I have<br>
received a letter from Sir George Dashwood concerning you. You
will hold<br>
yourself in readiness to march. Your friends desire that before
you may<br>
obtain any staff appointment, you should have the opportunity of
seeing<br>
some service. Am I to understand such is your wish?"</p>

<p>"Most certainly."</p>

<p>"May I have the pleasure of your company at dinner
to-day?"</p>

<p>"I regret that I have already accepted an invitation to dine
with Major<br>
Monsoon."</p>

<p>"With Major Monsoon? Ah, indeed! Perhaps it might be as well I
should<br>
mention,&mdash;but no matter. I wish you good-morning."</p>

<p>So saying, the little colonel rode off, leaving me to suppose
that my<br>
dinner engagement had not raised me in his estimation, though
why, I could<br>
not exactly determine.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</p>

<p>THE RUA NUOVA.</p>

<p>Our dinner was a long and uninteresting one, and as I found
that the major<br>
was likely to prefer his seat as chairman of the party to the
seductions<br>
of ladies' society, I took the first opportunity of escaping and
left the<br>
room.</p>

<p>It was a rich moonlight night as I found myself in the street.
My way,<br>
which led along the banks of the Tagus, was almost as light as in
daytime,<br>
and crowded with walking parties, who sauntered carelessly along
in the<br>
enjoyment of the cool, refreshing night-air. On inquiring, I
discovered<br>
that the Rua Nuova was at the extremity of the city; but as the
road led<br>
along by the river I did not regret the distance, but walked on
with<br>
increasing pleasure at the charms of so heavenly a climate and
country.</p>

<p>After three quarters of an hour's walk, the streets became by
degrees less<br>
and less crowded. A solitary party passed me now and then; the
buzz of<br>
distant voices succeeded to the gay laughter and merry tones of
the passing<br>
groups, and at length my own footsteps alone awoke the echoes
along the<br>
deserted pathway. I stopped every now and then to gaze upon the
tranquil<br>
river, whose eddies were circling in the pale silver of the
moonlight. I<br>
listened with attentive ear as the night breeze wafted to me the
far-off<br>
sounds of a guitar, and the deep tones of some lover's serenade;
while<br>
again the tender warbling of the nightingale came borne across
the stream<br>
on a wind rich with the odor of the orange-tree.</p>

<p>As thus I lingered on my way the time stole on, and it was
near midnight<br>
ere I had roused myself from the revery surrounding objects had
thrown<br>
about me. I stopped suddenly, and for some minutes I struggled
with<br>
myself to discover if I was really awake. As I walked along, lost
in my<br>
reflections, I had entered a little garden beside the river.
Fragrant<br>
plants and lovely flowers bloomed on every side; the orange, the
camelia,<br>
the cactus, and the rich laurel of Portugal were blending their
green and<br>
golden hues around me, while the very air was filled with
delicious music.<br>
"Was it a dream? Could such ecstasy be real?" I asked myself, as
the rich<br>
notes swelled upwards in their strength, and sank in soft cadence
to tones<br>
of melting harmony; now bursting forth in the full force of
gladness,<br>
the voices blended together in one stream of mellow music, and
suddenly<br>
ceasing, the soft but thrilling shake of a female voice rose upon
the air,<br>
and in its plaintive beauty stirred the very heart. The proud
tramp of<br>
martial music succeeded to the low wailing cry of agony; then
came the<br>
crash of battle, the clang of steel; the thunder of the fight
rolled on in<br>
all its majesty, increasing in its maddening excitement till it
ended in<br>
one loud shout of victory.</p>

<p>All was still; not a breath moved, not a leaf stirred, and
again was I<br>
relapsing into my dreamy scepticism, when again the notes swelled
upwards<br>
in concert. But now their accents were changed, and in low,
subdued tones,<br>
faintly and slowly uttered, the prayer of thanksgiving rose to
Heaven and<br>
spoke their gratefulness. I almost fell upon my knees, and
already the<br>
tears filled my eyes as I drank in the sounds. My heart was full
to<br>
bursting, and even now as I write it my pulse throbs as I
remember the hymn<br>
of the Abencerrages.</p>

<p>When I rallied from my trance of excited pleasure, my first
thought was,<br>
where was I, and how came I there? Before I could resolve my
doubts upon<br>
the question, my attention was turned in another direction, for
close<br>
beside me the branches moved forward, and a pair of arms were
thrown around<br>
my neck, while a delicious voice cried out in an accent of
childish,<br>
delight, "<i>Trovado!</i>" At the same instant a lovely head sank
upon my<br>
shoulder, covering it with tresses of long brown hair. The arms
pressed me<br>
still more closely, till I felt her very heart beating against my
side.</p>

<p>"<i>Mio fradre</i>," said a soft, trembling voice, as her
fingers played in my<br>
hair and patted my temples.</p>

<p>What a situation mine! I well knew that some mistaken identity
had been the<br>
cause, but still I could not repress my inclination to return the
embrace,<br>
as I pressed my lips upon the fair forehead that leaned upon my
bosom; at<br>
the same moment she threw back her head, as if to look me more
fully in the<br>
face. One glance sufficed; blushing deeply over her cheeks and
neck, she<br>
sprang from my arms, and uttering a faint cry, staggered against
a tree.<br>
In an instant I saw it was the lovely girl I had met in the
morning; and<br>
without losing a second I poured out apologies for my intrusion
with all<br>
the eloquence I was master of, till she suddenly interrupted me
by asking<br>
if I spoke French. Scarcely had I recommenced my excuses in that
language,<br>
when a third party appeared upon the stage. This was a short,
elderly man,<br>
in a green uniform, with several decorations upon his breast, and
a cocked<br>
hat with a most flowing plume in his right hand.</p>

<p>"May I beg to know whom I have the honor of receiving?"
inquired he, in<br>
very excellent English, as he advanced with a look of very
ceremonious and<br>
distant politeness.</p>

<p>I immediately explained that, presuming upon the card which
his servant had<br>
presented me, I had resolved on paying my respects when a mistake
had led<br>
me accidentally into his garden.</p>

<p>My apologies had not come to an end when he folded me in his
arms and<br>
overwhelmed me with thanks, at the same time saying a few words
in<br>
Portuguese to his daughter. She stooped down, and taking my hand
gently<br>
within her own, touched it with her lips.</p>

<p>This piece of touching courtesy,&mdash;which I afterwards found
meant little or<br>
nothing,&mdash;affected me deeply at the time, and I felt the blood
rush to my<br>
face and forehead, half in pride, half in a sense of shame. My
confusion<br>
was, however, of short duration; for taking my arm, the old
gentleman led<br>
me along a few paces, and turning round a small clump of olives,
entered a<br>
little summer-house. Here a considerable party were assembled,
which for<br>
their picturesque effect could scarcely have been better managed
on the<br>
stage.</p>

<p>Beneath the mild lustre of a large lamp of stained glass, half
hid in the<br>
overhanging boughs, was spread a table covered with vessels of
gold and<br>
silver plate of gorgeous richness; drinking cups and goblets of
antique<br>
pattern shone among cups of S&egrave;vres china or Venetian
glass; delicious<br>
fruit, looking a thousand times more tempting for being contained
in<br>
baskets of silver foliage, peeped from amidst a profusion of
fresh flowers,<br>
whose odor was continually shed around by a slight <i>jet
d'eau</i> that played<br>
among the leaves. Around upon the grass, seated upon cushions or
reclining<br>
on Genoa carpets, were several beautiful girls in most becoming
costumes,<br>
their dark locks and darker eyes speaking of "the soft South,"
while their<br>
expressive gestures and animated looks betokened a race whose
temperament<br>
is glowing as their clime. There were several men also, the
greater number<br>
of whom appeared in uniform,&mdash;bronzed, soldier-like fellows, who
had<br>
the jaunty air and easy carriage of their calling,&mdash;among whom
was one<br>
Englishman, or at least so I guessed from his wearing the uniform
of a<br>
heavy dragoon regiment.</p>

<p>"This is my daughter's <i>f&ecirc;te</i>," said Don Emanuel,
as he ushered me into the<br>
assembly,&mdash;"her birthday; a sad day it might have been for us had
it not<br>
been for your courage and forethought." So saying, he commenced a
recital<br>
of my adventure to the bystanders, who overwhelmed me with civil
speeches<br>
and a shower of soft looks that completed the fascination of the
fairy<br>
scene. Meanwhile the fair Inez had made room for me beside her,
and I found<br>
myself at once the lion of the party, each vying with her
neighbor<br>
who should show me most attention, La Senhora herself directing
her<br>
conversation exclusively to me,&mdash;a circumstance which,
considering the<br>
awkwardness of our first meeting, I felt no small surprise at,
and which<br>
led me, somewhat maliciously I confess, to make a half allusion
to it,<br>
feeling some interest in ascertaining for whom the flattering
reception was<br>
really intended.</p>

<p>"I thought you were Charles," said she, blushing, in answer to
my question.</p>

<p>"And you are right," said I; "I am Charles."</p>

<p>"Nay, but I meant <i>my</i> Charles."</p>

<p>There was something of touching softness in the tone of these
few words<br>
that made me half wish I were <i>her</i> Charles. Whether my look
evinced as<br>
much or not, I cannot tell, but she speedily added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"He is my brother; he is a captain in the ca&ccedil;adores,
and I expected him<br>
here this evening. Some one saw a fi'gure pass the gate and
conceal himself<br>
in the trees, and I was sure it was he."</p>

<p>"What a disappointment!" said I.</p>

<p>"Yes; was it not?" said she, hurriedly; and then, as if
remembering how<br>
ungracious was the speech, she blushed more deeply and hung down
her head.</p>

<p>Just at this moment, as I looked up, I caught the eye of the
English<br>
officer fixed steadfastly upon me. He was a tall, fine-looking
fellow, of<br>
about two or three and thirty, with marked and handsome features,
which,<br>
however, conveyed an expression of something sneering and
sinister that<br>
struck me the moment I saw him. His glass was fixed in his eye,
and I<br>
perceived that he regarded us both with a look of no common
interest. My<br>
attention did not, however, dwell long upon the circumstance, for
Don<br>
Emanuel, coming behind my shoulder, asked me if I would not take
out his<br>
daughter in the bolero they were just forming.</p>

<p>To my shame I was obliged to confess that I had not even seen
the dance;<br>
and while I continued to express my resolve to correct the errors
of my<br>
education, the Englishman came up and asked the senhora to be his
partner.<br>
This put the very keystone upon my annoyance, and I half turned
angrily<br>
away from the spot, when I heard her decline his invitation, and
avow her<br>
determination not to dance.</p>

<p>There was something which pleased me so much at this refusal,
that I could<br>
not help turning upon her a look of most grateful acknowledgment;
but as I<br>
did so, I once more encountered the gaze of the Englishman, whose
knitted<br>
brows and compressed lips were bent upon me in a manner there was
no<br>
mistaking. This was neither the fitting time nor place to seek
any<br>
explanation of the circumstance, so, wisely resolving to wait a
better<br>
occasion, I turned away and resumed my attentions towards my
fair<br>
companion.</p>

<p>"Then you don't care for the bolero?" said I, as she reseated
herself upon<br>
the grass.</p>

<p>"Oh, I delight in it!" said she, enthusiastically.</p>

<p>"But you refused to dance?"</p>

<p>She hesitated, blushed, tried to mutter something, and was
silent.</p>

<p>"I had determined to learn it," said I, half jestingly; "but
if you will<br>
not dance with me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes; that I will,&mdash;indeed I will."</p>

<p>"But you declined my countryman. Is it because he is
inexpert?"</p>

<p>The senhora hesitated, looked confused for some minutes; at
length,<br>
coloring slightly, she said: "I have already made one rude speech
to you<br>
this evening; I fear lest I should make a second. Tell me, is
Captain<br>
Trevyllian your friend?"</p>

<p>"If you mean that gentleman yonder, I never saw him
before."</p>

<p>"Nor heard of him?"</p>

<p>"Nor that either. We are total strangers to each other."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I may confess it. I do not like him. My father
prefers him<br>
to any one else, invites him here daily, and, in fact, instals
him as his<br>
first favorite. But still, I cannot like him; and yet I have done
my best<br>
to do so."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said I, pointedly. "What are his chief demerits? Is
he not<br>
agreeable? Is he not clever?"</p>

<p>"Oh, on the contrary, most agreeable, fascinating, I should
say, in<br>
conversation; has travelled, seen a great deal of the world, is
very<br>
accomplished, and has distinguished himself on several occasions.
He wears,<br>
as you see, a Portuguese order."</p>

<p>"And with all that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And with all that, I cannot bear him. He is a duellist, a
notorious<br>
duellist. My brother, too, knows more of him, and avoids him. But
let us<br>
not speak further. I see his eyes are again fixed on us; and
somehow, I<br>
fear him, without well knowing wherefore."</p>

<p>A movement among the party, shawls and mantillas were sought
for on all<br>
sides; and the preparations for leave-taking appeared general.
Before,<br>
however, I had time to express my thanks for my hospitable
reception, the<br>
guests had assembled in a circle around the senhora, and toasting
her with<br>
a parting bumper, they commenced in concert a little Portuguese
song of<br>
farewell, each verse concluding with a good-night, which, as they
separated<br>
and held their way homewards, might now and then be heard rising
upon the<br>
breeze and wafting their last thoughts back to her. The
concluding verse,<br>
which struck me much, I have essayed to translate. It ran somehow
thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "The morning breezes chill<br>
      Now close our joyous scene,<br>
    And yet we linger still,<br>
      Where we've so happy been.<br>
    How blest were it to live<br>
      With hearts like ours so light,<br>
    And only part to give<br>
      One long and last good-night!<br>
                        Good-night!"</p>

<p>With many an invitation to renew my visit, most kindly
preferred by Don<br>
Emanuel and warmly seconded by his daughter, I, too, wished my
good-night<br>
and turned my steps homeward.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXXIX</p>

<p>THE VILLA.</p>

<p>The first object which presented itself to my eye the next
morning was the<br>
midshipman's packet intrusted to my care by Power. I turned it
over to read<br>
the address more carefully, and what was my surprise to find that
the name<br>
was that of my fair friend Donna Inez.</p>

<p>"This certainly thickens the plot," thought I. "And so I have
now fallen<br>
upon the real Simon Pure, and the reefer has had the good fortune
to<br>
distance the dragoon. Well, thus far, I cannot say that I regret
it. Now,<br>
however, for the parade, and then for the villa."</p>

<p>"I say, O'Malley," cried out Monsoon, as I appeared on the
Plaza, "I have<br>
accepted an invitation for you to-day. We dine across the river.
Be at my<br>
quarters a little before six, and we'll go together."</p>

<p>I should rather have declined the invitation; but not well
knowing why, and<br>
having no ready excuse, acceded, and promised to be punctual.</p>

<p>"You were at Don Emanuel's last night. I heard of you!"</p>

<p>"Yes; I spent a most delightful evening."</p>

<p>"That's your ground, my boy. A million of moidores, and such a
campagna in<br>
Valencia. A better thing than the Dalrymple affair. Don't blush.
I know it<br>
all. But stay; here they come."</p>

<p>As he spoke, the general commanding, with a numerous staff,
rode forward.<br>
As they passed, I recognized a face which I had certainly seen
before, and<br>
in a moment remembered it was that of the dragoon of the evening
before. He<br>
passed quite close, and fixing his eyes steadfastly on me,
evinced no sign<br>
of recognition.</p>

<p>The parade lasted above two hours; and it was with a feeling
of impatience<br>
I mounted a fresh horse to canter out to the villa. When I
arrived, the<br>
servant informed me that Don Emanuel was in the city, but that
the senhora<br>
was in the garden, offering, at the same time, to escort me.
Declining this<br>
honor, I intrusted my horse to his keeping and took my way
towards the<br>
arbor where last I had seen her.</p>

<p>I had not walked many paces, when the sound of a guitar struck
on my ear. I<br>
listened. It was the senhora's voice. She was singing a Venetian
canzonetta<br>
in a low, soft, warbling tone, as one lost in a revery; as though
the music<br>
was a mere accompaniment to some pleasant thought. I peeped
through the<br>
dense leaves, and there she sat upon a low garden seat, an open
book on the<br>
rustic table before her, beside her, embroidery, which seemed
only lately<br>
abandoned. As I looked, she placed her guitar upon the ground and
began to<br>
play with a small spaniel that seemed to have waited with
impatience for<br>
some testimony of favor. A moment more, and she grew weary of
this; then,<br>
heaving a long but gentle sigh, leaned back upon her chair and
seemed lost<br>
in thought. I now had ample time to regard her, and certainly
never beheld<br>
anything more lovely. There was a character of classic beauty,
and her<br>
brow, though fair and ample, was still strongly marked upon the
temples;<br>
the eyes, being deep and squarely set, imparted a look of
intensity to her<br>
features which their own softness subdued; while the short upper
lip,<br>
which trembled with every passing thought, spoke of a nature
tender and<br>
impressionable, and yet impassioned. Her foot and ankle peeped
from beneath<br>
her dark robe, and certainly nothing could be more faultless;
while her<br>
hand, fair as marble, blue-veined and dimpled, played amidst the
long<br>
tresses of her hair, that, as if in the wantonness of beauty,
fell<br>
carelessly upon her shoulders.</p>

<p>It was some time before I could tear myself away from the
fascination of so<br>
much beauty, and it needed no common effort to leave the spot. As
I made a<br>
short <i>d&eacute;tour</i> in the garden before approaching the
arbor, she saw me as I<br>
came forward, and kissing her hand gayly, made room for me beside
her.</p>

<p>"I have been fortunate in finding you alone, Senhora," said I,
as I seated<br>
myself by her side, "for I am the bearer of a letter to you. How
far it<br>
may interest you, I know not, but to the writer's feelings I am
bound to<br>
testify."</p>

<p>"A letter to me? You jest, surely?"</p>

<p>"That I am in earnest, this will show," said I, producing the
packet.</p>

<p>She took it from my hands, turned it about and about, examined
the seal;<br>
while, half doubtingly, she said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"The name is mine; but still&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You fear to open it; is it not so? But after all, you need
not be<br>
surprised if it's from Howard; that's his name, I think."</p>

<p>"Howard! from little Howard!" exclaimed she, enthusiastically;
and tearing<br>
open the letter, she pressed it to her lips, her eyes sparkling
with<br>
pleasure and her cheek glowing as she read. I watched her as she
ran<br>
rapidly over the lines; and I confess that, more than once, a
pang of<br>
discontent shot through my heart that the midshipman's letter
could call up<br>
such interest,&mdash;not that I was in love with her myself, but yet,
I know<br>
not how it was, I had fancied her affections unengaged; and
without asking<br>
myself wherefore, I wished as much.</p>

<p>"Poor dear boy!" said she, as she came to the end. How these
few and simple<br>
words sank into my heart, as I remembered how they had once been
uttered to<br>
myself, and in perhaps no very dissimilar circumstances.</p>

<p>"But where is the souvenir he speaks of?" said she.</p>

<p>"The souvenir. I'm not aware&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, I hope you've not lost the lock of hair he sent me!" I
was quite<br>
dumfounded at this, and could not remember whether I had received
it from<br>
Power or not, so answered, at random,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes; I must have left it on my table."</p>

<p>"Promise me, then, to bring it to-morrow with you?"</p>

<p>"Certainly," said I, with something of pique in my manner. "If
I find such<br>
a means of making my visit an agreeable one, I shall certainly
not omit<br>
it."</p>

<p>"You are quite right," said she, either not noticing or not
caring for the<br>
tone of my reply. "You will, indeed, be a welcome messenger. Do
you know,<br>
he was one of my lovers?"</p>

<p>"One of them, indeed! Then pray how many do you number at this
moment?"</p>

<p>"What a question; as if I could possibly count them! Besides,
there are<br>
so many absent,&mdash;some on leave, some deserters, perhaps,&mdash;that I
might be<br>
reckoning among my troops, but who, possibly, form part of the
forces of<br>
the enemy. Do you know little Howard?"</p>

<p>"I cannot say that we are personally acquainted, but I am
enabled through<br>
the medium of a friend to say that his sentiments are not strange
to<br>
me. Besides, I have really pledged myself to support the prayer
of his<br>
petition."</p>

<p>"How very good of you! For which reason you've forgotten, if
not lost, the<br>
lock of hair."</p>

<p>"That you shall have to-morrow," said I, pressing my hand
solemnly to my<br>
heart.</p>

<p>"Well, then, don't forget it. But hush; here comes Captain
Trevyllian. So<br>
you say Lisbon really pleases you?" said she, in a tone of voice
totally<br>
changed, as the dragoon of the preceding evening approached.</p>

<p>"Mr. O'Malley, Captain Trevyllian."</p>

<p>We bowed stiffly and haughtily to each other, as two men
salute who are<br>
unavoidably obliged to bow, with every wish on either side to
avoid<br>
acquaintance. So, at least, I construed his bow; so I certainly
intended my<br>
own.</p>

<p>It requires no common tact to give conversation the appearance
of<br>
unconstraint and ease when it is evident that each person
opposite is<br>
laboring under excited feelings; so that, notwithstanding the
senhora's<br>
efforts to engage our attention by the commonplaces of the day,
we remained<br>
almost silent, and after a few observations of no interest, took
our<br>
several leaves. Here again a new source of awkwardness arose; for
as we<br>
walked together towards the house, where our horses stood,
neither party<br>
seemed disposed to speak.</p>

<p>"You are probably returning to Lisbon?" said he, coldly.</p>

<p>I assented by a bow; upon which, drawing his bridle within his
arm, he<br>
bowed once more, and turned away in an opposite direction; while
I, glad to<br>
be relieved of an unsought-for companionship, returned alone to
the town.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XL</p>

<p>THE DINNER.</p>

<p>It was with no peculiar pleasure that I dressed for our dinner
party. Major<br>
O'Shaughnessy, our host, was one of that class of my countrymen I
cared<br>
least for,&mdash;a riotous, good-natured, noisy, loud-swearing,
punch-drinking<br>
western; full of stories of impossible fox hunts, and
unimaginable duels,<br>
which all were acted either by himself or some member of his
family. The<br>
company consisted of the adjutant, Monsoon, Ferguson, Trevyllian,
and some<br>
eight or ten officers with whom I was acquainted. As is usual on
such<br>
occasions, the wine circulated freely, and amidst the din and
clamor of<br>
excited conversation, the fumes of Burgundy, and the vapor of
cigar smoke,<br>
we most of us became speedily mystified. As for me, my evil
destiny would<br>
have it that I was placed exactly opposite Trevyllian, with whom
upon more<br>
than one occasion I happened to differ in opinion, and the
question was in<br>
itself some trivial and unimportant one; yet the tone which he
assumed, and<br>
of which, I too could not divest myself in reply, boded anything
rather<br>
than an amicable feeling between us. The noise and turmoil about
prevented<br>
the others remarking the circumstance; but I could perceive in
his manner<br>
what I deemed a studied determination to promote a quarrel, while
I felt<br>
within myself a most unchristian-like desire to indulge his
fancy.</p>

<p>"Worse fellows at passing the bottle than Trevyllian and
O'Malley there I<br>
have rarely sojourned with," cried the major; "look if they
haven't got<br>
eight decanters between them, and here we are in a state of
African<br>
thirst."</p>

<p>"How can you expect him to think of thirst when such perfumed
billets<br>
as that come showering upon him?" said the adjutant, alluding to
a<br>
rose-colored epistle a servant had placed within my hands.</p>

<p>"Eight miles of a stone-wall country in fifteen
minutes,&mdash;devil a lie in<br>
it!" said O'Shaughnessy, striking the table with, his clinched
fist; "show<br>
me the man would deny it."</p>

<p>"Why, my dear fellow&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Don't be dearing me. Is it 'no' you'll be saying me?"</p>

<p>"Listen, now; there's O'Reilly, there&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Where is he?"</p>

<p>"He's under the table."</p>

<p>"Well, it's the same thing. His mother had a fox&mdash;bad luck to
you, don't<br>
scald me with the jug&mdash;his mother had a fox-cover in
Shinrohan."</p>

<p>When O'Shaughnessy had got thus far in his narrative, I had
the opportunity<br>
of opening my note, which merely contained the following words:
"Come to<br>
the ball at the Casino, and bring the Cadeau you promised."</p>

<p>I had scarcely read this over once, when a roar of laughter at
something<br>
said attracted my attention. I looked up, and perceived
Trevyllian's eyes<br>
bent upon me with the fierceness of a tiger; the veins in his
forehead were<br>
swollen and distorted, and the whole expression of his face
betokened rage<br>
and passion. Resolved no longer to submit to such evident
determination to<br>
insult, I was rising from my place at table, when, as if
anticipating<br>
my intention, he pushed back his chair and left the room. Fearful
of<br>
attracting attention by immediately following him, I affected to
join in<br>
the conversation around me, while my temples throbbed, and my
hands tingled<br>
with impatience to get away.</p>

<p>"Poor McManus," said O'Shaughnessy, "rest his soul! he'd have
puzzled the<br>
bench of bishops for hard words. Upon my conscience, I believe he
spent his<br>
mornings looking for them in the Old Testament. Sure ye might
have heard<br>
what happened to him at Banagher, when he commanded the
Kilkennys,&mdash;ye<br>
never heard the story? Well, then, ye shall. Push the sherry
along first,<br>
though,&mdash;old Monsoon there always keeps it lingering beside his
left arm.</p>

<p>"Well, when Peter was lieutenant-colonel of the
Kilkennys,&mdash;who, I may<br>
remark, <i>en passant</i>, as the French say, were the
neediest-looking devils<br>
in the whole service,&mdash;he never let them alone from morning till
night,<br>
drilling and pipe-claying and polishing them up. 'Nothing will
make<br>
soldiers of you,' said Peter, 'but, by the rock of Cashel! I'll
keep you<br>
as clean as a new musket!' Now, poor Peter himself was not a very
warlike<br>
figure,&mdash;he measured five feet one in his tallest boots; but
certainly if<br>
Nature denied him length of stature, she compensated for it in
another<br>
way, by giving him a taste of the longest words in the language.
An extra<br>
syllable or so in a word was always a strong recommendation; and
whenever<br>
he could not find one to his mind, he'd take some quaint,
outlandish one<br>
that more than once led to very awkward results. Well, the
regiment was one<br>
day drawn up for parade in the town of Banagher, and as M'Manus
came<br>
down the lines he stopped opposite one of the men whose face,
hands, and<br>
accoutrements exhibited a most woeful contempt of his orders. The
fellow<br>
looked more like a turf-stack than a light-company man.</p>

<p>"'Stand out, sir!' cried M'Manus, in a boiling passion.
'Sergeant O'Toole,<br>
inspect this individual.' Now, the sergeant was rather a favorite
with Mac;<br>
for he always pretended to understand his phraseology, and in
consequence<br>
was pronounced by the colonel a very superior man for his station
in life.<br>
'Sergeant,' said he, 'we shall make an exemplary illustration of
our system<br>
here.'</p>

<p>"'Yes, sir,' said the sergeant, sorely puzzled at the meaning
of what he<br>
spoke.</p>

<p>"'Bear him to the Shannon, and lave him there.' This he said
in a kind<br>
of Coriolanus tone, with a toss of his head and a wave of his
right<br>
arm,&mdash;signs, whenever he made them, incontestibly showing that
further<br>
parley was out of the question, and that he had summed up and
charged the<br>
jury for good and all.</p>

<p>"'<i>Lave</i> him in the river?' said O'Toole, his eyes
starting from the<br>
sockets, and his whole face working in strong anxiety; 'is it
<i>lave</i> him in<br>
the river yer honor means?'</p>

<p>"'I have spoken,' said the little man, bending an ominous
frown upon the<br>
sergeant, which, whatever construction he may have put upon his
words,<br>
there was no mistaking.</p>

<p>"'Well, well, av it's God's will he's drowned, it will not be
on my head,'<br>
says O'Toole, as he marched the fellow away between two rank and
file.</p>

<p>"The parade was nearly over, when Mac happened to see the
sergeant coming<br>
up all splashed with water and looking quite tired.</p>

<p>"'Have you obeyed my orders?' said he.</p>

<p>"'Yes, yer honor; and tough work we had of it, for he
struggled hard.'</p>

<p>"'And where is he now?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, troth, he's there safe. Divil a fear he'll get out.'</p>

<p>"'Where?' said Mac.</p>

<p>"'In the river, yer honor.'</p>

<p>"'What have you done, you scoundrel?'</p>

<p>"'Didn't I do as you bid me?' says he; 'didn't I throw him in
and <i>lave</i><br>
[leave] him there?'</p>

<p>"And faith so they did; and if he wasn't a good swimmer and
got over to<br>
Moystown, there's little doubt but he'd have been drowned, and
all because<br>
Peter McManus could not express himself like a Christian."</p>

<p>In the laughter which followed O'Shaughnessy's story I took
the opportunity<br>
of making my escape from the party, and succeeded in gaining the
street<br>
unobserved. Though the note I had just read was not signed, I had
no doubt<br>
from whom it came; so I hastened at once to my quarters, to make
search for<br>
the lock of Ned Howard's hair to which the senhora alluded. What
was my<br>
mortification, however, to discover that no such thing could be
found<br>
anywhere. I searched all my drawers; I tossed about my papers and
letters;<br>
I hunted every likely, every unlikely spot I could think of, but
in<br>
vain,&mdash;now cursing my carelessness for having lost it, now
swearing most<br>
solemnly to myself that I never could have received it. What was
to be<br>
done? It was already late; my only thought was how to replace it.
If I only<br>
knew the color, any other lock of hair would, doubtless, do just
as well.<br>
The chances were, as Howard was young and an Englishman, that his
hair was<br>
light; light-brown, probably, something like my own. Of course it
was; why<br>
didn't that thought occur to me before? How stupid I was. So
saying, I<br>
seized a pair of scissors, and cut a long lock beside my temple;
this in a<br>
calm moment I might have hesitated about. "Yes," thought I,
"she'll<br>
never discover the cheat; and besides, I do feel,&mdash;I know not
exactly<br>
why,&mdash;rather gratified to think that I shall have left this
<i>souvenir</i><br>
behind me, even though it call up other recollections than of
me." So<br>
thinking, I wrapped my cloak about me and hastened towards the
Casino.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLI.</p>

<p>THE ROUTE.</p>

<p>I had scarcely gone a hundred yards from my quarters when a
great tramp of<br>
horses' feet attracted my attention. I stopped to listen, and
soon heard<br>
the jingle of dragoon accoutrements, as the noise came near. The
night was<br>
dark but perfectly still; and before I stood many minutes I heard
the tones<br>
of a voice which I well knew could belong to but one, and that
Fred Power.</p>

<p>"Fred Power!" said I, shouting at the same time at the top of
my<br>
voice,&mdash;"Power!"</p>

<p>"Ah, Charley, is that you? Come along to the
adjutant-general's quarters.<br>
I'm charged with some important despatches, and can't stop till
I've<br>
delivered them. Come along, I've glorious news for you!" So
saying, he<br>
dashed spurs to his horse, and followed by two mounted dragoons,
galloped<br>
past. Power's few and hurried words had so excited my curiosity
that I<br>
turned at once to follow him, questioning myself, as I walked
along,<br>
to what he could possibly allude. He knew of my attachment to
Lucy<br>
Dashwood,&mdash;could he mean anything of her? But what could I expect
there;<br>
by what flattery could I picture to myself any chance of success
in that<br>
quarter; and yet, what other news could I care for or value than
what bore<br>
upon her fate upon whom my own depended? Thus ruminating, I
reached the<br>
door of the spacious building in which the adjutant-general had
taken up<br>
his abode, and soon found myself among a crowd of persons whom
the rumor of<br>
some important event had assembled there, though no one could
tell what had<br>
occurred. Before many minutes the door opened, and Power came
out; bowing<br>
hurriedly to a few, and whispering a word or two as he passed
down the<br>
steps, he seized me by the arm and led me across the street.
"Charley,"<br>
said he, "the curtain's rising; the piece is about to begin; a
new<br>
commander-in-chief is sent out,&mdash;Sir Arthur Wellesley, my boy,
the finest<br>
fellow in England is to lead us on, and we march to-morrow.
There's news<br>
for you!" A raw boy, unread, uninformed as I was, I knew but
little of his<br>
career whose name had even then shed such lustre upon our army;
but the<br>
buoyant tone of Power as he spoke, the kindling energy of his
voice roused<br>
me, and I felt every inch a soldier. As I grasped his hand in
delightful<br>
enthusiasm I lost all memory of my disappointment, and in the
beating throb<br>
that shook my head; I felt how deeply slept the ardor of military
glory<br>
that first led me from my home to see a battle-field.</p>

<p>"There goes the news!" said Frederick, pointing as he spoke to
a rocket<br>
that shot up into the sky, and as it broke into ten thousand
stars,<br>
illuminated the broad stream where the ships of war lay darkly
resting. In<br>
another moment the whole air shone with similar fires, while the
deep roll<br>
of the drum sounded along the silent streets, and the city so
lately sunk<br>
in sleep became, as if by magic, thronged with crowds of people;
the<br>
sharp clang of the cavalry trumpet blended with the gay carol of
the<br>
light-infantry bugle, and the heavy tramp of the march was heard
in the<br>
distance. All was excitement, all bustle; but in the joyous tone
of every<br>
voice was spoken the longing anxiety to meet the enemy. The gay,
reckless<br>
tone of an Irish song would occasionally reach us, as some
Connaught Ranger<br>
or some 78th man passed, his knapsack on his back; or the low
monotonous<br>
pibroch of the Highlander, swelling into a war-cry, as some
kilted corps<br>
drew up their ranks together. We turned to regain our quarters,
when at<br>
the corner of a street we came suddenly upon a merry party seated
around a<br>
table before a little inn; a large street lamp, unhung for the
occasion,<br>
had been placed in the midst of them, and showed us the figures
of several<br>
soldiers in undress; at the end, and raised a little above his
compeers,<br>
sat one whom, by the unfair proportion he assumed of the
conversation, not<br>
less than by the musical intonation of his voice, I soon
recognized as my<br>
man, Mickey Free.</p>

<p>"I'll be hanged if that's not your fellow there, Charley,"
said Power, as<br>
he came to a dead stop a few yards off. "What an impertinent
varlet he is;<br>
only to think of him there, presiding among a set of fellows that
have<br>
fought all the battles in the Peninsular war. At this moment I'll
be hanged<br>
if he is not going to sing."</p>

<p>Here a tremendous thumping upon the table announced the fact,
and after a<br>
few preliminary observations from Mike, illustrative of his
respect to the<br>
service in which he had so often distinguished himself, he began,
to<br>
the air of the "Young May Moon," a ditty of which I only
recollect the<br>
following verses:&mdash;</p>

<p>    "The pickets are fast retreating, boys,<br>
    The last tattoo is beating, boys,<br>
      So let every man<br>
      Finish his can,<br>
    And drink to our next merry meeting, boys.</p>

<p>    The colonel so gayly prancing, boys,<br>
    Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys,<br>
      When he sings out so large,<br>
      'Fix bayonets and charge!'<br>
    He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys.</p>

<p>    Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys,<br>
    Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys?<br>
      When we play 'Garryowen,'<br>
      He'd rather go home;<br>
    For somehow, he's no taste for a jig, my boys."</p>

<p>This admirable lyric seemed to have perfect success, if one
were only to<br>
judge from the thundering of voices, hands, and drinking vessels
which<br>
followed; while a venerable, gray-haired sergeant rose to propose
Mr.<br>
Free's health, and speedy promotion to him.</p>

<p>We stood for several minutes in admiration of the party, when
the loud roll<br>
of the drums beating to arms awakened us to the thought that our
moments<br>
were numbered.</p>

<p>"Good-night, Charley!" said Power, as he shook my hand warmly,
"good-night!<br>
It will be your last night under a curtain for some months to
come; make<br>
the most of it. Adieu!"</p>

<p>So saying, we parted; he to his quarters, and I to all the
confusion of my<br>
baggage, which lay in most admired disorder about my room.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLII.</p>

<p>THE FAREWELL.</p>

<p>The preparations for the march occupied me till near morning;
and, indeed,<br>
had I been disposed to sleep, the din and clamor of the world
without would<br>
have totally prevented it. Before daybreak the advanced guard was
already<br>
in motion, and some squadrons of heavy cavalry had begun their
march.</p>

<p>I looked around my now dismantled room as one does usually for
the last<br>
time ere leaving, and bethought me if I had not forgotten
anything.<br>
Apparently all was remembered; but stay,&mdash;what is this? To be
sure, how<br>
forgetful I had become! It was the packet I destined for Donna
Inez, and<br>
which, in the confusion of the night before, I had omitted to
bring to the<br>
Casino.</p>

<p>I immediately despatched Mike to the commissary with my
luggage and orders<br>
to ascertain when we were expected to march. He soon returned
with the<br>
intelligence that our corps was not to move before noon, so that
I had yet<br>
some hours to spare and make my adieux to the senhora.</p>

<p>I cannot exactly explain the reason, but I certainly did
bestow a more than<br>
common attention upon my toilet that morning. The senhora was
nothing to<br>
me. It is true she had, as she lately most candidly informed me,
a score of<br>
admirers, among whom I was not even reckoned; she was evidently a
coquette<br>
whose greatest pleasure was to sport and amuse herself with the
passions<br>
she excited in others. And even if she were not,&mdash;if her heart
were to be<br>
won to-morrow,&mdash;what claim, what right, had I to seek it? My
affections<br>
were already pledged; promised, it is true, to one who gave
nothing in<br>
return, and who, perhaps, even loved another. Ah, there was the
rub; that<br>
one confounded suspicion, lurking in the rear, chilled my courage
and<br>
wounded my spirit.</p>

<p>If there be anything more disheartening to an Irishman, in his
little<br>
<i>affaires de coeur</i>, than another, it is the sense of
rivalry. The<br>
obstinacy of fathers, the ill-will of mothers, the coldness,
the<br>
indifference of the lovely object herself,&mdash;obstacles though they
be,&mdash;he<br>
has tact, spirit, and perseverance to overcome them. But when a
more<br>
successful candidate for the fair presents himself; when the eye
that<br>
remains downcast at <i>his</i> suit, lights up with animation at
<i>another's</i><br>
coming; when the features whose cold and chilling apathy to him
have<br>
blended in one smile of welcome to another,&mdash;it is all up with
him; he sees<br>
the game lost, and throws his cards upon the table. And yet, why
is this?<br>
Why is it that he whose birthright it would seem to be sanguine
when others<br>
despond, to be confident when all else are hopeless,&mdash;should find
his<br>
courage fail him here? The reason is simply&mdash;But, in good sooth,
I am<br>
ashamed to confess it!</p>

<p>Having jogged on so far with my reader, in all the sober
seriousness which<br>
the matter-of-fact material of these memoirs demands, I fear lest
a seeming<br>
paradox may cause me to lose my good name for veracity; and that
while<br>
merely maintaining a national trait of my country, I may appear
to be<br>
asserting some unheard-of and absurd proposition,&mdash;so far have
mere vulgar<br>
prejudices gone to sap our character as a people.</p>

<p>The reason, then, is this,&mdash;for I have gone too far to
retreat,&mdash;the<br>
Irishman is essentially bashful. Well, laugh if you wish, for I
conclude<br>
that, by this time, you have given way to a most immoderate
excess of<br>
risibility; but still, when you have perfectly recovered your
composure, I<br>
beg to repeat,&mdash;the Irishman is essentially a bashful man!</p>

<p>Do not for a moment fancy that I would by this imply that in
any new or<br>
unexpected situation, that from any unforeseen conjuncture of
events, the<br>
Irishman would feel confused or abashed, more than any
other,&mdash;far from it.<br>
The cold and habitual reserve of the Englishman, the studied
caution of the<br>
North Tweeder himself, would exhibit far stronger evidences of
awkwardness<br>
in such circumstances as these. But on the other hand, when
measuring his<br>
capacity, his means of success, his probabilities of being
preferred, with<br>
those of the natives of any other country, I back the Irishman
against the<br>
world for distrust of his own powers, for an under-estimate of
his real<br>
merits,&mdash;in one word, for his bashfulness. But let us return to
Donna Inez.</p>

<p>As I rode up to the villa, I found the family assembled at
breakfast.<br>
Several officers were also present, among whom I was not sorry to
recognize<br>
my friend Monsoon.</p>

<p>"Ah, Charley!" cried he, as I seated myself beside him, "what
a pity all<br>
our fun is so soon to have an end! Here's this confounded Soult
won't be<br>
quiet and peaceable; but he must march upon Oporto, and Heaven
knows where<br>
besides, just as we were really beginning to enjoy life! I had
got such a<br>
contract for blankets! And now they've ordered me to join
Beresford's corps<br>
in the mountains; and you," here he dropped his voice,&mdash;"and you
were<br>
getting on so devilish well in this quarter; upon my life, I
think<br>
you'd have carried the day. Old Don Emanuel&mdash;you know he's a
friend of<br>
mine&mdash;likes you very much. And then, there's Sparks&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ay, Major, what of him? I have not seen him for some
days."</p>

<p>"Why, they've been frightening the poor devil out of his
life,<br>
O'Shaughnessy and a set of them. They tried him by court-martial
yesterday,<br>
and sentenced him to mount guard with a wooden sword and a
shooting jacket,<br>
which he did. Old Colbourne, it seems, saw him; and faith, there
would be<br>
the devil to pay if the route had not come! Some of them would
certainly<br>
have got a long leave to see their friends."</p>

<p>"Why is not the senhora here, Major? I don't see her at
table."</p>

<p>"A cold, a sore throat, a wet-feet affair of last night, I
believe. Pass<br>
that cold pie down here. Sherry, if you please. You didn't see
Power<br>
to-day?"</p>

<p>"No: we parted late last night; I have not been to bed."</p>

<p>"Very bad preparation for a march; take some burned brandy in
your coffee."</p>

<p>"Then you don't think the senhora will appear?"</p>

<p>"Very unlikely. But stay, you know her room,&mdash;the small
drawing-room that<br>
looks out upon the flower-garden; she usually passes the morning
there.<br>
Leap the little wooden paling round the corner, and the chances
are ten to<br>
one you find her."</p>

<p>I saw from the occupied air of Don Antonio that there was
little fear of<br>
interruption on his part; so taking an early moment to escape
unobserved, I<br>
rose and left the room. When I sprang over the oak fence, I found
myself in<br>
a delicious little garden, where roses, grown to a height never
seen in our<br>
colder climate, formed a deep bower of rich blossom.</p>

<p>The major was right. The senhora was in the room, and in one
moment I was<br>
beside her.</p>

<p>"Nothing but my fears of not bidding you farewell could
palliate my thus<br>
intruding, Donna Inez; but as we are ordered away&mdash;"</p>

<p>"When? Not so soon, surely?"</p>

<p>"Even so; to-day, this very hour. But you see that even in the
hurry of<br>
departure, I have not forgotten my trust; this is the packet I
promised<br>
you."</p>

<p>So saying, I placed the paper with the lock of hair within her
hand, and<br>
bending downwards, pressed my lips upon her taper fingers. She
hurriedly<br>
snatched her hand away, and tearing open the enclosure, took out
the lock.<br>
She looked steadily for a moment at it, then at me, and again at
it, and at<br>
length, bursting into a fit of laughing, threw herself upon a
chair in a<br>
very ecstasy of mirth.</p>

<p>"Why, you don't mean to impose this auburn ringlet upon me for
one of poor<br>
Howard's jetty curls? What downright folly to think of it! And
then, with<br>
how little taste the deception was practised,&mdash;upon your very
temples, too!<br>
One comfort is, you are utterly spoiled by it."</p>

<p>Here she again relapsed into a fit of laughter, leaving me
perfectly<br>
puzzled what to think of her, as she resumed:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, tell me now, am I to reckon this as a pledge of your
own allegiance,<br>
or am I still to believe it to be Edward Howard's? Speak, and
truly."</p>

<p>"Of my own, most certainly," said I, "if it will be
accepted."</p>

<p>"Why, after such treachery, perhaps it ought not; but still,
as you have<br>
already done yourself such injury, and look so very silly,
withal&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That you are even resolved to give me cause to look more so,"
added I.</p>

<p>"Exactly," said she, "for here, now, I reinstate you among my
true and<br>
faithful admirers. Kneel down, Sir Knight&mdash;in token of which you
will wear<br>
this scarf&mdash;"</p>

<p>A sudden start which the donna gave at these words brought me
to my feet.<br>
She was pale as death and trembling.</p>

<p>"What means this?" said I. "What has happened?"</p>

<p>She pointed with her finger towards the garden; but though her
lips moved,<br>
no voice came forth. I sprang through the open window; I rushed
into the<br>
copse, the only one which might afford concealment for a figure,
but no one<br>
was there. After a few minutes' vain endeavor to discover any
trace of an<br>
intruder, I returned to the chamber. The donna was there still,
but how<br>
changed; her gayety and animation were gone, her pale cheek and
trembling<br>
lip bespoke fear and suffering, and her cold hand lay heavily
beside her.</p>

<p>"I thought&mdash;perhaps it was merely fancy&mdash;but I thought I saw
Trevyllian<br>
beside the window."</p>

<p>"Impossible!" said I. "I have searched every walk and alley.
It was nothing<br>
but imagination,&mdash;believe me, no more. There, be assured; think
no more of<br>
it."</p>

<p>While I endeavored thus to reassure her, I was very far from
feeling<br>
perfectly at ease myself; the whole bearing and conduct of this
man<br>
had inspired me with a growing dislike of him, and I felt
already<br>
half-convinced that he had established himself as a spy upon my
actions.</p>

<p>"Then you really believe I was mistaken?" said the donna, as
she placed her<br>
hand within mine.</p>

<p>"Of course I do; but speak no more of it. You must not forget
how few my<br>
moments are here. Already I have heard the tramp of horses
without. Ah!<br>
there they are. In a moment more I shall be missed; so, once
more, fairest<br>
Inez&mdash;Nay, I beg pardon if I have dared to call you thus; but
think, if it<br>
be the first it may also be the last time I shall ever speak
it."</p>

<p>Her head gently drooped, as I said these words, till it sank
upon my<br>
shoulder, her long and heavy hair falling upon my neck and across
my bosom.<br>
I felt her heart almost beat against my side; I muttered some
words, I know<br>
not what; I felt them like a prayer; I pressed her cold forehead
to my<br>
lips, rushed from the room, cleared the fence at a spring, and
was far<br>
upon the road to Lisbon ere I could sufficiently collect my
senses to know<br>
whither I was going. Of little else was I conscious; my mind was
full to<br>
bursting; and in the confusion of my excited brain, fiction and
reality<br>
were so inextricably mingled as to defy every endeavor at
discrimination.<br>
But little time had I for reflection. As I reached the city, the
brigade to<br>
which I was attached was already under arms, and Mike impatiently
waiting<br>
my arrival with the horses.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XXLIII.</p>

<p>THE MARCH.</p>

<p>What a strange spectacle did the road to Oliveira present upon
the morning<br>
of the 7th of May! A hurried or incautious observer might, at
first sight,<br>
have pronounced the long line of troops which wended their way
through<br>
the valley as the remains of a broken and routed army, had not
the ardent<br>
expression and bright eye that beamed on every side assured him
that men<br>
who looked thus could not be beaten ones. Horse, foot, baggage,
artillery,<br>
dismounted dragoons, even the pale and scarcely recovered
inhabitants of<br>
the hospital, might have been seen hurrying on; for the order,
"Forward!"<br>
had been given at Lisbon, and those whose wounds did not permit
their<br>
joining, were more pitied for their loss than its cause. More
than one<br>
officer was seen at the head of his troop with an arm in a sling,
or a<br>
bandaged forehead; while among the men similar evidences of
devotion<br>
were not unfrequent. As for me, long years and many reverses have
not<br>
obliterated, scarcely blunted, the impression that sight made on
me. The<br>
splendid spectacle of a review had often excited and delighted
me, but<br>
here there was the glorious reality of war,&mdash;the bronzed faces,
the worn<br>
uniforms, the well-tattered flags, the roll of the heavy guns
mingling with<br>
the wild pibroch of the Highlander, or scarcely less wild
recklessness of<br>
the Irish quick-step; while the long line of cavalry, their
helmets and<br>
accoutrements shining in the morning sun, brought back one's
boyish dreams<br>
of joust and tournament, and made the heart beat high with
chivalrous<br>
enthusiasm.</p>

<p>"Yes," said I, half aloud, "this is indeed a realization of
what I longed<br>
and thirsted for," the clang of the music and the tramp of the
cavalry<br>
responding to my throbbing pulses as we moved along.</p>

<p>"Close up, there; trot!" cried out a deep and manly voice; and
immediately<br>
a general officer rode by, followed by an aide-de-camp.</p>

<p>"There goes Cotton," said Power. "You may feel easy in your
mind now,<br>
Charley; there's some work before us."</p>

<p>"You have not heard our destination?" said I.</p>

<p>"Nothing is known for certain yet. The report goes, that Soult
is advancing<br>
upon Oporto; and the chances are, Sir Arthur intends to hasten on
to its<br>
relief. Our fellows are at Ovar, with General Murray."</p>

<p>"I say, Charley, old Monsoon is in a devil of a flurry. He
expected to have<br>
been peaceably settled down in Lisbon for the next six months,
and he has<br>
received orders to set out for Beresford's headquarters
immediately; and<br>
from what I hear, they have no idle time."</p>

<p>"Well, Sparks, how goes it, man? Better fun this than the
cook's galley,<br>
eh?"</p>

<p>"Why, do you know, these hurried movements put me out
confoundedly. I found<br>
Lisbon very interesting,&mdash;the little I could see of it last
night."</p>

<p>"Ah, my dear fellow, think of the lovely Andalusian lasses
with their brown<br>
transparent skins and liquid eyes. Why, you'd have been over head
and ears<br>
in love in twenty-four hours more, had we stayed."</p>

<p>"Are they really so pretty?"</p>

<p>"Pretty! downright lovely, man. Why, they have a way of
looking at you,<br>
over their fans,&mdash;just one glance, short and fleeting, but so
melting,<br>
by Jove&mdash;Then their walk,&mdash;if it be not profane to call that
springing,<br>
elastic gesture by such a name,&mdash;why, it's regular witchcraft.
Sparks, my<br>
man, I tremble for you. Do you know, by-the-bye, that same pace
of theirs<br>
is a devilish hard thing to learn. I never could come it; and
yet, somehow,<br>
I was formerly rather a crack fellow at a ballet. Old Alberto
used to<br>
select me for a <i>pas de z&eacute;phyr</i> among a host; but
there's a kind of a hop<br>
and a slide and a spring,&mdash;in fact you must have been wearing
petticoats<br>
for eighteen years, and have an Andalusian instep and an
india-rubber sole<br>
to your foot, or it's no use trying it. How I used to make them
laugh at<br>
the old San Josef convent, formerly, by my efforts in the
cause!"</p>

<p>"Why, how did it ever occur to you to practise it?"</p>

<p>"Many a man's legs have saved his head, Charley, and I put it
to mine to do<br>
a similar office for me."</p>

<p>"True; but I never heard of a man that performed a <i>pas
seul</i> before the<br>
enemy."</p>

<p>"Not exactly; but still you're not very wide of the mark. If
you'll only<br>
wait till we reach Pontalegue, I'll tell you the story; not that
it's worth<br>
the delay, but talking at this brisk pace I don't admire."</p>

<p>"You leave a detachment here, Captain Power," said an
aide-de-camp, riding<br>
hastily up; "and General Cotton requests you will send a
subaltern and<br>
two sergeants forward towards Berar to reconnoitre the pass.
Franchesca's<br>
cavalry are reported in that quarter." So speaking, he dashed
spurs to his<br>
horse, and was out of sight in an instant.</p>

<p>Power, at the same moment, wheeled to the rear, from which he
returned in<br>
an instant, accompanied by three well-mounted light dragoons.
"Sparks,"<br>
said he, "now for an occasion of distinguishing yourself. You
heard the<br>
order, lose no time; and as your horse is an able one, and fresh,
lose not<br>
a second, but forward."</p>

<p>No sooner was Sparks despatched on what it was evident he felt
to be<br>
anything but a pleasant duty, than I turned towards Power, and
said, with<br>
some tinge of disappointment in the tone, "Well, if you really
felt there<br>
was anything worth doing there, I flattered myself that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Speak out man. That I should have sent you, eh? Is it not
so?"</p>

<p>"Yes, you've hit it."</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, my peace is easily made on this head. Why, I
selected<br>
Sparks simply to spare you one of the most unpleasant duties that
can be<br>
imposed upon a man; a duty which, let him discharge it to the
uttermost,<br>
will never be acknowledged, and the slightest failure in which
will be<br>
remembered for many a day against him, besides the pleasant and
very<br>
probable prospect of being selected as a bull's eye for a French
rifle, or<br>
carried off a prisoner; eh, Charley? There's no glory in that,
devil a ray<br>
of it! Come, come, old fellow, Fred Power's not the man to keep
his friend<br>
out of the <i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i>, if only anything can be
made by being in it. Poor<br>
Sparks, I'd swear, is as little satisfied with the arrangement as
yourself,<br>
if one knew but all."</p>

<p>"I say, Power," said a tall, dashing-looking man of about
five-and-forty,<br>
with a Portuguese order on his breast,&mdash;"I say, Power, dine with
us at the<br>
halt."</p>

<p>"With pleasure, if I may bring my young friend here."</p>

<p>"Of course; pray introduce us."</p>

<p>"Major Hixley, Mr. O'Malley,&mdash;a 14th man, Hixley."</p>

<p>"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. O'Malley. Knew a
famous fellow in<br>
Ireland of your name, a certain Godfrey O'Malley, member for some
county or<br>
other."</p>

<p>"My uncle," said I, blushing deeply, with a pleasurable
feeling at even<br>
this slight praise of my oldest friend.</p>

<p>"Your uncle! give me your hand. By Jove, his nephew has a
right to good<br>
treatment at my hands; he saved my life in the year '98. And how
is old<br>
Godfrey?"</p>

<p>"Quite well, when I left him some months ago; a little gout,
now and then."</p>

<p>"To be sure he has, no man deserves it better; but it's a
gentlemanlike<br>
gout that merely jogs his memory in the morning of the good wine
he has<br>
drank over night. By-the-bye, what became of a friend of his, a
devilish<br>
eccentric fellow who held a command in the Austrian service?"</p>

<p>"Oh, Considine, the count?"</p>

<p>"The same."</p>

<p>"As eccentric as ever; I left him on a visit with my uncle.
And Boyle,&mdash;did<br>
you know Sir Harry Boyle?"</p>

<p>"To be sure I did; shall I ever forget him, and his capital
blunders, that<br>
kept me laughing the whole time I spent in Ireland? I was in the
house when<br>
he concluded a panegyric upon a friend, by calling him, 'the
father to the<br>
poor, and uncle to Lord Donoughmore'"</p>

<p>"He was the only man who could render by a bull what it was
impossible to<br>
convey more correctly," said Power.</p>

<p>"You've heard of his duel with Dick Toler?"</p>

<p>"Never; let's hear it."</p>

<p>"It was a bull from beginning to end. Boyle took it into his
head that Dick<br>
was a person with whom he had a serious row in Cork. Dick, on the
other<br>
hand, mistook Boyle for old Caples, whom he had been pursuing
with<br>
horse-whipping intentions for some months. They met in Kildare
Street Club,<br>
and very little colloquy satisfied them that they were right in
their<br>
conjectures, each party being so eagerly ready to meet the views
of the<br>
other. It never was a difficult matter to find a friend in
Dublin; and to<br>
do them justice, Irish seconds, generally speaking, are perfectly
free from<br>
any imputation upon the score of mere delay. No men have less
impertinent<br>
curiosity as to the cause of the quarrel; wisely supposing that
the<br>
principals know their own affairs best, they cautiously abstain
from<br>
indulging any prying spirit, but proceed to discharge their
functions as<br>
best they may. Accordingly, Sir Harry and Dick were 'set up,' as
the phrase<br>
is, at twelve paces, and to use Boyle's own words, for I have
heard him<br>
relate the story,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We blazed away, sir, for three rounds. I put two in his hat
and one in his<br>
neckcloth; his shots went all through the skirt of my coat.</p>

<p>"'We'll spend the day here,' says Considine, 'at this rate.
Couldn't you<br>
put them closer?'</p>

<p>"'And give us a little more time in the word,' says I.</p>

<p>"'Exactly,' said Dick.</p>

<p>"Well, they moved us forward two paces, and set to loading the
pistols<br>
again.</p>

<p>"By this time we were so near that we had full opportunity to
scan each<br>
other's faces. Well, sir, I stared at him, and he at me.</p>

<p>"'What!' said I.</p>

<p>"'Eh!' said he.</p>

<p>"'How's this?' said I.</p>

<p>"'You're not Billy Caples?' said he.</p>

<p>"'Devil a bit!' said I, 'nor I don't think you are Archy
Devine;' and<br>
faith, sir, so it appeared, we were fighting away all the morning
for<br>
nothing; for, somehow, it turned out <i>it was neither of
us!</i>"</p>

<p>What amused me most in this anecdote was the hearing it at
such a time and<br>
place. That poor Sir Harry's eccentricities should turn up for
discussion<br>
on a march in Portugal was singular enough; but after all, life
is full of<br>
such incongruous accidents. I remember once supping with King
Calzoo on the<br>
Blue Mountains, in Jamaica. By way of entertaining his guests,
some English<br>
officers, he ordered one of his suite to sing. We were of course
pleased at<br>
the opportunity of hearing an Indian war-chant, with a skull and
thigh-bone<br>
accompaniment; but what was our astonishment to hear the
Indian,&mdash;a<br>
ferocious-looking dog, with an awful scalp-lock, and two streaks
of red<br>
paint across his chest,&mdash;clear his voice well for a few seconds,
and<br>
then begin, without discomposing a muscle of his gravity, "The
Laird of<br>
Cockpen!" I need not say that the "Great Raccoon" was a Dumfries
man who<br>
had quitted Scotland forty years before, and with characteristic
prosperity<br>
had attained his present rank in a foreign service.</p>

<p>"Halt! halt!" cried a deep-toned, manly voice in the leading
column, and<br>
the word was repeated from mouth to mouth to the rear.</p>

<p>We dismounted, and picketing our horses beneath the
broad-leaved foliage<br>
of the cork-trees, stretched ourselves out at full length upon
the grass,<br>
while our messmen prepared the dinner. Our party at first
consisted of<br>
Hixley, Power, the adjutant, and myself; but our number was soon
increased<br>
by three officers of the 6th Foot, about to join their
regiment.</p>

<p>"Barring the ladies, God bless them!" said Power, "there are
no such<br>
picnics as campaigning presents. The charms of scenery are
greatly enhanced<br>
by their coming unexpectedly on you. Your chance good fortune in
the prog<br>
has an interest that no ham-and-cold-chicken affair, prepared by
your<br>
servants beforehand, and got ready with a degree of fuss and
worry that<br>
converts the whole party into an assembly of cooks, can ever
afford; and<br>
lastly, the excitement that this same life of ours is never
without, gives<br>
a zest&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There you've hit it," cried Hixley; "it's that same feeling
of uncertainty<br>
that those who meet now may ever do so again, full as it is of
sorrowful<br>
reflection, that still teaches us, as we become inured to war, to
economize<br>
our pleasures, and be happy when we may. Your health, O'Malley,
and your<br>
uncle Godfrey's too."</p>

<p>"A little more of the pastry."</p>

<p>"What a capital guinea fowl this is!"</p>

<p>"That's some of old Monsoon's particular port."</p>

<p>"Pass it round here. Really this is pleasant."</p>

<p>"My blessing on the man who left that vista yonder! See what a
glorious<br>
valley stretches out there, undulating in its richness; and look
at those<br>
dark trees, where just one streak of soft sunlight is kissing
their tops,<br>
giving them one chaste good-night&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well done, Power!"</p>

<p>"Confound you, you've pulled me short, and I was about
becoming downright<br>
pastoral. Apropos of kissing, I understand Sir Arthur won't allow
the<br>
convents to be occupied by troops."</p>

<p>"And apropos of convents," said I, "let's hear your story; you
promised it<br>
a while ago."</p>

<p>"My dear Charley, it's far too early in the evening for a
story. I should<br>
rather indulge my poetic fancies here, under the shade of
melancholy<br>
boughs; and besides, I am not half screwed up yet."</p>

<p>"Come, Adjutant, let's have a song."</p>

<p>"I'll sing you a Portuguese serenade when the next bottle
comes in. What<br>
capital port! Have you much of it?"</p>

<p>"Only three dozen. We got it late last night; forged an order
from the<br>
commanding officer and sent it up to old Monsoon,&mdash;'for hospital
use.' He<br>
gave it with a tear in his eye, saying, as the sergeant marched
away,<br>
'Only think of such wine for fellows that may be in the next
world before<br>
morning! It's a downright sin!'"</p>

<p>"I say, Power, there's something going on there."</p>

<p>At this instant the trumpet sounded "boot and saddle," and
like one man the<br>
whole mass rose up, when the scene, late so tranquil, became one
of excited<br>
bustle and confusion. An aide-de-camp galloped past towards the
river,<br>
followed by two orderly sergeants; and the next moment Sparks
rode up, his<br>
whole equipment giving evidence of a hurried ride, while his
cheek was<br>
deadly pale and haggard.</p>

<p>Power presented to him a goblet of sherry, which, having
emptied at a<br>
draught, he drew a long breath, and said, "They are
coming,&mdash;coming in<br>
force!"</p>

<p>"Who are coming?" said Power. "Take time, man, and collect
yourself."</p>

<p>"The French! I saw them a devilish deal closer than I liked.
They wounded<br>
one of the orderlies and took the other prisoner."</p>

<p>"Forward!" said a hoarse voice in the front. "March! trot!"
And before we<br>
could obtain any further information from Sparks, whose faculties
seemed to<br>
have received a terrific shock, we were once more in the saddle,
and moving<br>
at a brisk pace onward.</p>

<p>Sparks had barely time to tell us that a large body of French
cavalry<br>
occupied the pass of Berar, when he was sent for by General
Cotton to<br>
finish his report.</p>

<p>"How frightened the fellow is!" said Hixley.</p>

<p>"I don't think the worse of poor Sparks for all that," said
Power. "He saw<br>
those fellows for the first time, and no bird's-eye view of them
either."</p>

<p>"Then we are in for a skirmish, at least," said I.</p>

<p>"It would appear not, from that," said Hixley, pointing to the
head of the<br>
column, which, leaving the high road upon the left, entered the
forest by a<br>
deep cleft that opened upon a valley traversed by a broad
river.</p>

<p>"That looks very like taking up a position, though," said
Power.</p>

<p>"Look,&mdash;look down yonder!" cried Hixley, pointing to a dip in
the plain<br>
beside the river. "Is there not a cavalry picket there?"</p>

<p>"Right, by Jove! I say, Fitzroy," said Power to an
aide-de-camp as he<br>
passed, "what's going on?"</p>

<p>"Soult has carried Oporto," cried he, "and Franchesca's
cavalry have<br>
escaped."</p>

<p>"And who are these fellows in the valley?"</p>

<p>"Our own people coming up."</p>

<p>In less than half an hour's brisk trotting we reached the
stream, the banks<br>
of which were occupied by two cavalry regiments advancing to the
main army;<br>
and what was my delight to find that one of them was our own
corps, the<br>
14th Light Dragoons!</p>

<p>"Hurra!" cried Power, waving his cap as he came up. "How are
you,<br>
Sedgewick? Baker, my hearty, how goes it? How is Hampton and the
colonel?"</p>

<p>In an instant we were surrounded by our brother officers, who
all shook me<br>
cordially by the hand, and welcomed me to the regiment with most
gratifying<br>
warmth.</p>

<p>"One of us," said Power, with a knowing look, as he introduced
me; and the<br>
freemasonry of these few words secured me a hearty greeting.</p>

<p>"Halt! halt! Dismount!" sounded again from front to rear; and
in a few<br>
minutes we were once more stretched upon the grass, beneath the
deep<br>
and mellow moonlight, while the bright stream ran placidly beside
us,<br>
reflecting on its calm surface the varied groups as they lounged
or sat<br>
around the blazing fires of the bivouac.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLIV.</p>

<p>THE BIVOUAC.</p>

<p>When I contrasted the gay and lively tone of the conversation
which ran on<br>
around our bivouac fire, with the dry monotony and prosaic
tediousness of<br>
my first military dinner at Cork, I felt how much the spirit and
adventure<br>
of a soldier's life can impart of chivalrous enthusiasm to even
the dullest<br>
and least susceptible. I saw even many who under common
circumstances,<br>
would have possessed no interest nor excited any curiosity, but
now,<br>
connected as they were with the great events occurring around
them,<br>
absolutely became heroes; and it was with a strange, wild
throbbing of<br>
excitement I listened to the details of movements and marches,
whose<br>
objects I knew not, but in which the magical words, Corunna,
Vimeira,<br>
were mixed up, and gave to the circumstances an interest of the
highest<br>
character. How proud, too, I felt to be the companion-in-arms of
such<br>
fellows! Here they sat, the tried and proved soldiers of a
hundred fights,<br>
treating me as their brother and their equal. Who need wonder if
I felt<br>
a sense of excited pleasure? Had I needed such a stimulant, that
night<br>
beneath the cork-trees had been enough to arouse a passion for
the army in<br>
my heart, and an irrepressible determination to seek for a
soldier's glory.</p>

<p>"Fourteenth!" called out a voice from the wood behind; and in
a moment<br>
after, the aide-de-camp appeared with a mounted orderly.</p>

<p>"Colonel Merivale?" said he, touching his cap to the stalwart,
soldier-like<br>
figure before him.</p>

<p>The colonel bowed.</p>

<p>"Sir Stapleton Cotton desires me to request that at an early
hour to-morrow<br>
you will occupy the pass, and cover the march of the troops. It
is his<br>
wish that all the reinforcements should arrive at Oporto by noon.
I need<br>
scarcely add that we expect to be engaged with the enemy."</p>

<p>These few words were spoken hurriedly, and again saluting our
party, he<br>
turned his horse's head and continued his way towards the
rear.</p>

<p>"There's news for you, Charley," said Power, slapping me on
the shoulder.<br>
"Lucy Dashwood or Westminster Abbey!"</p>

<p>"The regiment was never in finer condition, that's certain,"
said the<br>
colonel, "and most eager for a brush with the enemy."</p>

<p>"How your old friend, the count, would have liked this work!"
said Hixley.<br>
"Gallant fellow he was."</p>

<p>"Come," cried Power, "here's a fresh bowl coming. Let's drink
the ladies,<br>
wherever they be; we most of us have some soft spot on that
score."</p>

<p>"Yes," said the adjutant, singing,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "Here's to the maiden of blushing fifteen;<br>
      Here's to the damsel that's merry;<br>
    Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And," sang Power, interrupting,&mdash;</p>

<p>      "Here's to the 'Widow of Derry.'"</p>

<p>"Come, come, Fred, no more quizzing on that score. It's the
only thing ever<br>
gives me a distaste to the service,&mdash;the souvenir of that
adventure. When<br>
I reflect what I might have been, and think what I am; when I
contrast a<br>
Brussels carpet with wet grass, silk hangings with a canvas tent,
Sneyd's<br>
claret with ration brandy, and Sir Arthur for a
Commander-in-Chief <i>vice</i><br>
Boggs, a widow&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stop there!" cried Hixley. "Without disparaging the fair
widow, there's<br>
nothing beats campaigning, after all. Eh, Fred?"</p>

<p>"And to prove it," said the colonel, "Power will sing us a
song."</p>

<p>Power took his pencil from his pocket, and placing the back of
a letter<br>
across his shako, commenced inditing his lyric, saying, as he did
so, "I'm<br>
your man in five minutes. Just fill my glass in the mean
time."</p>

<p>"That fellow beats Dibdin hollow," whispered the adjutant.
"I'll be hanged<br>
if he'll not knock you off a song like lightning."</p>

<p>"I understand," said Hixley, "they have some intention at the
Horse Guards<br>
of having all the general orders set to popular tunes, and sung
at every<br>
mess in the service. You've heard that, I suppose, Sparks?"</p>

<p>"I confess I had not before."</p>

<p>"It will certainly come very hard upon the subalterns,"
continued Hixley,<br>
with much gravity. "They'll have to brush up their <i>sol mi
fas</i>. All the<br>
solos are to be their part."</p>

<p>"What rhymes with slaughter?" said Power.</p>

<p>"Brandy-and-water," said the adjutant.</p>

<p>"Now, then," said Power, "are you all ready?"</p>

<p>"Ready."</p>

<p>"You must chorus, mind; and mark me, take care you give the
hip-hip-hurra<br>
well, as that's the whole force of the chant. Take the time from
me. Now<br>
for it. Air, 'Garryowen,' with spirit, but not too quick.</p>

<p>    "Now that we've pledged each eye of blue,<br>
    And every maiden fair and true,<br>
    And our green island home,&mdash;to you<br>
      The ocean's wave adorning,<br>
    Let's give one Hip-hip-hip-hnrra!<br>
    And, drink e'en to the coming day,<br>
          When, squadron square,<br>
          We'll all be there,<br>
      To meet the French in the morning.</p>

<p>    "May his bright laurels never fade,<br>
    Who leads our fighting fifth brigade,<br>
    Those lads so true in heart and blade,<br>
      And famed for danger scorning.<br>
    So join me in one Hip-hurra!<br>
    And drink e'en to the coming day,<br>
          When, squadron square,<br>
          We'll all be there,<br>
      To meet the French in the morning.</p>

<p>    "And when with years and honors crowned,<br>
    You sit some homeward hearth around,<br>
    And hear no more the stirring sound<br>
          That spoke the trumpet's warning,<br>
    You'll fill and drink, one Hip-hurra!<br>
    And pledge the memory of the day,<br>
          When, squadron square,<br>
          They all were there,<br>
      To meet the French in the morning."</p>

<p>"Gloriously done, Fred!" cried Hixley. "If I ever get my
deserts in this<br>
world, I'll make you Laureate to the Forces, with a hogshead of
your own<br>
native whiskey for every victory of the army."</p>

<p>"A devilish good chant," said Merivale, "but the air surpasses
anything I<br>
ever heard,&mdash;thoroughly Irish, I take it."</p>

<p>"Irish! upon my conscience, I believe you!" shouted
O'Shaughnessy, with an<br>
energy of voice and manner that created a hearty laugh on all
sides. "It's<br>
few people ever mistook it for a Venetian melody. Hand over the
punch,&mdash;the<br>
sherry, I mean. When I was in the Clare militia, we always went
in to<br>
dinner to 'Tatter Jack Walsh,' a sweet air, and had 'Garryowen'
for a<br>
quick-step. Ould M'Manus, when he got the regiment, wanted to
change: he<br>
said, they were damned vulgar tunes, and wanted to have 'Rule
Britannia,'<br>
or the 'Hundredth Psalm;' but we would not stand it; there would
have been<br>
a mutiny in the corps."</p>

<p>"The same fellow, wasn't he, that you told the story of, the
other evening,<br>
in Lisbon?" said I.</p>

<p>"The same. Well, what a character he was! As pompous and
conceited a little<br>
fellow as ever you met with; and then, he was so bullied by his
wife, he<br>
always came down to revenge it on the regiment. She was a fine,
showy,<br>
vulgar woman, with a most cherishing affection for all the good
things in<br>
this life, except her husband, whom she certainly held in due
contempt. 'Ye<br>
little crayture,' she'd say to him with a sneer, 'it ill becomes
you<br>
to drink and sing, and be making a man of yourself. If you were
like<br>
O'Shaughnessy there, six foot three in his stockings&mdash;'Well,
well, it looks<br>
like boasting; but no matter. Here's her health, anyway."</p>

<p>"I knew you were tender in that quarter," said Power, "I heard
it when<br>
quartered in Limerick."</p>

<p>"May be you heard, too, how I paid off Mac, when ho came down
on a visit to<br>
that county?"</p>

<p>"Never: let's hear it now."</p>

<p>"Ay, O'Shaughnessy, now's your time; the fire's a good one,
the night fine,<br>
and liquor plenty."</p>

<p>"I'm <i>convanient</i>," said O'Shaughnessy, as depositing his
enormous legs on<br>
each side of the burning fagots, and placing a bottle between his
knees he<br>
began his story:&mdash;</p>

<p>"It was a cold rainy night in January, in the year '98, I took
my place in<br>
the Limerick mail, to go down for a few days to the west country.
As the<br>
waiter of the Hibernian came to the door with a lantern, I just
caught a<br>
glimpse of the other insides; none of whom were known to me,
except Colonel<br>
M'Manus, that I met once in a boarding-house in Molcsworth
Street. I did<br>
not, at the time, think him a very agreeable companion; but when
morning<br>
broke, and we began to pay our respects to each other in the
coach, I<br>
leaned over, and said, 'I hope you're well, Colonel M'Manus,'
just by way<br>
of civility like. He didn't hear me at first; so that I said it
again, a<br>
little louder.</p>

<p>"I wish you saw the look he gave me; he drew himself up to the
height of<br>
his cotton umbrella, put his chin inside his cravat, pursed up
his dry,<br>
shrivelled lips, and with a voice he meant to be awful,
replied:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'You appear to have the advantage of me.'</p>

<p>"'Upon my conscience, you're right,' said I, looking down at
myself, and<br>
then over at him, at which the other travellers burst out a
laughing,&mdash;'I<br>
think there's few will dispute that point.' When the laugh was
over, I<br>
resumed,&mdash;for I was determined not to let him off so easily.
'Sure I met<br>
you at Mrs. Cayle's,' said I; 'and, by the same token, it was a
Friday, I<br>
remember it well,&mdash;may be you didn't pitch into the salt cod? I
hope it<br>
didn't disagree with you?'</p>

<p>"'I beg to repeat, sir, that you are under a mistake,' said
he.</p>

<p>"'May be so, indeed,' said I. 'May be you're not Colonel
M'Manus at all;<br>
may be you wasn't in a passion for losing seven-and-sixpence at
loo with<br>
Mrs. Moriarty; may be you didn't break the lamp in the hall with
your<br>
umbrella, pretending you touched it with your head, and wasn't
within three<br>
foot of it; may be Counsellor Brady wasn't going to put you in
the box of<br>
the Foundling Hospital, if you wouldn't behave quietly in the
streets&mdash;'</p>

<p>"Well, with this the others laughed so heartily, that I could
not go on;<br>
and the next stage the bold colonel got outside with the guard
and never<br>
came in till we reached Limerick. I'll never forget his face, as
he got<br>
down at Swinburne's Hotel. 'Good-by, Colonel,' said I; but he
wouldn't take<br>
the least notice of my politeness, but with a frown of utter
defiance, he<br>
turned on his heel and walked away.</p>

<p>"'I haven't done with you yet,' says I; and, faith, I kept my
word.</p>

<p>"I hadn't gone ten yards down the street, when I met my old
friend Darby<br>
O'Grady.</p>

<p>"'Shaugh, my boy,' says he,&mdash;he called me that way for
shortness,&mdash;'dine<br>
with me to-day at Mosey's; a green goose and gooseberries; six to
a<br>
minute.'</p>

<p>"'Who have you?' says I.</p>

<p>"'Tom Keane and the Wallers, a counsellor or two, and one
M'Manus, from<br>
Dublin.'</p>

<p>"'The colonel?'</p>

<p>"'The same,' said he.</p>

<p>"'I'm there, Darby!' said I; 'but mind, you never saw me
before.'</p>

<p>"'What?' said he.</p>

<p>"'You never set eyes on me before; mind that.'</p>

<p>"'I understand,' said Darby, with a wink; and we parted.</p>

<p>"I certainly was never very particular about dressing for
dinner, but on<br>
this day I spent a considerable time at my toilet; and when I
looked in my<br>
glass at its completion, was well satisfied that I had done
myself justice.<br>
A waistcoat of brown rabbit-skin with flaps, a red worsted
comforter<br>
round my neck, an old gray shooting-jacket with a brown patch on
the arm,<br>
corduroys, and leather gaiters, with a tremendous oak cudgel in
my hand,<br>
made me a most presentable figure for a dinner party.</p>

<p>"'Will I do, Darby?' says I, as he came into my room before
dinner.</p>

<p>"'If it's for robbing the mail you are,' says he, 'nothing
could be better.<br>
Your father wouldn't know you!'</p>

<p>"'Would I be the better of a wig?'</p>

<p>"'Leave your hair alone,' said he. 'It's painting the lily to
alter it.'</p>

<p>"'Well, God's will be done,' says I, 'so come now.'</p>

<p>"Well, just as the clock struck six I saw the colonel coming
out of his<br>
room, in a suit of most accurate sable, stockings, and pumps.
Down-stairs<br>
he went, and I heard the waiter announce him.</p>

<p>"'Now's my time,' thought I, as I followed slowly after.</p>

<p>"When I reached the door I heard several voices within, among
which I<br>
recognized some ladies. Darby had not told me about them. 'But no
matter,'<br>
said I; 'it's all as well;' so I gave a gentle tap at the door
with my<br>
knuckles.</p>

<p>"'Come in,' said Darby.</p>

<p>"I opened the door slowly, and putting in only my head and
shoulders took a<br>
cautious look round the room.</p>

<p>"'I beg pardon, gentlemen,' said I, 'but I was only looking
for one Colonel<br>
M'Manus, and as he is not here&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Pray walk in, sir,' said O'Grady, with a polite bow.
'Colonel M'Manus<br>
is here. There's no intrusion whatever. I say, Colonel,' said he
turning<br>
round, 'a gentleman here desires to&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Never mind it now,' said I, as I stepped cautiously into the
room, 'he's<br>
going to dinner; another time will do just as well.'</p>

<p>"'Pray come in!'</p>

<p>"'I could not think of intruding&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'I must protest,' said M'Manus, coloring up, 'that I cannot
understand<br>
this gentleman's visit.'</p>

<p>"'It is a little affair I have to settle with him,' said I,
with a fierce<br>
look that I saw produced its effect.</p>

<p>"'Then perhaps you would do me the very great favor to join
him at dinner,'<br>
said O'Grady. 'Any friend of Colonel M'Manus&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'You are really too good,' said I; 'but as an utter
stranger&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Never think of that for a moment. My friend's friend, as the
adage says.'</p>

<p>"'Upon my conscience, a good saying,' said I, 'but you see
there's another<br>
difficulty. I've ordered a chop and potatoes up in No. 5.'</p>

<p>"'Let that be no obstacle,' said O'Grady. 'The waiter shall
put it in my<br>
bill; if you will only do me the pleasure.'</p>

<p>"'You're a trump,' said I. 'What's your name?'</p>

<p>"'O'Grady, at your service.'</p>

<p>"'Any relation of the counsellor?' said I. 'They're all one
family, the<br>
O'Gradys. I'm Mr. O'Shaughnessy, from Ennis; won't you introduce
me to the<br>
ladies?'</p>

<p>"While the ceremony of presentation was going on I caught one
glance at<br>
M'Manus, and had hard work not to roar out laughing. Such an
expression of<br>
surprise, amazement, indignation, rage, and misery never was
mixed up in<br>
one face before. Speak he could not; and I saw that, except for
myself, he<br>
had neither eyes, ears, nor senses for anything around him. Just
at this<br>
moment dinner was announced, and in we went. I never was in such
spirits in<br>
my life; the trick upon M'Manus had succeeded perfectly; he
believed in his<br>
heart that I had never met O'Grady in my life before, and that
upon the<br>
faith of our friendship, I had received my invitation. As for me,
I spared<br>
him but little. I kept up a running fire of droll stories, had
the ladies<br>
in fits of laughing, made everlasting allusions to the colonel;
and, in<br>
a word, ere the soup had disappeared, except himself, the company
was<br>
entirely with me.</p>

<p>"'O'Grady,' said I, 'forgive the freedom, but I feel as if we
were old<br>
acquaintances.'</p>

<p>"'As Colonel M'Manus's friend,' said he, 'you can take no
liberty here to<br>
which you are not perfectly welcome.'</p>

<p>"'Just what I expected,' said I. 'Mac and I,'&mdash;I wish you saw
his face when<br>
I called him Mac,&mdash;'Mac and I were schoolfellows five-and-thirty
years ago;<br>
though he forgets me, I don't forget him,&mdash;to be sure it would be
hard for<br>
me. I'm just thinking of the day Bishop Oulahan came over to
visit the<br>
college. Mac was coming in at the door of the refectory as the
bishop was<br>
going out. "Take off your caubeen, you young scoundrel, and kneel
down for<br>
his reverence to bless you," said one of the masters, giving his
hat a blow<br>
at the same moment that sent it flying to the other end of the
room, and<br>
with it, about twenty ripe pears that Mac had just stolen in the
orchard,<br>
and had in his hat. I wish you only saw the bishop; and Mac
himself, he was<br>
a picture. Well, well, you forget it all now, but I remember it
as if it<br>
was only yesterday. Any champagne, Mr. O'Grady? I'm mighty
dry.'</p>

<p>"'Of course,' said Darby. 'Waiter, some champagne here.'</p>

<a name="0381"></a>
<img alt="0381.jpg (119K)" src="0381.jpg" height="573" width="651">

<p>[THE SALUTATION.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"'Ah, it's himself was the boy for every kind of fun and
devilment, quiet<br>
and demure as he looks over there. Mac, your health. It's not
every day of<br>
the week we get champagne.'</p>

<p>"He laid down his knife and fork as I said this; his face and
temples grew<br>
deep purple; his eyes started as if they would spring from his
head; and he<br>
put both his hands to his forehead, as if trying to assure
himself that it<br>
was not some horrid dream.</p>

<p>"'A little slice more of the turkey,' said I, 'and then,
O'Grady, I'll try<br>
your hock. It's a wine I'm mighty fond of, and so is Mac there.
Oh, it's<br>
seldom, to tell you the truth, it troubles us. There, fill up the
glass;<br>
that's it. Here now, Darby,&mdash;that's your name, I think,&mdash;you'll
not think<br>
I'm taking a liberty in giving a toast? Here then, I'll give
M'Manus's<br>
health, with all the honors; though it's early yet, to be sure,
but we'll<br>
do it again, by-and-by, when the whiskey comes. Here's M'Manus's
good<br>
health; and though his wife, they say, does not treat him well,
and keeps<br>
him down&mdash;'</p>

<p>"The roar of laughing that interrupted me here was produced by
the<br>
expression of poor Mac's face. He had started up from the table,
and<br>
leaning with both his hands upon it, stared round upon the
company like a<br>
maniac,&mdash;his mouth and eyes wide open, and his hair actually
bristling with<br>
amazement. Thus he remained for a full minute, gasping like a
fish in<br>
a landing-net. It seemed a hard struggle for him to believe he
was not<br>
deranged. At last his eyes fell upon me; he uttered a deep groan,
and with<br>
a voice tremulous with rage, thundered out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'The scoundrel! I never saw him before.'</p>

<p>"He rushed from the room, and gained the street. Before our
roar of<br>
laughter was over he had secured post-horses, and was galloping
towards<br>
Ennis at the top speed of his cattle.</p>

<p>"He exchanged at once into the line; but they say that he
caught a glimpse<br>
of my name in the army list, and sold out the next morning; be
that as it<br>
may, we never met since."</p>

<p>I have related O'Shaughnessy's story here, rather from the
memory I have of<br>
how we all laughed at it at the time, than from any feeling as to
its real<br>
desert; but when I think of the voice, look, accent, and gesture
of the<br>
narrator, I can scarcely keep myself from again giving way to
laughter.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLV.</p>

<p>THE DOURO.</p>

<p>Never did the morning break more beautifully than on the 12th
of May, 1809.<br>
Huge masses of fog-like vapor had succeeded to the starry,
cloudless night,<br>
but one by one, they moved onwards towards the sea, disclosing as
they<br>
passed long tracts of lovely country, bathed in a rich golden
glow. The<br>
broad Douro, with its transparent current, shone out like a
bright-colored<br>
ribbon, meandering through the deep garment of fairest green; the
darkly<br>
shadowed mountains which closed the background loomed even larger
than they<br>
were; while their summits were tipped with the yellow glory of
the morning.<br>
The air was calm and still, and the very smoke that arose from
the<br>
peasant's cot labored as it ascended through the perfumed air,
and save the<br>
ripple of the stream, all was silent as the grave.</p>

<p>The squadron of the 14th, with which I was, had diverged from
the road<br>
beside the river, and to obtain a shorter path, had entered the
skirts of<br>
a dark pine wood; our pace was a sharp one; an orderly had been
already<br>
despatched to hasten our arrival, and we pressed on at a brisk
trot. In<br>
less than an hour we reached the verge of the wood, and as we
rode out upon<br>
the plain, what a spectacle met our eyes! Before us, in a narrow
valley<br>
separated from the river by a low ridge, were picketed three
cavalry<br>
regiments; their noiseless gestures and perfect stillness
be-speaking at<br>
once that they were intended for a surprise party. Farther down
the stream,<br>
and upon the opposite side, rose the massive towers and tall
spires of<br>
Oporto, displaying from their summits the broad ensign of France;
while far<br>
as the eye could reach, the broad dark masses of troops might be
seen; the<br>
intervals between their columns glittering with the bright
equipments of<br>
their cavalry, whose steel caps and lances were sparkling in the
sun-beams.<br>
The bivouac fires were still smouldering, and marking where some
part of<br>
the army had passed the night; for early as it was, it was
evident that<br>
their position had been changed; and even now, the heavy masses
of dark<br>
infantry might be seen moving from place to place, while the long
line of<br>
the road to Vallonga was marked with a vast cloud of dust. The
French drum<br>
and the light infantry bugle told, from time to time, that orders
were<br>
passing among the troops; while the glittering uniform of a staff
officer,<br>
as he galloped from the town, bespoke the note of
preparation.</p>

<p>"Dismount! Steady; quietly, my lads," said the colonel, as he
alighted upon<br>
the grass. "Let the men have their breakfast."</p>

<p>The little amphitheatre we occupied hid us entirely from all
observation<br>
on the part of the enemy, but equally so excluded us from
perceiving their<br>
movements. It may readily be supposed then, with what impatience
we waited<br>
here, while the din and clangor of the French force, as they
marched and<br>
countermarched so near us, were clearly audible. The orders were,
however,<br>
strict that none should approach the bank of the river, and we
lay<br>
anxiously awaiting the moment when this inactivity should cease.
More than<br>
one orderly had arrived among us, bearing despatches from
headquarters; but<br>
where our main body was, or what the nature of the orders, no one
could<br>
guess. As for me, my excitement was at its height, and I could
not speak<br>
for the very tension of my nerves. The officers stood in little
groups of<br>
two and three, whispering anxiously together; but all I could
collect was,<br>
that Soult had already begun his retreat upon Amarante, and that,
with the<br>
broad stream of the Douro between us, he defied our pursuit.</p>

<p>"Well, Charley," said Power, laying his arm upon my shoulder,
"the French<br>
have given us the slip this time; they are already in march, and
even if we<br>
dared force a passage in the face of such an enemy, it seems
there is not a<br>
boat to be found. I have just seen Hammersley."</p>

<p>"Indeed! Where is he?" said I.</p>

<p>"He's gone back to Villa de Conde; he asked after you most
particularly.<br>
Don't blush, man; I'd rather back your chance than his,
notwithstanding the<br>
long letter that Lucy sends him. Poor fellow, he has been badly
wounded,<br>
but, it seems, declines going back to England."</p>

<p>"Captain Power," said an orderly, touching his cap, "General
Murray desires<br>
to see you."</p>

<p>Power hastened away, but returned in a few moments.</p>

<p>"I say, Charley, there's something in the wind here. I have
just been<br>
ordered to try where the stream is fordable. I've mentioned your
name to<br>
the general, and I think you'll be sent for soon. Good-by."</p>

<p>I buckled on my sword, and looking to my girths, stood
watching the groups<br>
around me; when suddenly a dragoon pulled his horse short up, and
asked a<br>
man near me if Mr. O'Malley was there.</p>

<p>"Yes; I am he."</p>

<p>"Orders from General Murray, sir," said the man, and rode off
at a canter.</p>

<p>I opened and saw that the despatch was addressed to Sir Arthur
Wellesley,<br>
with the mere words, "With haste!" on the envelope.</p>

<p>Now, which way to turn I knew not; so springing into the
saddle, I galloped<br>
to where Colonel Merivale was standing talking to the colonel of
a heavy<br>
dragoon regiment.</p>

<p>"May I ask, sir, by which road I am to proceed with this
despatch?"</p>

<p>"Along the river, sir," said the heavy &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, a large
dark-browed man,<br>
with a most forbidding look. "You'll soon see the troops; you'd
better stir<br>
yourself, sir, or Sir Arthur is not very likely to be pleased
with you."</p>

<p>Without venturing a reply to what I felt a somewhat
unnecessary taunt, I<br>
dashed spurs into my horse, and turned towards the river. I had
not gained<br>
the bank above a minute, when the loud ringing of a rifle struck
upon my<br>
ear; bang went another, and another. I hurried on, however, at
the top of<br>
my speed, thinking only of my mission and its pressing haste. As
I turned<br>
an angle of the stream, the vast column of the British came in
sight, and<br>
scarcely had my eye rested upon them when my horse staggered
forwards,<br>
plunged twice with his head nearly to the earth, and then,
rearing madly<br>
up, fell backwards to the ground. Crushed and bruised as I felt
by my fall,<br>
I was soon aroused to the necessity of exertion; for as I
disengaged myself<br>
from the poor beast, I discovered he had been killed by a bullet
in the<br>
counter; and scarcely had I recovered my legs when a shot struck
my shako<br>
and grazed my temples. I quickly threw myself to the ground, and
creeping<br>
on for some yards, reached at last some rising ground, from which
I rolled<br>
gently downwards into a little declivity, sheltered by the bank
from the<br>
French fire.</p>

<p>When I arrived at headquarters, I was dreadfully fatigued and
heated;<br>
but resolving not to rest till I had delivered my despatches, I
hastened<br>
towards the convent of La Sierra, where I was told the
commander-in-chief<br>
was.</p>

<p>As I came into the court of the convent, filled with general
officers and<br>
people of the staff, I was turning to ask how I should proceed,
when Hixley<br>
caught my eye.</p>

<p>"Well, O'Malley, what brings you here?"</p>

<p>"Despatches from General Murray."</p>

<p>"Indeed; oh, follow me."</p>

<p>He hurried me rapidly through the buzzing crowd, and ascending
a large<br>
gloomy stair, introduced me into a room, whore about a dozen
persons in<br>
uniform were writing at a long deal table.</p>

<p>"Captain Gordon," said he, addressing one of them, "despatches
requiring<br>
immediate attention have just been brought by this officer."</p>

<p>Before the sentence was finished the door opened, and a short,
slight man,<br>
in a gray undress coat, with a white cravat and a cocked hat,
entered. The<br>
dead silence that ensued was not necessary to assure me that he
was one in<br>
authority,&mdash;the look of command his bold, stern features
presented; the<br>
sharp, piercing eye, the compressed lip, the impressive
expression of the<br>
whole face, told plainly that he was one who held equally himself
and<br>
others in mastery.</p>

<p>"Send General Sherbroke here," said he to an aide-de-camp.
"Let the light<br>
brigade march into position;" and then turning suddenly to me,
"Whose<br>
despatches are these?"</p>

<p>"General Murray's, sir."</p>

<p>I needed no more than that look to assure me that this was he
of whom I had<br>
heard so much, and of whom the world was still to hear so much
more.</p>

<p>He opened them quickly, and glancing his eye across the
contents, crushed<br>
the paper in his hand. Just as he did so, a spot of blood upon
the envelope<br>
attracted his attention.</p>

<p>"How's this,&mdash;are you wounded?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; my horse was killed&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Very well, sir; join your brigade. But stay, I shall have
orders for you.<br>
Well, Waters, what news?"</p>

<p>This question was addressed to an officer in a staff uniform,
who entered<br>
at the moment, followed by the short and bulky figure of a monk,
his shaven<br>
crown and large cassock strongly contrasting with the gorgeous
glitter of<br>
the costumes around him.</p>

<p>"I say, who have we here?"</p>

<p>"The Prior of Amarante, sir," replied Waters, "who has just
come over. We<br>
have already, by his aid, secured three large barges&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Let the artillery take up position in the convent at once,"
said Sir<br>
Arthur, interrupting. "The boats will be brought round to the
small creek<br>
beneath the orchard. You, sir," turning to me, "will convey to
General<br>
Murray&mdash;but you appear weak. You, Gordon, will desire Murray to
effect a<br>
crossing at Avintas with the Germans and the 14th. Sherbroke's
division<br>
will occupy the Villa Nuova. What number of men can that seminary
take?"</p>

<p>"From three to four hundred, sir. The padre mentions that all
the vigilance<br>
of the enemy is limited to the river below the town."</p>

<p>"I perceive it," was the short reply of Sir Arthur, as placing
his hands<br>
carelessly behind his back, he walked towards the window, and
looked out<br>
upon the river.</p>

<p>All was still as death in the chamber; not a lip murmured. The
feeling of<br>
respect for him in whose presence we were standing checked every
thought of<br>
utterance; while the stupendous gravity of the events before us
engrossed<br>
every mind and occupied every heart. I was standing near the
window;<br>
the effect of my fall had stunned me for a time, but I was
gradually<br>
recovering, and watched with a thrilling heart the scene before
me. Great<br>
and absorbing as was my interest in what was passing without, it
was<br>
nothing compared with what I felt as I looked at him upon whom
our destiny<br>
was then hanging. I had ample time to scan his features and
canvass their<br>
every lineament. Never before did I look upon such perfect
impassibility;<br>
the cold, determined expression was crossed by no show of passion
or<br>
impatience. All was rigid and motionless, and whatever might have
been the<br>
workings of the spirit within, certainly no external sign
betrayed them;<br>
and yet what a moment for him must that have been! Before him,
separated by<br>
a deep and rapid river, lay the conquering legions of France, led
on by one<br>
second alone to him whose very name had been the <i>prestige</i>
of victory.<br>
Unprovided with every regular means of transport, in the broad
glare of<br>
day, in open defiance of their serried ranks and thundering
artillery,<br>
he dared the deed. What must have been his confidence in the
soldiers he<br>
commanded! What must have been his reliance upon his own genius!
As such<br>
thoughts rushed through my mind, the door opened and an officer
entered<br>
hastily, and whispering a few words to Colonel Waters, left the
room.</p>

<p>"One boat is already brought up to the crossing-place, and
entirely<br>
concealed by the wall of the orchard."</p>

<p>"Let the men cross," was the brief reply.</p>

<p>No other word was spoken as, turning from the window, he
closed his<br>
telescope, and followed by all the others, descended to the
courtyard.</p>

<p>This simple order was enough; an officer with a company of the
Buffs<br>
embarked, and thus began the passage of the Douro.</p>

<p>So engrossed was I in my vigilant observation of our leader,
that I would<br>
gladly have remained at the convent, when I received an order to
join my<br>
brigade, to which a detachment of artillery was already
proceeding.</p>

<p>As I reached Avintas all was in motion. The cavalry was in
readiness beside<br>
the river; but as yet no boats had been discovered, and such was
the<br>
impatience of the men to cross, it was with difficulty they were
prevented<br>
trying the passage by swimming, when suddenly Power appeared
followed by<br>
several fishermen. Three or four small skiffs had been found,
half sunk<br>
in mud, among the rushes, and with such frail assistance we
commenced to<br>
cross.</p>

<p>"There will be something to write home to Galway soon,
Charley, or I'm<br>
terribly mistaken," said Fred, as he sprang into the boat beside
me. "Was I<br>
not a true prophet when I told you 'We'd meet the French in the
morning?'"</p>

<p>"They're at it already," said Hixley, as a wreath of blue
smoke floated<br>
across the stream below us, and the loud boom of a large gun
resounded<br>
through the air.</p>

<p>Then came a deafening shout, followed by a rattling volley of
small arms,<br>
gradually swelling into a hot sustained fire, through which the
cannon<br>
pealed at intervals. Several large meadows lay along the
river-side, where<br>
our brigade was drawn up as the detachments landed from the
boats; and<br>
here, although nearly a league distant from the town, we now
heard the din<br>
and crash of battle, which increased every moment. The cannonade
from the<br>
Sierra convent, which at first was merely the fire of single
guns, now<br>
thundered away in one long roll, amidst which the sounds of
falling walls<br>
and crashing roofs were mingled. It was evident to us, from the
continual<br>
fire kept up, that the landing had been effected; while the
swelling tide<br>
of musketry told that fresh troops were momentarily coming
up.</p>

<p>In less than twenty minutes our brigade was formed, and we now
only waited<br>
for two light four-pounders to be landed, when an officer
galloped up in<br>
haste, and called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The French are in retreat!" and pointing at the same moment
to the<br>
Vallonga road, we saw a long line of smoke and dust leading from
the town,<br>
through which, as we gazed, the colors of the enemy might be seen
as they<br>
defiled, while the unbroken lines of the wagons and heavy baggage
proved<br>
that it was no partial movement, but the army itself
retreating.</p>

<p>"Fourteenth, threes about! close up! trot!" called out the
loud and manly<br>
voice of our leader, and the heavy tramp of our squadrons shook
the very<br>
ground as we advanced towards the road to Vallonga.</p>

<p>As we came on, the scene became one of overwhelming
excitement; the<br>
masses of the enemy that poured unceasingly from the town could
now be<br>
distinguished more clearly; and amidst all the crash of
gun-carriages and<br>
caissons, the voices of the staff officers rose high as they
hurried along<br>
the retreating battalions. A troop of flying artillery galloped
forth<br>
at top speed, and wheeling their guns into position with the
speed of<br>
lightning, prepared, by a flanking fire, to cover the retiring
column. The<br>
gunners sprang from their seats, the guns were already
unlimbered, when Sir<br>
George Murray, riding up at our left, called out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Forward! close up! Charge!"</p>

<p>The word was scarcely spoken when the loud cheer answered the
welcome<br>
sound, and the same instant the long line of shining helmets
passed with<br>
the speed of a whirlwind; the pace increased at every stride, the
ranks<br>
grew closer, and like the dread force of some mighty engine we
fell upon<br>
the foe. I have felt all the glorious enthusiasm of a fox-hunt,
when the<br>
loud cry of the hounds, answered by the cheer of the joyous
huntsman,<br>
stirred the very heart within, but never till now did I know how
far higher<br>
the excitement reaches, when man to man, sabre to sabre, arm to
arm, we<br>
ride forward to the battle-field. On we went, the loud shout of
"Forward!"<br>
still ringing in our ears. One broken, irregular discharge from
the French<br>
guns shook the head of our advancing column, but stayed us not as
we<br>
galloped madly on.</p>

<p>I remember no more. The din, the smoke, the crash, the cry for
quarter,<br>
mingled with the shout of victory, the flying enemy, the
agonizing shrieks<br>
of the wounded,&mdash;all are commingled in my mind, but leave no
trace of<br>
clearness or connection between them; and it was only when the
column<br>
wheeled to reform behind the advancing squadrons, that I awoke
from my<br>
trance of maddening excitement, and perceived that we had carried
the<br>
position and cut off the guns of the enemy.</p>

<p>"Well done, 14th!" said an old gray-headed colonel, as he rode
along our<br>
line,&mdash;"gallantly done, lads!" The blood trickled from a sabre
cut on his<br>
temple, along his cheek, as he spoke; but he either knew it not
or heeded<br>
it not.</p>

<p>"There go the Germans!" said Power, pointing to the remainder
of our<br>
brigade, as they charged furiously upon the French infantry, and
rode them,<br>
down in masses.</p>

<p>Our guns came up at this time, and a plunging fire was opened
upon the<br>
thick and retreating ranks of the enemy. The carnage must have
been<br>
terrific, for the long breaches in their lines showed where the
squadrons<br>
of the cavalry had passed, or the most destructive tide of the
artillery<br>
had swept through them. The speed of the flying columns grew
momentarily<br>
more; the road became blocked up, too, by broken carriages and
wounded; and<br>
to add to their discomfiture, a damaging fire now opened from the
town upon<br>
the retreating column, while the brigade of Guards and the 29th
pressed<br>
hotly on their rear.</p>

<p>The scene was now beyond anything maddening in its interest.
From the walls<br>
of Oporto the English infantry poured forth in pursuit, while the
whole<br>
river was covered with boats as they still continued to cross
over. The<br>
artillery thundered from the Sierra to protect the landing, for
it was even<br>
still contested in places; and the cavalry, charging in flank,
swept the<br>
broken ranks and bore down upon the squares.</p>

<p>It was now, when the full tide of victory ran highest in our
favor, that we<br>
were ordered to retire from the road. Column after column passed
before us,<br>
unmolested and unassailed, and not even a cannon-shot arrested
their steps.</p>

<p>Some unaccountable timidity of our leader directed this
movement; and<br>
while before our very eyes the gallant infantry were charging the
retiring<br>
columns, we remained still and inactive.</p>

<p>How little did the sense of praise we had already won repay us
for the<br>
shame and indignation we experienced at this moment, as with
burning check<br>
and compressed lip we watched the retreating files. "What can he
mean?"<br>
"Is there not some mistake?" "Are we never to charge?" were the
muttered<br>
questions around, as a staff officer galloped up with the order
to take<br>
ground still farther back, and nearer to the river.</p>

<p>The word was scarcely spoken when a young officer, in the
uniform of a<br>
general, dashed impetuously up; he held his plumed cap high above
his head,<br>
as he called out, "14th, follow me! Left face! wheel!
charge!"</p>

<p>So, with the word, we were upon them. The French rear-guard
was at this<br>
moment at the narrowest part of the road, which opened by a
bridge upon a<br>
large open space; so that, forming with a narrow front and
favored by a<br>
declivity in the ground, we actually rode them down. Twice the
French<br>
formed, and twice were they broken. Meanwhile the carnage was
dreadful<br>
on both sides, our fellows dashing madly forward where the ranks
were<br>
thickest, the enemy resisting with the stubborn courage of men
fighting for<br>
their last spot of ground. So impetuous was the charge of our
squadrons,<br>
that we stopped not till, piercing the dense column of the
retreating mass,<br>
we reached the open ground beyond. Here we wheeled and prepared
once more<br>
to meet them, when suddenly some squadrons of cuirassiers
debouched from<br>
the road, and supported by a field-piece, showed front against
us. This was<br>
the moment that the remainder of our brigade should have come to
our aid,<br>
but not a man appeared. However, there was not an instant to be
lost;<br>
already the plunging fire of the four-pounder had swept through
our files,<br>
and every moment increased our danger.</p>

<p>"Once more, my lads, forward!" cried out our gallant leader,
Sir Charles<br>
Stewart, as waving his sabre, he dashed into the thickest of the
fray.</p>

<p>So sudden was our charge that we were upon them before they
were prepared.<br>
And here ensued a terrific struggle; for as the cavalry of the
enemy gave<br>
way before us, we came upon the close ranks of the infantry at
half-pistol<br>
distance, who poured a withering volley into us as we approached.
But what<br>
could arrest the sweeping torrent of our brave fellows, though
every moment<br>
falling in numbers?</p>

<p>Harvey, our major, lost his arm near the shoulder. Scarcely an
officer<br>
was not wounded. Power received a deep sabre-cut in the cheek
from an<br>
aide-de-camp of General Foy, in return for a wound he gave the
general;<br>
while I, in my endeavor to save General Laborde when unhorsed,
was cut down<br>
through the helmet, and so stunned that I remembered no more
around me. I<br>
kept my saddle, it is true, but I lost every sense of
consciousness, my<br>
first glimmering of reason coming to my aid as I lay upon the
river bank<br>
and felt my faithful follower Mike bathing my temples with water,
as he<br>
kept up a running fire of lamentations for my being
<i>murthered</i> so young.</p>

<a name="0393"></a>
<img alt="0393.jpg (152K)" src="0393.jpg" height="900" width="677">

<p>[THE SKIRMISH.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Are you better, Mister Charles? Spake to me, alanah! Say that
you're not<br>
kilt, darling; do now. Oh, wirra! what'll I ever say to the
master? and you<br>
doing so beautiful! Wouldn't he give the best baste in his stable
to be<br>
looking at you to-day? There, take a sup; it's only water. Bad
luck to<br>
them, but it's hard work beatin' them. They 're only gone now.
That's<br>
right; now you're coming to."</p>

<p>"Where am I, Mike?"</p>

<p>"It's here you are, darling, resting yourself."</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, my poor fellow, you've got sore bones, too,"
cried Power,<br>
as, his face swathed in bandages and covered with blood, he lay
down on the<br>
grass beside me. "It was a gallant thing while it lasted, but has
cost us<br>
dearly. Poor Hixley&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What of him?" said I, anxiously.</p>

<p>"Poor fellow, he has seen his last battle-field! He fell
across me as we<br>
came out upon the road. I lifted him up in my arms and bore him
along above<br>
fifty yards; but he was stone dead. Not a sigh, not a word
escaped him;<br>
shot through the forehead." As he spoke, his lips trembled, and
his voice<br>
sank to a mere whisper at the last words: "You remember what he
said last<br>
night. Poor fellow, he was every inch a soldier."</p>

<p>Such was his epitaph.</p>

<p>I turned my head towards the scene of our late encounter. Some
dismounted<br>
guns and broken wagons alone marked the spot; while far in the
distance,<br>
the dust of the retreating columns showed the beaten enemy as
they hurried<br>
towards the frontiers of Spain.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVI.</p>

<p>THE MORNING.</p>

<p>There are few sadder things in life than the day after a
battle. The<br>
high-beating hope, the bounding spirits, have passed away, and in
their<br>
stead comes the depressing reaction by which every overwrought
excitement<br>
is followed. With far different eyes do we look upon the compact
ranks and<br>
glistening files,&mdash;</p>

<p>      With helm arrayed,<br>
      And lance and blade,<br>
    And plume in the gay wind dancing!</p>

<p>and upon the cold and barren heath, whose only memory of the
past is the<br>
blood-stained turf, a mangled corpse, the broken gun, the
shattered wall,<br>
the well-trodden earth where columns stood, the cut-up ground
where cavalry<br>
had charged,&mdash;these are the sad relics of all the chivalry of
yesterday.</p>

<p>The morning which followed the battle of the Douro was one of
the most<br>
beautiful I ever remember. There was that kind of freshness and
elasticity<br>
in the air which certain days possess, and communicate by some
magic their<br>
properties to ourselves. The thrush was singing gayly out from
every grove<br>
and wooded dell; the very river had a sound of gladness as it
rippled on<br>
against its sedgy banks; the foliage, too, sparkled in the fresh
dew, as in<br>
its robes of holiday, and all looked bright and happy.</p>

<p>We were picketed near the river, upon a gently rising ground,
from which<br>
the view extended for miles in every direction. Above us, the
stream came<br>
winding down amidst broad and fertile fields of tall grass and
waving corn,<br>
backed by deep and mellow woods, which were lost to the view upon
the<br>
distant hills; below, the river, widening as it went, pursued a
straighter<br>
course, or turned with bolder curves, till, passing beneath the
town, it<br>
spread into a large sheet of glassy water as it opened to the
sea. The sun<br>
was just rising as I looked upon this glorious scene, and already
the tall<br>
spires of Oporto were tipped with a bright rosy hue, while the
massive<br>
towers and dark walls threw their lengthened shadows far across
the plain.</p>

<p>The fires of the bivouac still burned, but all slept around
them. Not a<br>
sound was heard save the tramp of a patrol or the short, quick
cry of<br>
the sentry. I sat lost in meditation, or rather in that state of
dreamy<br>
thoughtfulness in which the past and present are combined, and
the absent<br>
are alike before us as are the things we look upon.</p>

<p>One moment I felt as though I were describing to my uncle the
battle of the<br>
day before, pointing out where we stood, and how we charged; then
again<br>
I was at home, beside the broad, bleak Shannon, and the brown
hills of<br>
Scariff. I watched with beating heart the tall Sierra, where our
path lay<br>
for the future, and then turned my thoughts to him whose name was
so soon<br>
to be received in England with a nation's pride and gratitude,
and panted<br>
for a soldier's glory.</p>

<p>As thus I followed every rising fancy, I heard a step
approach; it was a<br>
figure muffled in a cavalry cloak, which I soon perceived to be
Power.</p>

<p>"Charley!" said he, in a half-whisper, "get up and come with
me. You are<br>
aware of the general order, that while in pursuit of an enemy,
all military<br>
honors to the dead are forbidden; but we wish to place our poor
comrade in<br>
the earth before we leave."</p>

<p>I followed down a little path, through a grave of tall
beech-trees, that<br>
opened upon a little grassy terrace beside the river. A stunted
olive-tree<br>
stood by itself in the midst, and there I found five of our
brother<br>
officers standing, wrapped in their wide cloaks. As we pressed
each other's<br>
hands, not a word was spoken. Each heart was full; and hard
features that<br>
never quailed before the foe were now shaken with the convulsive
spasm of<br>
agony or compressed with stern determination to seem calm.</p>

<p>A cavalry helmet and a large blue cloak lay upon the grass.
The narrow<br>
grave was already dug beside it; and in the deathlike stillness
around, the<br>
service for the dead was read. The last words were over. We
stooped and<br>
placed the corpse, wrapped up in the broad mantle, in the earth;
we<br>
replaced the mould, and stood silently around the spot. The
trumpet of our<br>
regiment at this moment sounded the call; its clear notes rang
sharply<br>
through the thin air,&mdash;it was the soldier's requiem! and we
turned away<br>
without speaking, and returned to our quarters.</p>

<p>I had never known poor Hixley till a day or two before; but,
somehow, my<br>
grief for him was deep and heartfelt. It was not that his frank
and manly<br>
bearing, his bold and military air, had gained upon me. No; these
were<br>
indeed qualities to attract and delight me, but he had obtained a
stronger<br>
and faster hold upon my affections,&mdash;he spoke to me of home.</p>

<p>Of all the ties that bind us to the chance acquaintances we
meet with in<br>
life, what can equal this one? What a claim upon your love has he
who can,<br>
by some passing word, some fast-flitting thought, bring back the
days of<br>
your youth! What interest can he not excite by some anecdote of
your boyish<br>
days, some well-remembered trait of youthful daring, or early
enterprise!<br>
Many a year of sunshine and of storm have passed above my head; I
have not<br>
been without my moments of gratified pride and rewarded ambition;
but my<br>
heart has never responded so fully, so thankfully, so proudly to
these,<br>
such as they were, as to the simple, touching words of one who
knew my<br>
early home, and loved its inmates.</p>

<p>"Well, Fitzroy, what news?" inquired I, roused from my musing,
as an<br>
aide-de-camp galloped up at full speed.</p>

<p>"Tell Merivale to get the regiment under arms at once. Sir
Arthur Wellesley<br>
will be here in less than half an hour. You may look for the
route<br>
immediately. Where are the Germans quartered?"</p>

<p>"Lower down; beside that grove of beech-trees, next the
river."</p>

<p>Scarcely was my reply spoken, when he dashed spurs into his
horse, and was<br>
soon out of sight. Meanwhile the plain beneath me presented an
animated and<br>
splendid spectacle. The different corps were falling into
position to the<br>
enlivening sounds of their quick-step, the trumpets of the
cavalry rang<br>
loudly through the valley, and the clatter of sabres and
sabretasches<br>
joined with the hollow tramp of the horses, as the squadron came
up.</p>

<p>I had not a moment to lose; so hastening back to my quarters,
I found Mike<br>
waiting with my horse.</p>

<p>"Captain Power's before you, sir," said he, "and you'll have
to make haste.<br>
The regiments are under arms already."</p>

<p>From the little mound where I stood, I could see the long line
of cavalry<br>
as they deployed into the plain, followed by the horse artillery,
which<br>
brought up the rear.</p>

<p>"This looks like a march," thought I, as I pressed forward to
join my<br>
companions.</p>

<p>I had not advanced above a hundred yards through a narrow
ravine when the<br>
measured tread of infantry fell upon my ears. I pulled up to
slacken my<br>
pace, just as the head of a column turned round the angle of the
road, and<br>
came in view. The tall caps of a grenadier company was the first
thing I<br>
beheld, as they came on without roll of drum and sound of fife. I
watched<br>
with a soldier's pride the manly bearing and gallant step of the
dense mass<br>
as they defiled before me. I was struck no less by them than by a
certain<br>
look of a steady but sombre cast which each man wore.</p>

<p>"What can this mean?" thought I.</p>

<p>My first impression was, that a military execution was about
to take place,<br>
the next moment solved my doubt; for as the last files of the
grenadiers<br>
wheeled round, a dense mass behind came in sight, whose unarmed
hands, and<br>
downcast air, at once bespoke them prisoners-of-war.</p>

<p>What a sad sight it was! There was the old and weather-beaten
grenadier,<br>
erect in frame and firm in step, his gray mustache scarcely
concealing<br>
the scowl that curled his lip, side by side with the young and
daring<br>
conscript, even yet a mere boy; their march was regular, their
gaze<br>
steadfast,&mdash;no look of flinching courage there. On they came, a
long<br>
unbroken line. They looked not less proudly than their captors
around them.<br>
As I looked with heavy heart upon them, my attention was
attracted to one<br>
who marched alone behind the rest. He was a middle-sized but
handsome youth<br>
of some eighteen years at most; his light helmet and waving plume
bespoke<br>
him a <i>chasseur &agrave; cheval</i>, and I could plainly
perceive, in his careless<br>
half-saucy air, how indignantly he felt the position to which the
fate of<br>
war had reduced him. He caught my eyes fixed upon him, and for an
instant<br>
turned upon me a gaze of open and palpable defiance, drawing
himself up<br>
to his full height, and crossing his arms upon his breast; but
probably<br>
perceiving in my look more of interest than of triumph, his
countenance<br>
suddenly changed, a deep blush suffused his cheek, his eye beamed
with a<br>
softened and kindly expression, and carrying his hand to his
helmet, he<br>
saluted me, saying, in a voice of singular sweetness,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Je vous souhaite un meilleur sort, camarade."</p>

<p>I bowed, and muttering something in return, was about to make
some inquiry<br>
concerning him, when the loud call of the trumpet rang through
the valley,<br>
and apprised me that, in my interest for the prisoners, I had
forgotten all<br>
else, and was probably incurring censure for my absence.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVII.</p>

<p>THE REVIEW.</p>

<p>When I joined the group of my brother officers, who stood
gayly chatting<br>
and laughing together before our lines, I was much surprised&mdash;nay
almost<br>
shocked&mdash;to find how little seeming impression had been made upon
them, by<br>
the sad duty we had performed that morning.</p>

<p>When last we met, each eye was downcast, each heart was
full,&mdash;sorrow for<br>
him we had lost from among us forever, mingling with the awful
sense of<br>
our own uncertain tenure here, had laid its impress on each brow;
but<br>
now, scarcely an hour elapsed, and all were cheerful and elated.
The last<br>
shovelful of earth upon the grave seemed to have buried both the
dead and<br>
the mourning. And such is war, and such the temperament it forms!
Events so<br>
strikingly opposite in their character and influences succeed so
rapidly<br>
one upon another that the mind is kept in one whirl of
excitement, and at<br>
length accustoms itself to change with every phase of
circumstances; and<br>
between joy and grief, hope and despondency, enthusiasm and
depression,<br>
there is neither breadth nor interval,&mdash;they follow each other as
naturally<br>
as morning succeeds to night.</p>

<p>I had not much time for such reflections; scarcely had I
saluted the<br>
officers about me, when the loud prolonged roll of the drums
along the line<br>
of infantry in the valley, followed by the sharp clatter of
muskets as they<br>
were raised to the shoulder, announced the troops were under
arms, and the<br>
review begun.</p>

<p>"Have you seen the general order this morning, Power?"
inquired an old<br>
officer beside me.</p>

<p>"No; they say, however, that ours are mentioned."</p>

<p>"Harvey is going on favorably," cried a young cornet, as he
galloped up to<br>
our party.</p>

<p>"Take ground to the left!" sung out the clear voice of the
colonel, as<br>
he rode along in front. "Fourteenth, I am happy to inform you
that your<br>
conduct has met approval in the highest quarter. I have just
received the<br>
general orders, in which this occurs:&mdash;</p>

<p>"'THE TIMELY PASSAGE OF THE DOURO, AND SUBSEQUENT MOVEMENTS
UPON THE<br>
ENEMY'S FLANK, BY LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SHERBROKE, WITH THE GUARDS
AND 29TH<br>
REGIMENT, AND THE BRAVERY OF THE TWO SQUADRONS OF THE 14TH
LIGHT<br>
DRAGOONS, UNDER THE COMMAND OF MAJOR HARVEY, AND LED BY THE
HONORABLE<br>
BRIGADIER-GENERAL CHARLES STEWART, OBTAINED THE VICTORY'&mdash;Mark
that, my<br>
lads! obtained the victory&mdash;'WHICH HAS CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH TO THE
HONOR OF<br>
THE TROOPS ON THIS DAY.'"</p>

<p>The words were hardly spoken, when a tremendous cheer burst
from the whole<br>
line at once.</p>

<p>"Steady, Fourteenth! steady, lads!" said the gallant old
colonel, as he<br>
raised his hand gently; "the staff is approaching."</p>

<p>At the same moment, the white plumes appeared, rising above
the brow of<br>
the hill. On they came, glittering in all the splendor of
aignillettes and<br>
orders; all save one. He rode foremost, upon a small, compact,
black horse;<br>
his dress, a plain gray frock fastened at the waist by a red
sash; his<br>
cocked hat alone bespoke, in its plume, the general officer. He
galloped<br>
rapidly on till he came to the centre of the line; then turning
short<br>
round, he scanned the ranks from end to end with an eagle
glance.</p>

<p>"Colonel Merivale, you have made known to your regiment my
opinion of them,<br>
as expressed in general orders?"</p>

<p>The colonel bowed low in acquiescence.</p>

<p>"Fitzroy, you have got the memorandum, I hope?"</p>

<p>The aide-de-camp here presented to Sir Arthur a slip of paper,
which he<br>
continued to regard attentively for some minutes.</p>

<p>"Captain Powel,&mdash;Power, I mean. Captain Power!"</p>

<p>Power rode out from the line.</p>

<p>"Your very distinguished conduct yesterday has been reported
to me. I shall<br>
have sincere pleasure in forwarding your name for the vacant
majority.</p>

<p>"You have forgotten, Colonel Merivale, to send in the name of
the officer<br>
who saved General Laborde's life."</p>

<p>"I believe I have mentioned it, Sir Arthur," said the colonel:
"Mr.<br>
O'Malley."</p>

<p>"True, I beg pardon; so you have&mdash;Mr. O'Malley; a very young
officer<br>
indeed,&mdash;ha, an Irishman! The south of Ireland, eh?"</p>

<p>"No, sir, the west."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes! Well, Mr. O'Malley, you are promoted. You have the
lieutenancy<br>
in your own regiment. By-the-bye, Merivale," here his voice
changed into a<br>
half-laughing tone, "ere I forget it, pray let me beg of you to
look into<br>
this honest fellow's claim; he has given me no peace the entire
morning."</p>

<p>As he spoke, I turned my eyes in the direction he pointed, and
to my utter<br>
consternation, beheld my man Mickey Free standing among the
staff, the<br>
position he occupied, and the presence he stood in, having no
more<br>
perceptible effect upon his nerves than if he were assisting at
an Irish<br>
wake; but so completely was I overwhelmed with shame at the
moment,<br>
that the staff were already far down the lines ere I recovered
my<br>
self-possession, to which, certainly, I was in some degree
recalled by<br>
Master Mike's addressing me in a somewhat imploring voice:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Arrah, spake for me, Master Charles, alanah; sure they might
do something<br>
for me now, av it was only to make me a ganger."</p>

<p>Mickey's ideas of promotion, thus insinuatingly put forward,
threw the<br>
whole party around us into one burst of laughter.</p>

<p>"I have him down there," said he, pointing, as he spoke, to a
thick grove<br>
of cork-trees at a little distance.</p>

<p>"Who have you got there, Mike?" inquired Power.</p>

<p>"Devil a one o' me knows his name," replied he; "may be it's
Bony himself."</p>

<p>"And how do you know he's there still?"</p>

<p>"How do I know, is it? Didn't I tie him last night?"</p>

<p>Curiosity to find out what Mickey could possibly allude to,
induced Power<br>
and myself to follow him down the slope to the clump of trees I
have<br>
mentioned. As we came near, the very distinct denunciations that
issued<br>
from the thicket proved pretty clearly the nature of the affair.
It was<br>
nothing less than a French officer of cavalry that Mike had
unhorsed in the<br>
<i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i>, and wishing, probably, to preserve
some testimony of his prowess,<br>
had made prisoner, and tied fast to a cork-tree, the preceding
evening.</p>

<p>"<i>Sacrebleu!</i>" said the poor Frenchman, as we approached,
"<i>ce sont des<br>
sauvages!</i>"</p>

<p>"Av it's making your sowl ye are," said Mike, "you're right;
for may be<br>
they won't let me keep you alive."</p>

<p>Mike's idea of a tame prisoner threw me into a fit of
laughing, while Power<br>
asked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And what do you want to do with him, Mickey?"</p>

<p>"The sorra one o' me knows, for he spakes no dacent tongue.
Thighum thu,"<br>
said he, addressing the prisoner, with a poke in the ribs at the
same<br>
moment. "But sure, Master Charles, he might tache me French."</p>

<p>There was something so irresistibly ludicrous in his tone and
look as<br>
he said these words, that both Power and myself absolutely roared
with<br>
laughter. We began, however, to feel not a little ashamed of our
position<br>
in the business, and explained to the Frenchman that our worthy
countryman<br>
had but little experience in the usages of war, while we
proceeded to<br>
unbind him and liberate him from his miserable bondage.</p>

<p>"It's letting him loose, you are, Captain? Master Charles,
take care.<br>
Be-gorra, av you had as much trouble in catching him as I had,
you'd think<br>
twice about letting him out. Listen to me, now," here he placed
his closed<br>
fist within an inch of the poor prisoner's nose,&mdash;"listen to me!
Av you say<br>
peas, by the morreal, I'll not lave a whole bone in your
skin."</p>

<p>With some difficulty we persuaded Mike that his conduct, so
far from<br>
leading to his promotion, might, if known in another quarter,
procure him<br>
an acquaintance with the provost-marshal; a fact which, it was
plain to<br>
perceive, gave him but a very poor impression of military
gratitude.</p>

<p>"Oh, then, if they were in swarms fornent me, devil receave
the prisoner<br>
I'll take again!"</p>

<p>So saying, he slowly returned to the regiment; while Power and
I, having<br>
conducted the Frenchman to the rear, cantered towards the town to
learn the<br>
news of the day.</p>

<p>The city on that day presented a most singular aspect. The
streets, filled<br>
with the town's-people and the soldiery, were decorated with
flags and<br>
garlands; the caf&eacute;s were crowded with merry groups, and
the sounds of<br>
music and laughter resounded on all sides. The houses seemed to
be<br>
quite inadequate to afford accommodation to the numerous guests;
and in<br>
consequence, bullock cars and forage; wagons were converted into
temporary<br>
hotels, and many a jovial party were collected in both. Military
music,<br>
church bells, drinking choruses, were all commingled in the din
and<br>
turmoil; processions in honor of "Our Lady of Succor" were jammed
up among<br>
bacchanalian orgies, and their very chant half drowned in the
cries of the<br>
wounded as they passed on to the hospitals. With difficulty we
pushed our<br>
way through the dense mob, as we turned our steps towards the
seminary. We<br>
both felt naturally curious to see the place where our first
detachment<br>
landed, and to examine the opportunities of defence it presented.
The<br>
building itself was a large and irregular one of an oblong form,
surrounded<br>
by a high wall of solid masonry, the only entrance being by a
heavy iron<br>
gate.</p>

<p>At this spot the battle appeared to have raged with violence;
one side of<br>
the massive gate was torn from its hinges and lay flat upon the
ground; the<br>
walls were breached in many places; and pieces of torn uniforms,
broken<br>
bayonets, and bruised shakos attested that the conflict was a
close one.<br>
The seminary itself was in a falling state; the roof, from which
Paget<br>
had given his orders, and where he was wounded, had fallen in.
The French<br>
cannon had fissured the building from top to bottom, and it
seemed only<br>
awaiting the slightest impulse to crumble into ruin. When we
regarded the<br>
spot, and examined the narrow doorway which opening upon a flight
of a few<br>
steps to the river, admitted our first party, we could not help
feeling<br>
struck anew with the gallantry of that mere handful of brave
fellows who<br>
thus threw themselves amidst the overwhelming legions of the
enemy, and at<br>
once, without waiting for a single reinforcement, opened a fire
upon their<br>
ranks. Bold as the enterprise unquestionably was, we still felt
with what<br>
consummate judgment it had been planned; a bend of the river
concealed<br>
entirely the passage of the troops, the guns of the Sierras
covered their<br>
landing and completely swept one approach to the seminary. The
French,<br>
being thus obliged to attack by the gate, were compelled to make
a<br>
considerable <i>d&eacute;tour</i> before they reached it, all of
which gave time<br>
for our divisions to cross; while the brigade of Guards, under
General<br>
Sherbroke, profiting by the confusion, passed the river below the
town, and<br>
took the enemy unexpectedly in the rear.</p>

<p>Brief as was the struggle within the town, it must have been a
terrific<br>
one. The artillery were firing at musket range; cavalry and
infantry were<br>
fighting hand to hand in narrow streets, a destructive musketry
pouring all<br>
the while from windows and house-tops.</p>

<p>At the Amarante gate, where the French defiled, the carnage
was also great.<br>
Their light artillery unlimbered some guns here to cover the
columns as<br>
they deployed, but Murray's cavalry having carried these, the
flank of the<br>
infantry became entirely exposed to the galling fire of
small-arms from<br>
the seminary, and the far more destructive shower of grape that
poured<br>
unceasingly from the Sierra.</p>

<p>Our brigade did the rest; and in less than one hour from the
landing of the<br>
first man, the French were in full retreat upon Vallonga.</p>

<p>"A glorious thing, Charley," said Power, after a pause, "and a
proud<br>
souvenir for hereafter."</p>

<p>A truth I felt deeply at the time, and one my heart responds
to not less<br>
fully as I am writing.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLVIII.</p>

<p>THE QUARREL.</p>

<p>On the evening of the 12th, orders were received for the
German brigade and<br>
three squadrons of our regiment to pursue the French upon the
Terracinthe<br>
road by daybreak on the following morning.</p>

<p>I was busily occupied in my preparations for a hurried march
when Mike came<br>
up to say that an officer desired to speak with me; and the
moment after<br>
Captain Hammersley appeared. A sudden flush colored his pale and
sickly<br>
features, as he held out his hand and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I've come to wish you joy, O'Malley. I just this instant
heard of your<br>
promotion. I am sincerely glad of it; pray tell me the whole
affair."</p>

<p>"That is the very thing I am unable to do. I have some very
vague,<br>
indistinct remembrance of warding off a sabre-cut from the head
of a<br>
wounded and unhorsed officer in the <i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i> of
yesterday, but more I know<br>
not. In fact, it was my first duty under fire. I've a tolerably
clear<br>
recollection of all the events of the morning, but the word
'Charge!' once<br>
given, I remember very little more. But you, where have you been?
How have<br>
we not met before?"</p>

<p>"I've exchanged into a heavy dragoon regiment, and am now
employed upon the<br>
staff."</p>

<p>"You are aware that I have letters for you?"</p>

<p>"Power hinted, I think, something of the kind. I saw him very
hurriedly."</p>

<p>These words were spoken with an effort at <i>nonchalance</i>
that evidently cost<br>
him much.</p>

<p>As for me, my agitation was scarcely less, as fumbling for
some seconds in<br>
my portmanteau, I drew forth the long destined packet. As I
placed it in<br>
his hands, he grew deadly pale, and a slight spasmodic twitch in
his upper<br>
lip bespoke some unnatural struggle. He broke the seal suddenly,
and as he<br>
did so, the morocco case of a miniature fell upon the ground; his
eyes ran<br>
rapidly across the letter; the livid color of his lips as the
blood forced<br>
itself to them added to the corpse-like hue of his
countenance.</p>

<p>"You, probably, are aware of the contents of this letter, Mr.
O'Malley,"<br>
said he, in an altered voice, whose tones, half in anger, half
in<br>
suppressed irony, cut to my very heart.</p>

<p>"I am in complete ignorance of them," said I, calmly.</p>

<p>"Indeed, sir!" replied he, with a sarcastic curl of his mouth
as he spoke.<br>
"Then, perhaps, you will tell me, too, that your very success is
a secret<br>
to you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'm really not aware&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You think, probably, sir, that the pastime is an amusing one,
to interfere<br>
where the affections of others are concerned. I've heard of you,
sir. Your<br>
conduct at Lisbon is known to me; and though Captain Trevyllian
may bear&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stop, Captain Hammersley!" said I, with a tremendous effort
to be<br>
calm,&mdash;"stop! You have said enough, quite enough, to convince me
of what<br>
your object was in seeking me here to-day. You shall not be
disappointed. I<br>
trust that assurance will save you from any further display of
temper."</p>

<p>"I thank you, most humbly I thank you for the quickness of
your<br>
apprehension; and I shall now take my leave. Good-evening, Mr.
O'Malley. I<br>
wish you much joy; you have my very fullest congratulations upon
<i>all</i> your<br>
good fortune."</p>

<p>The sneering emphasis the last words were spoken with remained
fixed in my<br>
mind long after he took his departure; and, indeed, so completely
did the<br>
whole seem like a dream to me that were it not for the fragments
of the<br>
miniature that lay upon the ground where he had crushed them with
his heel,<br>
I could scarcely credit myself that I was awake.</p>

<p>My first impulse was to seek Power, upon whose judgment and
discretion I<br>
could with confidence rely.</p>

<p>I had not long to wait; for scarcely had I thrown my cloak
around me, when<br>
he rode up. He had just seen, Hammersley, and learned something
of our<br>
interview.</p>

<p>"Why, Charley, my dear fellow, what is this? How have you
treated poor<br>
Hammersley?"</p>

<p>"Treated <i>him</i>! Say, rather, how has he treated
<i>me!</i>"</p>

<p>I here entered into a short but accurate account of our
meeting, during<br>
which Power listened with great composure; while I could
perceive, from the<br>
questions he asked, that some very different impression had been
previously<br>
made upon his mind.</p>

<p>"And this was all that passed?"</p>

<p>"All."</p>

<p>"But what of the business at Lisbon?"</p>

<p>"I don't understand."</p>

<p>"Why, he speaks,&mdash;he has heard some foolish account of your
having made<br>
some ridiculous speech there about your successful rivalry of him
in<br>
Ireland. Lucy Dashwood, I suppose, is referred to. Some one has
been<br>
good-natured enough to repeat the thing to him."</p>

<p>"But it never occurred. I never did."</p>

<p>"Are you sure, Charley?"</p>

<p>"I am sure. I know I never did."</p>

<p>"The poor fellow! He has been duped. Come, Charley, you must
not take it<br>
ill. Poor Hammersley has never recovered a sabre-wound he
received some<br>
months since upon the head; his intellect is really affected by
it. Leave<br>
it all to me. Promise not to leave your quarters till I return,
and I'll<br>
put everything right again."</p>

<p>I gave the required pledge; while Power, springing into the
saddle, left me<br>
to my own reflections.</p>

<p>My frame of mind as Power left me was by no means an enviable
one. A<br>
quarrel is rarely a happy incident in a man's life, still less is
it so<br>
when the difference arises with one we are disposed to like and
respect.<br>
Such was Hammersley. His manly, straightforward character had won
my esteem<br>
and regard, and it was with no common scrutiny I taxed my memory
to think<br>
what could have given rise to the impression he labored under of
my<br>
having injured him. His chance mention of Trevyllian suggested to
me some<br>
suspicion that his dislike of me, wherefore arising I knew not,
might have<br>
its share in the matter; and in this state of doubt and
uncertainty I paced<br>
impatiently up and down, anxiously watching for Power's return in
the hope<br>
of at length getting some real insight into the difficulty.</p>

<p>My patience was fast ebbing, Power had been absent above an
hour, and no<br>
appearance of him could I detect, when suddenly the tramp of a
horse came<br>
rapidly up the hill. I looked out and saw a rider coming forward
at a very<br>
fast pace. Before I had time for even a guess as to who it was,
he drew<br>
up, and I recognized Captain Trevyllian. There was a certain look
of easy<br>
impertinence and half-smiling satisfaction about his features I
had never<br>
seen before, as he touched his cap in salute, and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"May I have the honor of a few words' conversation with
you?"</p>

<p>I bowed silently, while he dismounted, and passing his bridle
beneath his<br>
arm, walked on beside me.</p>

<p>"My friend Captain Hammersley has commissioned me to wait upon
you about<br>
this unpleasant affair&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I beg pardon for the interruption, Captain Trevyllian, but as
I have yet<br>
to learn to what you or your friend alludes, perhaps it may
facilitate<br>
matters if you will explicitly state your meaning."</p>

<p>He grew crimson on the cheek as I said this, while, with a
voice perfectly<br>
unmoved, he continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I am not sufficiently in my friend's confidence to know the
whole of the<br>
affair in question, nor have I his permission to enter into any
of it, he<br>
probably presuming, as I certainly did myself, that your sense of
honor<br>
would have deemed further parley and discussion both unnecessary
and<br>
unseasonable."</p>

<p>"In fact, then, if I understand, it is expected that I should
meet Captain<br>
Hammersley for some reason unknown&mdash;"</p>

<p>"He certainly desires a meeting with you," was the dry
reply.</p>

<p>"And as certainly I shall not give it, before understanding
upon what<br>
grounds."</p>

<p>"And such I am to report as your answer?" said he, looking at
me at the<br>
moment with an expression of ill-repressed triumph as he
spoke.</p>

<p>There was something in these few words, as well as in the tone
in which<br>
they were spoken, that sunk deeply in my heart. Was it that by
some trick<br>
of diplomacy he was endeavoring to compromise my honor and
character? Was<br>
it possible that my refusal might be construed into any other
than the<br>
real cause? I was too young, too inexperienced in the world to
decide the<br>
question for myself, and no time was allowed me to seek another's
counsel.<br>
What a trying moment was that for me; my temples throbbed, my
heart beat<br>
almost audibly, and I stood afraid to speak; dreading on the one
hand lest<br>
my compliance might involve me in an act to embitter my life
forever, and<br>
fearful on the other, that my refusal might be reported as a
trait of<br>
cowardice.</p>

<p>He saw, he read my difficulty at a glance, and with a smile of
most<br>
supercilious expression, repeated coolly his former question. In
an instant<br>
all thought of Hammersley was forgotten. I remembered no more. I
saw him<br>
before me, he who had, since my first meeting, continually
contrived to<br>
pass some inappreciable slight upon me. My eyes flashed, my hands
tingled<br>
with ill-repressed rage, as I said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"With Captain Hammersley I am conscious of no quarrel, nor
have I ever<br>
shown by any act or look an intention to provoke one. Indeed,
such<br>
demonstrations are not always successful; there are persons most
rigidly<br>
scrupulous for a friend's honor, little disposed to guard their
own."</p>

<p>"You mistake," said he, interrupting me, as I spoke these
words with a look<br>
as insulting as I could make it,&mdash;"you mistake. I have sworn a
solemn oath<br>
never to <i>send</i> a challenge."</p>

<p>The emphasis upon the word "send," explained fully his
meaning, when I<br>
said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"But you will not decline&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Most certainly not," said he, again interrupting, while with
sparkling eye<br>
and elated look he drew himself up to his full height. "Your
friend is&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Captain Power; and yours&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sir Harry Beaufort. I may observe that, as the troops are in
marching<br>
order, the matter had better not be delayed."</p>

<p>"There shall be none on my part."</p>

<p>"Nor mine!" said he, as with a low bow and a look of most
ineffable<br>
triumph, he sprang into his saddle; then, "<i>Au revoir</i>, Mr.
O'Malley," said<br>
he, gathering up his reins. "Beaufort is on the staff, and
quartered at<br>
Oporto." So saying, he cantered easily down the slope, and once
more I was<br>
alone.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER XLIX.</p>

<p>THE ROUTE CONTINUED.</p>

<p>I was leisurely examining my pistols,&mdash;poor Considine's last
present to me<br>
on leaving home,&mdash;when an orderly sergeant rode up, and delivered
into my<br>
hands the following order:&mdash;</p>

<p>    Lieutenant O'Malley will hold himself in immediate
readiness to<br>
    proceed on a particular service. By order of his Excellency
the<br>
    Commander of the Forces.<br>
    [Signed]    S. GORDON, Military Secretary.</p>

<p>"What can this mean?" thought I. "It is not possible that any
rumor of my<br>
intended meeting could have got abroad, and that my present
destination<br>
could be intended as a punishment?"</p>

<p>I walked hurriedly to the door of the little hut which formed
my quarters;<br>
below me in the plain, all was activity and preparation, the
infantry were<br>
drawn up in marching order, baggage wagons, ordnance stores, and
artillery<br>
seemed all in active preparation, and some cavalry squadrons
might be<br>
already seen with forage allowances behind the saddle, as if only
waiting<br>
the order to set out. I strained my eyes to see if Power was
coming, but no<br>
horseman approached in the direction. I stood, and I hesitated
whether I<br>
should not rather seek him at once, than continue to wait on in
my present<br>
uncertainty; but then, what if I should miss him? And I had
pledged myself<br>
to remain till he returned.</p>

<p>While I deliberated thus with myself, weighing the various
chances for and<br>
against each plan, I saw two mounted officers coming towards me
at a brisk<br>
trot. As they came nearer, I recognized one as my colonel, the
other was an<br>
officer of the staff.</p>

<p>Supposing that their mission had some relation to the order I
had so lately<br>
received, and which until now I had forgotten, I hastily returned
and<br>
ordered Mike to my presence.</p>

<p>"How are the horses, Mike?" said I.</p>

<p>"Never better, sir. Badger was wounded slightly by a spent
shot in the<br>
counter, but he's never the worse this morning, and the black
horse is<br>
capering like a filly."</p>

<p>"Get ready my pack, feed the cattle, and be prepared to set
out at a<br>
moment's warning."</p>

<p>"Good advice, O'Malley," said the colonel, as he overheard the
last<br>
direction to my servant. "I hope the nags are in condition?"</p>

<p>"Why yes, sir, I believe they are."</p>

<p>"All the better; you've a sharp ride before you. Meanwhile let
me introduce<br>
my friend; Captain Beaumont, Mr. O'Malley. I think we had better
be<br>
seated."</p>

<p>"These are your instructions, Mr. O'Malley," said Captain
Beaumont,<br>
unfolding a map as he spoke. "You will proceed from this with
half a troop<br>
of our regiment by forced marches towards the frontier, passing
through<br>
the town of Calenco and Guarda and the Estrella pass. On arriving
at the<br>
headquarters of the Lusitanian Legion, which you will find there,
you are<br>
to put yourself under the orders of Major Monsoon, commanding
that force.<br>
Any Portuguese cavalry he may have with him will be attached to
yours and<br>
under your command; your rank for the time being that of captain.
You will,<br>
as far as possible, acquaint yourself with the habits and
capabilities of<br>
the native cavalry, and make such report as you judge necessary
thereupon<br>
to his Excellency the commander of the forces. I think it only
fair to add<br>
that you are indebted to my friend Colonel Merivale for the very
flattering<br>
position thus opened to your skill and enterprise."</p>

<p>"My dear Colonel, let me assure you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not a word, my boy. I knew the thing would suit you, and I am
sure I<br>
can count upon your not disappointing my expectations of you. Sir
Arthur<br>
perfectly remembers your name. He only asked two questions,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Is he well mounted?'</p>

<p>"'Admirably,' was my answer.</p>

<p>"'Can you depend upon his promptitude?'</p>

<p>"'He'll leave in half an hour.' "So you see, O'Malley, I have
already<br>
pledged myself for you. And now I must say adieu; the regiments
are about<br>
to take up a more advanced position, so good-by. I hope you'll
have a<br>
pleasant time of it till we meet again."</p>

<p>"It is now twelve o'clock, Mr. O'Malley," said Beaumont; "we
may rely upon<br>
your immediate departure. Your written instructions and
despatches will be<br>
here within a quarter of an hour."</p>

<p>I muttered something,&mdash;what, I cannot remember; I bowed my
thanks to my<br>
worthy colonel, shook his hand warmly, and saw him ride down the
hill<br>
and disappear in the crowd of soldiery beneath, before I could
recall my<br>
faculties and think over my situation.</p>

<p>Then all at once did the full difficulty of my position break
upon me. If<br>
I accepted my present employment I must certainly fail in my
engagement to<br>
Trevyllian. But I had already pledged myself to its acceptance.
What was to<br>
be done? No time was left for deliberation. The very minutes I
should have<br>
spent in preparation were fast passing. Would that Power might
appear!<br>
Alas, he came not! My state of doubt and uncertainty increased
every<br>
moment; I saw nothing but ruin before me, even at a moment when
fortune<br>
promised most fairly for the future, and opened a field of
enterprise my<br>
heart had so often and so ardently desired. Nothing was left me
but to<br>
hasten to Colonel Merivale and decline my appointment; to do so
was to<br>
prejudice my character in his estimation forever, for I dared not
allege<br>
my reasons, and in all probability my conduct might require my
leaving the<br>
army.</p>

<p>"Be it so, then," said I, in an accent of despair; "the die is
cast."</p>

<p>I ordered my horse round; I wrote a few words to Power to
explain my<br>
absence should he come while I was away, and leaped into the
saddle. As I<br>
reached the plain my pace became a gallop, and I pressed my horse
with all<br>
the impatience my heart was burning with. I dashed along the
lines towards<br>
Oporto, neither hearing nor seeing aught around me, when suddenly
the clank<br>
of cavalry accoutrements behind induced me to turn my head, and I
perceived<br>
an orderly dragoon at full gallop in pursuit. I pulled up till he
came<br>
alongside.</p>

<p>"Lieutenant O'Malley, sir," said the man, saluting, "these
despatches are<br>
for you."</p>

<p>I took them hurriedly, and was about to continue my route,
when the<br>
attitude of the dragoon arrested my attention. He had reined in
his horse<br>
to the side of the narrow causeway, and holding him still and
steadily, sat<br>
motionless as a statue. I looked behind and saw the whole staff
approaching<br>
at a brisk trot. Before I had a moment for thought they were
beside me.</p>

<p>"Ah, O'Malley," cried Merivale, "you have your orders; don't
wait; his<br>
Excellency is coming up."</p>

<p>"Get along, I advise you," said another, "or you'll catch it,
as some of us<br>
have done this morning."</p>

<p>"All is right, Charley; you can go in safety," said a
whispering voice, as<br>
Power passed in a sharp canter.</p>

<p>That one sentence was enough; my heart bounded like a deer, my
cheek beamed<br>
with the glow of delighted pleasure, I closed my spurs upon my
gallant gray<br>
and dashed across the plain.</p>

<p>When I arrived at my quarters the men were drawn up in
waiting, and<br>
provided with rations for three days' march; Mike was also
prepared for the<br>
road, and nothing more remained to delay me.</p>

<p>"Captain Power has been here, sir, and left a note."</p>

<p>I took it and thrust it hastily into my sabretasche. I knew
from the<br>
few words he had spoken that my present step involved me in no
ill<br>
consequences; so giving the word to wheel into column, I rode to
the front<br>
and set out upon my march to Alcantara.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER L.</p>

<p>THE WATCH-FIRE.</p>

<p>There are few things so inspiriting to a young soldier as the
being<br>
employed with a separate command; the picket and outpost duty
have a charm<br>
for him no other portion of his career possesses. The field seems
open for<br>
individual boldness and heroism; success, if obtained, must
redound to his<br>
own credit; and what can equal, in its spirit-stirring
enthusiasm, that<br>
first moment when we become in any way the arbiter of our own
fortunes?</p>

<p>Such were my happy thoughts, as with a proud and elated heart
I set forth<br>
upon my march. The notice the commander-in-chief had bestowed
upon me had<br>
already done much; it had raised me in my own estimation, and
implanted<br>
within me a longing desire for further distinction. I thought,
too, of<br>
those far, far away, who were yet to hear of my successes.</p>

<p>I fancied to myself how they would severally receive the news.
My poor<br>
uncle, with tearful eye and quivering lip, was before me, as I
saw him read<br>
the despatch, then wipe his glasses, and read on, till at last,
with one<br>
long-drawn breath, his manly voice, tremulous with emotion, would
break<br>
forth: "My boy! my own Charley!" Then I pictured Considine, with
port<br>
erect and stern features, listening silently; not a syllable, not
a motion<br>
betraying that he felt interested in my fate, till as if
impatient, at<br>
length he would break in: "I knew it,&mdash;I said so; and yet you
thought to<br>
make him a lawyer!" And then old Sir Harry, his warm heart
glowing with<br>
pleasure, and his good-humored face beaming with happiness, how
many a<br>
blunder he would make in retailing the news, and how many a
hearty laugh<br>
his version of it would give rise to!</p>

<p>I passed in review before me the old servants, as they
lingered in the<br>
room to hear the story. Poor old Matthew, the butler, fumbling
with his<br>
corkscrew to gain a little time; then looking in my uncle's face,
half<br>
entreatingly, as he asked: "Any news of Master Charles, sir, from
the<br>
wars?"</p>

<p>While thus my mind wandered back to the scenes and faces of my
early home,<br>
I feared to ask myself how <i>she</i> would feel to whom my heart
was now<br>
turning. Too deeply did I know how poor my chances were in that
quarter to<br>
nourish hope, and yet I could not bring myself to abandon it
altogether.<br>
Hammersley's strange conduct suggested to me that he, at least,
could not<br>
be <i>my</i> rival; while I plainly perceived that he regarded me
as <i>his</i>.<br>
There was a mystery in all this I could not fathom, and I
ardently longed<br>
for my next meeting with Power, to learn the nature of his
interview, and<br>
also in what manner the affair had been arranged.</p>

<p>Such were my passing thoughts as I pressed forward. My men,
picked no less<br>
for themselves than their horses, came rapidly along; and ere
evening, we<br>
had accomplished twelve leagues of our journey.</p>

<p>The country through which we journeyed, though wild and
romantic in its<br>
character, was singularly rich and fertile,&mdash;cultivation reaching
to the<br>
very summits of the rugged mountains, and patches of wheat and
Indian corn<br>
peeping amidst masses of granite rock and tangled brushwood. The
vine<br>
and the olive grew wild on every side; while the orange and the
arbutus,<br>
loading the air with perfume, were mingled with prickly
pear-trees and<br>
variegated hollies. We followed no regular track, but cantered
along over<br>
hill and valley, through forest and prairie, now in long file
through some<br>
tall field of waving corn, now in open order upon some level
plain,&mdash;our<br>
Portuguese guide riding a little in advance of us, upon a
jet-black mule,<br>
carolling merrily some wild Gallician melody as he went.</p>

<p>As the sun was setting, we arrived beside a little stream that
flowing<br>
along a rocky bed, skirted a vast forest of tall cork-trees. Here
we called<br>
a halt, and picketing our horses, proceeded to make our
arrangements for a<br>
bivouac.</p>

<p>Never do I remember a more lovely night. The watch-fires sent
up a<br>
delicious odor from the perfumed shrubs; while the glassy water
reflected<br>
on its still surface the starry sky that, unshadowed and
unclouded,<br>
stretched above us. I wrapped myself in my trooper's mantle, and
lay down<br>
beneath a tree,&mdash;but not to sleep. There was a something so
exciting, and<br>
withal so tranquillizing, that I had no thought of slumber, but
fell into<br>
a musing revery. There was a character of adventure in my
position that<br>
charmed me much. My men were gathered in little groups beside the
fires;<br>
some sunk in slumber, others sat smoking silently, or chatting,
in a low<br>
undertone, of some bygone scene of battle or bivouac; here and
there were<br>
picketed the horses; the heavy panoply and piled carbines
flickering in the<br>
red glare of the watch-fires, which ever and anon threw a
flitting glow<br>
upon the stern and swarthy faces of my bold troopers. Upon the
trees<br>
around, sabres and helmets, holsters and cross-belts, were hung
like<br>
armorial bearings in some antique hall, the dark foliage
spreading its<br>
heavy shadow around us. Farther off, upon a little rocky ledge,
the erect<br>
figure of the sentry, with his short carbine resting in the
hollow of his<br>
arm, was seen slowly pacing in measured tread, or standing for a
moment<br>
silently, as he looked upon the fair and tranquil sky,&mdash;his
thoughts<br>
doubtless far, far away, beyond the sea, to some humble home,
where,&mdash;</p>

<p>    "The hum of the spreading sycamore,<br>
    That grew beside his cottage door,"</p>

<p>was again in his ears, while the merry laugh of his children
stirred his<br>
bold heart. It was a Salvator-Rosa scene, and brought me back in
fancy to<br>
the bandit legends I had read in boyhood. By the uncertain light
of the<br>
wood embers I endeavored to sketch the group that lay before
me.</p>

<p>The night wore on. One by one the soldiers stretched
themselves to sleep,<br>
and all was still. As the hours rolled by a drowsy feeling crept
gradually<br>
over me. I placed my pistols by my side, and having replenished
the fire by<br>
some fresh logs, disposed myself comfortably before it.</p>

<p>It was during that half-dreamy state that intervenes between
waking and<br>
sleep that a rustling sound of the branches behind attracted my
attention.<br>
The air was too calm to attribute this to the wind, so I listened
for some<br>
minutes; but sleep, too long deferred, was over-powerful, and my
head sank<br>
upon my grassy pillow, and I was soon sound asleep. How long I
remained<br>
thus, I know not; but I awoke suddenly. I fancied some one had
shaken me<br>
rudely by the shoulder; but yet all was tranquil. My men were
sleeping<br>
soundly as I saw them last. The fires were becoming low, and a
gray streak<br>
in the sky, as well as a sharp cold feeling of the air, betokened
the<br>
approach of day. Once more I heaped some dry branches together,
and was<br>
again about to stretch myself to rest, when I felt a hand upon my
shoulder.<br>
I turned quickly round, and by the imperfect light of the fire,
saw the<br>
figure of a man standing motionless beside me; his head was bare,
and his<br>
hair fell in long curls upon his shoulders; one hand was pressed
upon his<br>
bosom, and with the other he motioned me to silence. My first
impression<br>
was that our party were surprised by some French patrol; but as I
looked<br>
again, I recognized, to my amazement, that the individual before
me was the<br>
young French officer I had seen that morning a prisoner beside
the Douro.</p>

<p>"How came you here?" said I, in a low voice, to him in
French.</p>

<p>"Escaped; one of my own men threw himself between me and the
sentry; I swam<br>
the Douro, received a musket-ball through my arm, lost my shako,
and here I<br>
am!"</p>

<p>"You are aware you are again a prisoner?"</p>

<p>"If you desire it, of course I am," said he, in a voice full
of feeling<br>
that made my very heart creep. "I thought you were a party of
Lorge's<br>
Dragoons, scouring the country for forage; tracked you the entire
day, and<br>
have only now come up with you."</p>

<p>The poor fellow, who had neither eaten nor drunk since
daybreak, wounded<br>
and footsore, had accomplished twelve leagues of a march only
once more to<br>
fall into the hands of his enemies. His years could scarcely have
numbered<br>
nineteen; his countenance was singularly prepossessing; and
though bleeding<br>
and torn, with tattered uniform, and without a covering to his
head, there<br>
was no mistaking for a moment that he was of gentle blood.
Noiselessly and<br>
cautiously I made him sit down beside the fire, while I spread
before him<br>
the sparing remnant of my last night's supper, and shared my
solitary<br>
bottle of sherry with him.</p>

<p>From the moment he spoke, I never entertained a thought of
making him a<br>
prisoner; but as I knew not how far I was culpable in permitting,
if not<br>
actually facilitating, his escape, I resolved to keep the
circumstance a<br>
secret from my party, and if possible, get him away before
daybreak.</p>

<p>No sooner did he learn my intentions regarding him, than in an
instant<br>
all memory of his past misfortune, all thoughts of his present
destitute<br>
condition, seemed to have fled; and while I dressed his wound and
bound up<br>
his shattered arm, he chattered away as unconcernedly about the
past<br>
and the future as though seated beside the fire of his own
bivouac, and<br>
surrounded by his own brother officers.</p>

<p>"You took us by surprise the other day," said he. "Our marshal
looked for<br>
the attack from the mouth of the river; we received information
that your<br>
ships were expected there. In any case, our retreat was an
orderly one, and<br>
must have been effected with slight loss."</p>

<p>I smiled at the self-complacency of this reasoning, but did
not contradict<br>
him.</p>

<p>"Your loss must indeed have been great; your men crossed under
the fire of<br>
a whole battery."</p>

<p>"Not exactly," said I; "our first party were quietly stationed
in Oporto<br>
before you knew anything about it."</p>

<p>"<i>Ah, sacr&eacute; Dieu!</i> Treachery!" cried he, striking
his forehead with his<br>
clinched fist.</p>

<p>"Not so; mere daring,&mdash;nothing more. But come, tell me
something of your<br>
own adventures. How were you taken?"</p>

<p>"Simply thus,&mdash;I was sent to the rear with orders to the
artillery to cut<br>
their traces, and leave the guns; and when coming back, my horse
grew tired<br>
in the heavy ground, and I was spurring him to the utmost, when
one of your<br>
heavy dragoons&mdash;an officer, too&mdash;dashed at me, and actually rode
me down,<br>
horse and all. I lay for some time bruised by the fall, when an
infantry<br>
soldier passing by seized me by the collar, and brought me to the
rear. No<br>
matter, however, here I am now. You will not give me up; and
perhaps I may<br>
one day live to repay the kindness."</p>

<p>"You have not long joined?"</p>

<p>"It was my first battle; my epaulettes were very smart things
yesterday,<br>
though they do look a little <i>pass&eacute;s</i> to-day. You are
advancing, I<br>
suppose?"</p>

<p>I smiled without answering this question.</p>

<p>"Ah, I see you don't wish to speak. Never mind, your
discretion is thrown<br>
away upon me; for if I rejoined my regiment to-morrow, I should
have<br>
forgotten all you told me,&mdash;all but your great kindness." These
last words<br>
he spoke, bowing slightly his head, and coloring as he said
them.</p>

<p>"You are a dragoon, I think?" said I, endeavoring to change
the topic.</p>

<p>"I was, two days ago, <i>chasseur &agrave; cheval</i>, a
sous-lieutenant, in the<br>
regiment of my father, the General St. Croix."</p>

<p>"The name is familiar to me," I replied, "and I am sincerely
happy to be in<br>
a position to serve the son of so distinguished an officer."</p>

<p>"The son of so distinguished an officer is most deeply
obliged, but wishes<br>
with all his heart and soul he had never sought glory under such
very<br>
excellent auspices. You look surprised, <i>mon cher</i>; but let
me tell you,<br>
my military ardor is considerably abated in the last three days.
Hunger,<br>
thirst, imprisonment, and this"&mdash;lifting his wounded limb as he
spoke&mdash;"are<br>
sharp lessons in so short a campaign, and for one too, whose life
hitherto<br>
had much more of ease than adventure to boast of. Shall I tell
you how I<br>
became a soldier?"</p>

<p>"By all means; give me your glass first; and now, with a fresh
log to the<br>
fire, I'm your man."</p>

<p>"But stay; before I begin, look to this."</p>

<p>The blood was flowing rapidly from his wound, which with some
difficulty I<br>
succeeded in stanching. He drank off his wine hastily, held out
his glass<br>
to be refilled, and then began his story.</p>

<p>"You have never seen the Emperor?"</p>

<p>"Never."</p>

<p>"<i>Sacrebleu!</i> What a man he is! I'd rather stand under
the fire of your<br>
grenadiers, than meet his eye. When in a passion, he does not say
much, it<br>
is true; but what he does, comes with a kind of hissing, rushing
sound,<br>
while the very fire seems to kindle in his look. I have him
before me this<br>
instant, and though you will confess that my present condition
has nothing<br>
very pleasing in it, I should be sorry indeed to change it for
the last<br>
time I stood in his presence.</p>

<p>"Two months ago I sported the gay light-blue and silver of a
page to the<br>
Emperor, and certainly, what with balls, <i>bonbons</i>,
flirtation, gossip,<br>
and champagne suppers, led a very gay, reckless, and indolent
life of it.<br>
Somehow,&mdash;I may tell you more accurately at another period, if we
ever<br>
meet,&mdash;I got myself into disgrace, and as a punishment, was
ordered<br>
to absent myself from the Tuileries, and retire for some weeks
to<br>
Fontainebleau. Siberia to a Russian would scarcely be a heavier
infliction<br>
than was this banishment to me. There was no court, no levee, no
military<br>
parade, no ball, no opera. A small household of the Emperor's
chosen<br>
servants quietly kept house there. The gloomy walls re-echoed to
no music;<br>
the dark alleys of the dreary garden seemed the very
impersonation of<br>
solitude and decay. Nothing broke the dull monotony of the
tiresome day,<br>
except when occasionally, near sunset, the clash of the guard
would be<br>
heard turning out, and the clank of presenting arms, followed by
the roll<br>
of a heavy carriage into the gloomy courtyard. One lamp, shining
like a<br>
star, in a small chamber on the second floor, would remain till
near four,<br>
sometimes five o'clock in the morning. The same sounds of the
guard and<br>
the same dull roll of the carriage would break the stillness of
the early<br>
morning; and the Emperor&mdash;for it was he&mdash;would be on his road
back to<br>
Paris.</p>

<p>"We never saw him,&mdash;I say we, for like myself some half-dozen
others were<br>
also there, expiating their follies by a life of cheerless
<i>ennui</i>.</p>

<p>"It was upon a calm evening in April, we sat together chatting
over the<br>
various misdeeds which had consigned us to exile, when some one
proposed,<br>
by way of passing the time, that we should visit the small
flower-garden<br>
that was parted off from the rest, and reserved for the Emperor
alone. It<br>
was already beyond the hour he usually came; besides that, even
should he<br>
arrive, there was abundant time to get back before he could
possibly reach<br>
it. The garden we had often seen, but there was something in the
fact that<br>
our going there was a transgression that so pleased us all that
we agreed<br>
at once and set forth. For above an hour we loitered about the
lonely and<br>
deserted walks, where already the Emperor's foot-tracks had worn
a marked<br>
pathway, when we grew weary and were about to return, just as one
of the<br>
party suggested, half in ridicule of the sanctity of the spot,
that we<br>
should have a game of leap-frog ere we left it. The idea pleased
us and was<br>
at once adopted. Our plan was this,&mdash;each person stationed
himself in some<br>
by-walk or alley, and waited till the other, whose turn it was,
came and<br>
leaped over him; so that, besides the activity displayed, there
was a<br>
knowledge of the <i>locale</i> necessary; for to any one passed
over a forfeit<br>
was to be paid. Our game began at once, and certainly I doubt if
ever those<br>
green alleys and shady groves rang to such hearty laughter. Here
would be<br>
seen a couple rolling over together on the grass; there some
luckless wight<br>
counting out his pocket-money to pay his penalty. The hours
passed quietly<br>
over, and the moon rose, and at last it came to my turn to make
the tour of<br>
the garden. As I was supposed to know all its intricacies better
than the<br>
rest, a longer time was given for them to conceal themselves; at
length the<br>
word was given, and I started.</p>

<p>"Anxious to acquit myself well, I hurried along at top speed,
but guess my<br>
surprise to discover that nowhere could I find one of my
companions. Down<br>
one walk I scampered, up another, across a third, but all was
still and<br>
silent; not a sound, not a breath, could I detect. There was
still one part<br>
of the garden unexplored; it was a small open space before a
little pond<br>
which usually contained the gold fish the Emperor was so fond of.
Thither<br>
I bent my steps, and had not gone far when in the pale moonlight
I saw, at<br>
length, one of my companions waiting patiently for my coming, his
head<br>
bent forward and his shoulders rounded. Anxious to repay him for
my own<br>
disappointment, I crept silently forward on tiptoe till quite
near him,<br>
when, rushing madly on, I sprang upon his back; just, however, as
I rose to<br>
leap over, he raised his head, and, staggered by the impulse of
my spring,<br>
he was thrown forward, and after an ineffectual effort to keep
his legs<br>
fell flat upon his face in the grass. Bursting with laughter, I
fell over<br>
him on the ground, and was turning to assist him, when suddenly
he sprang<br>
upon his feet, and&mdash;horror of horrors!&mdash;it was Napoleon himself;
his<br>
usually pale features were purple with rage, but not a word, not
a syllable<br>
escaped him.</p>

<p>"'<i>Qui &ecirc;tes vous</i>?' said he, at length.</p>

<p>"'St. Croix, Sire,' said I, still kneeling before him, while
my very heart<br>
leaped into my mouth.</p>

<p>"'St. Croix! <i>toujours</i> St. Croix! Come here; approach
me,' cried he, in a<br>
voice of stifled passion.</p>

<p>"I rose; but before I could take a step forward he sprang at
me, and<br>
tearing off my epaulettes trampled them beneath his feet, and
then he<br>
shouted out, rather than spoke, the word '<i>Allez!</i>'</p>

<p>"I did not wait for a second intimation, but clearing the
paling at a<br>
spring, was many a mile from Fontainebleau before daybreak."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LI.</p>

<p>THE MARCH.</p>

<p>Twice the <i>r&eacute;veil</i> sounded; the horses champed
impatiently their heavy<br>
bits; my men stood waiting for the order to mount, ere I could
arouse<br>
myself from the deep sleep I had fallen into. The young Frenchman
and his<br>
story were in my dreams, and when I awoke, his figure, as he lay
sleeping<br>
beside the wood embers, was the first object I perceived. There
he lay,<br>
to all seeming as forgetful of his fate as though he still
inhabited the<br>
gorgeous halls and gilded saloons of the Tuileries; his pale and
handsome<br>
features wore even a placid smile as, doubtless, some dream of
other days<br>
flitted across him; his long hair waved in luxurious curls upon
his neck,<br>
and his light-brown mustache, slightly curled at the top, gave to
his<br>
mild and youthful features an air of saucy <i>fiert&eacute;</i>
that heightened their<br>
effect. A narrow blue ribbon which he wore round his throat
gently peeped<br>
from his open bosom. I could not resist the curiosity I felt to
see what it<br>
meant, and drawing it softly forth, I perceived that a small
miniature was<br>
attached to it. It was beautifully painted, and surrounded with
brilliants<br>
of some value. One glance showed me,&mdash;for I had seen more than
one<br>
engraving before of her,&mdash;that it was the portrait of the
Empress<br>
Josephine. Poor boy! he doubtless was a favorite at court;
indeed,<br>
everything in his air and manner bespoke him such. I gently
replaced the<br>
precious locket and turned from the spot to think over what was
best to<br>
be done for him. Knowing the vindictive feeling of the Portuguese
towards<br>
their invaders, I feared to take Pietro, our guide, into my
confidence. I<br>
accordingly summoned my man Mike to my aid, who, with all his
country's<br>
readiness, soon found out an expedient. It was to pretend to
Pietro that<br>
the prisoner was merely an English officer who had made his
escape from the<br>
French army, in which, against his will, he had been serving for
some time.</p>

<p>This plan succeeded perfectly; and when St. Croix, mounted
upon one of my<br>
led horses, set out upon his march beside me, none was more
profuse of his<br>
attentions than the dark-brown guide whose hatred of a Frenchman
was beyond<br>
belief.</p>

<p>By thus giving him safe conduct through Portugal, I knew that
when we<br>
reached the frontier he could easily manage to come up with some
part of<br>
Marshal Victor's force, the advanced guard of which lay on the
left bank of<br>
the Tagus.</p>

<p>To me the companionship was the greatest boon; the gay and
buoyant spirit<br>
that no reverse of fortune, no untoward event, could subdue,
lightened many<br>
an hour of the journey; and though at times the gasconading tone
of the<br>
Frenchman would peep through, there was still such a fund of
good-tempered<br>
raillery in all he said that it was impossible to feel angry with
him.<br>
His implicit faith in the Emperor's invincibility also amused me.
Of the<br>
unbounded confidence of the nation in general, and the army
particularly,<br>
in Napoleon, I had till then no conception. It was not that in
the profound<br>
skill and immense resources of the general they trusted, but they
actually<br>
regarded him as one placed above all the common accidents of
fortune, and<br>
revered him as something more than human.</p>

<p>"<i>Il viendra et puis</i>&mdash;" was the continued exclamation of
the young<br>
Frenchman. Any notion of our successfully resisting the
overwhelming might<br>
of the Emperor, he would have laughed to scorn, and so I let him
go on<br>
prophesying our future misfortunes till the time when, driven
back upon<br>
Lisbon, we should be compelled to evacuate the Peninsula, and
under<br>
favor of a convention be permitted to return to England. All this
was<br>
sufficiently ridiculous, coming from a youth of nineteen,
wounded, in<br>
misery, a prisoner; but further experience of his nation has
shown me<br>
that St. Croix was not the exception, but the rule. The
conviction in the<br>
ultimate success of their army, whatever be the merely momentary
mishap, is<br>
the one present thought of a Frenchman; a victory with them is a
conquest;<br>
a defeat,&mdash;if they are by any chance driven to acknowledge
one,&mdash;a<br>
<i>fatalit&eacute;</i>.</p>

<p>I was too young a man, and still more, too young a soldier, to
bear with<br>
this absurd affectation of superiority as I ought, and
consequently was<br>
glad to wander, whenever I could, from the contested point of our
national<br>
superiority to other topics. St. Croix, although young, had seen
much of<br>
the world as a page in the splendid court of the Tuileries; the
scenes<br>
passing before his eyes were calculated to make a strong
impression; and<br>
by many an anecdote of his former life, he lightened the road as
we passed<br>
along.</p>

<a name="0427"></a>
<img alt="0427.jpg (149K)" src="0427.jpg" height="545" width="648">

<p>[A TOUCH AT LEAP-FROG WITH NAPOLEON.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"You promised, by-the-bye, to tell me of your banishment. How
did that<br>
occur, St. Croix?"</p>

<p>"<i>Ah, par Dieu!</i> that was an unfortunate affair for me;
then began all my<br>
mishaps. But for that, I should never have been sent to
Fontainebleau;<br>
never have played leap-frog with the Emperor; never have been
sent a<br>
soldier into Spain. True," said he, laughing, "I should never
have had the<br>
happiness of your acquaintance. But still, I'd much rather have
met you<br>
first in the Place des Victoires than in the Estrella
Mountains."</p>

<p>"Who knows?" said I; "perhaps your good genius prevailed in
all this."</p>

<p>"Perhaps," said he, interrupting me; "that's exactly what the
Empress<br>
said,&mdash;she was my godmother,&mdash;'Jules will be a <i>Mar&eacute;chal
de France yet</i>.'<br>
But certainly, it must be confessed, I have made a bad beginning.
However,<br>
you wish to hear of my disgrace at court. <i>Allans donc</i>. But
had we not<br>
better wait for a halt?"</p>

<p>"Agreed," said I; "and so let us now press forward."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LII.</p>

<p>THE PAGE.</p>

<p>Under the deep shade of some tall trees, sheltered from the
noonday sun, we<br>
lay down to rest ourselves and enjoy a most patriarchal
dinner,&mdash;some dry<br>
biscuits, a few bunches of grapes, and a little weak wine,
savoring more of<br>
the borachio-skin than the vine-juice, were all we boasted; yet
they were<br>
not ungrateful at such a time and place.</p>

<p>"Whose health did you pledge then?" inquired St. Croix, with
a<br>
half-malicious smile, as I raised the glass silently to my
lips.</p>

<p>I blushed deeply, and looked confused.</p>

<p>"<i>A ses beux yeux!</i> whoever she be," said he, gayly
tossing off his wine;<br>
"and now, if you feel disposed, I'll tell you my story. In good
truth, it<br>
is not worth relating, but it may serve to set you asleep, at all
events.</p>

<p>"I have already told you I was a page. Alas, the impressions
you may feel<br>
of that functionary, from having seen Cherubino, give but a faint
notion of<br>
him when pertaining to the household of the Emperor Napoleon.</p>

<p>"The <i>farfallone amoroso</i> basked in the soft smiles and
sunny looks of the<br>
Countess Almaviva; we met but the cold, impassive look of
Talleyrand, the<br>
piercing and penetrating stare of Savary, or the ambiguous smile,
half<br>
menace, half mockery, of Monsieur Fouch&eacute;. While on
service, our days were<br>
passed in the antechamber, beside the <i>salle d'audience</i> of
the Emperor,<br>
reclining against the closed door, watching attentively for the
gentle<br>
tinkle of the little bell which summoned us to open for the exit
of some<br>
haughty diplomate, or the <i>entr&eacute;e</i> of some redoubted
general. Thus passed<br>
we the weary hours; the illustrious visitors by whom we were
surrounded<br>
had no novelty, consequently no attraction for us, and the names
already<br>
historical were but household words with us.</p>

<p>"We often remarked, too, the proud and distant bearing the
Emperor assumed<br>
towards those of his generals who had been his former
companions-in-arms.<br>
Whatever familiarity or freedom may have existed in the campaign
or in the<br>
battle-field, the air of the Tuileries certainly chilled it. I
have often<br>
heard that the ceremonious observances and rigid etiquette of the
old<br>
Bourbon court were far preferable to the stern reserve and
unbending<br>
stiffness of the imperial one.</p>

<p>"The antechamber is but the reflection of the reception-room;
and whatever<br>
be the whims, the caprices, the littleness of the Great Man, they
are<br>
speedily assumed by his inferiors, and the dark temper of one
casts a<br>
lowering shadow on every menial by whom he is surrounded.</p>

<p>"As for us, we were certainly not long in catching somewhat of
the spirit<br>
of the Emperor; and I doubt much if the impertinence of the
waiting-room<br>
was not more dreaded and detested than the abrupt speech and
searching look<br>
of Napoleon himself.</p>

<p>"What a malicious pleasure have I not felt in arresting the
step of M. de<br>
Talleyrand, as he approached the Emperor's closet! With what easy
insolence<br>
have I lisped out, 'Pardon, Monsieur, but his Majesty cannot
receive you,'<br>
or 'Monsieur le Due, his Majesty has given no orders for your
admission.'<br>
How amusing it was to watch the baffled look of each, as he
retired once<br>
more to his place among the crowd, the wily diplomate covering
his chagrin<br>
with a practised smile, while the stern marshal would blush to
his very<br>
eyes with indignation! This was the great pleasure our position
afforded<br>
us, and with a boyish spirit of mischief, we cultivated it to
perfection,<br>
and became at last the very horror and detestation of all who
frequented<br>
the levees; and the ambassador whose fearless voice was heard
among the<br>
councils of kings became soft and conciliating in his approaches
to us; and<br>
the hardy general who would have charged upon a brigade of
artillery was<br>
timid as a girl in addressing us a mere question.</p>

<p>"Among the amiable class thus characterized I was most
conspicuous,<br>
preserving cautiously a tone of civility that left nothing openly
to<br>
complain of. I assumed an indifference and impartiality of manner
that no<br>
exigency of affairs, no pressing haste, could discompose or
disturb; and<br>
my bow of recognition to Soult or Massena was as coolly measured
as my<br>
monosyllabic answer was accurately conned over.</p>

<p>"Upon ordinary occasions the Emperor at the close of each
person's audience<br>
rang his little bell for the admission of the next in order as
they arrived<br>
in the waiting-room; yet when anything important was under
consideration, a<br>
list was given us in the morning of the names to be presented in
rotation,<br>
which no casual circumstance was ever suffered to interfere
with.</p>

<p>"It is now about four months since, one fine morning, such a
list was<br>
placed within my hands. His Majesty was just then occupied with
an inquiry<br>
into the naval force of the kingdom; and as I cast my eyes
carelessly<br>
over the names, I read little else than Vice-Admiral So-and-so,
Commander<br>
Such-a-one, and Chef d'Escardron Such-another, and the levee
presented<br>
accordingly, instead of its usual brilliant array of gorgeous
uniform and<br>
aiguilletted marshals, the simple blue-and-gold of the naval
service.</p>

<p>"The marine was not in high favor with the Emperor; and truly,
my reception<br>
of these unfrequent visitors was anything but flattering. The
early part<br>
of the morning was, as usual, occupied by the audience of the
Minister of<br>
Police, and the Duc de Bassano, who evidently, from the length of
time<br>
they remained, had matter of importance to communicate. Meanwhile
the<br>
antechamber filled rapidly, and before noon was actually crowded.
It was<br>
just at this moment that the folding-door slowly opened, and a
figure<br>
entered, such as I had never before seen in our brilliant saloon.
He was a<br>
man of five or six and fifty, short, thickset, and strongly
built, with a<br>
bronzed and weather-beaten face, and a broad open forehead deeply
scarred<br>
with a sabre-cut; a shaggy gray mustache curled over and
concealed his<br>
mouth, while eyebrows of the same color shaded his dark and
piercing eyes.<br>
His dress was a coarse cut of blue cloth such as the fishermen
wear in<br>
Bretagne, fastened at the waist by a broad belt of black leather,
from<br>
which hung a short-bladed cutlass; his loose trousers, of the
same<br>
material, were turned up at the ankles to show a pair of strong
legs<br>
coarsely cased in blue stockings and thick-soled shoes. A
broad-leaved<br>
oil-skin hat was held in one hand, and the other stuck carelessly
in his<br>
pocket, as he entered. He came in with a careless air, and
familiarly<br>
saluting one or two officers in the room, he sat himself down
near the<br>
door, appearing lost in his own reflections.</p>

<p>"'Who can you be, my worthy friend?' was my question to myself
as I<br>
surveyed this singular apparition. At the same time, casting my
eyes down<br>
the list, I perceived that several pilots of the coast of Havre,
Calais,<br>
and Boulogne had been summoned to Paris to give some information
upon the<br>
soundings and depth of water along the shore.</p>

<p>"'Ha,' thought I, 'I have it. The good man has mistaken his
place,<br>
and instead of remaining without, has walked boldly forward to
the<br>
antechamber.'</p>

<p>"There was something so strange and so original in the grim
look of the old<br>
fellow, as he sat there alone, that I suffered him to remain
quietly in his<br>
delusion, rather than order him back to the waiting-room without;
besides,<br>
I perceived that a kind of sensation was created among the others
by his<br>
appearance there, which amused me greatly.</p>

<p>"As the day wore on, the officers formed into little groups of
three or<br>
four, chatting together in an undertone,&mdash;all save the old pilot.
He had<br>
taken a huge tobacco-box from his capacious breast-pocket, and
inserting<br>
an immense piece of the bitter weed in his mouth, began to chew
it<br>
as leisurely as though he were walking the quarter-deck. The
cool<br>
<i>insouciance</i> of such a proceeding amused me much, and I
resolved to draw<br>
him out a little. His strong, broad Breton features, his deep
voice, his<br>
dry, blunt manner, were all in admirable keeping with his
exterior.</p>

<p>"'<i>Par Dieu</i>, my lad,' said he, after chatting some time,
'had you not<br>
better tell the Emperor that I am waiting? It's now past noon,
and I must<br>
eat something.'</p>

<p>"'Have a little patience,' said I; 'his Majesty is going to
invite you to<br>
dinner.'</p>

<p>"'Be it so,' said he, gravely; 'provided the hour be an early
one, I'm his<br>
man.'</p>

<p>"With difficulty did I keep down my laughter as he said this,
and<br>
continued.</p>

<p>"'So you know the Emperor already, it seems?'</p>

<p>"'Yes, that I do! I remember him when he was no higher than
yourself.'</p>

<p>"'How delighted he'll be to find you here! I hope you have
brought up some<br>
of your family with you, as the Emperor would be so flattered by
it?'</p>

<p>"'No, I've left them at home. This place don't suit us over
well. We have<br>
plenty to do besides spending our time and money among all you
fine folks<br>
here.'</p>

<p>"'And not a bad life of it, either,' added I, 'fishing for cod
and<br>
herrings,&mdash;stripping a wreck now and then.'</p>

<p>"He stared at me, as I said this, like a tiger on the spring,
but spoke not<br>
a word.</p>

<p>"'And how many young sea-wolves may you have in your den at
home?'</p>

<p>"'Six; and all of them able to carry you with one hand, at
arm's length.'</p>

<p>"'I have no doubt. I shall certainly not test their ability.
But you<br>
yourself,&mdash;how do you like the capital?'</p>

<p>"'Not over well; and I'll tell you why&mdash;'</p>

<p>"As he said this the door of the audience-chamber opened, and
the Emperor<br>
appeared. His eyes flashed fire as he looked hurriedly around the
room.</p>

<p>"'Who is in waiting here?'"</p>

<p>"'I am, please your Majesty,' said I, bowing deeply, as I
started from my<br>
seat.</p>

<p>"'And where is the Admiral Truguet? Why was he not
admitted?'</p>

<p>"'Not present, your Majesty,' said I, trembling with fear.</p>

<p>"'Hold there, young fellow; not so fast. Here he is.'</p>

<p>"'Ah, Truguet, <i>mon ami!</i>' cried the Emperor, placing
both hands on the old<br>
fellow's shoulders, 'how long have you been in waiting?'</p>

<p>"'Two hours and a half,' said he, producing in evidence a
watch like a<br>
saucer.</p>

<p>"'What, two hours and a half, and I not know it!'</p>

<p>"'No matter; I am always happy to serve your Majesty. But if
that fine<br>
fellow had not told me that you were going to ask me to
dinner&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'He! He said so, did he?' said Napoleon, turning on me a
glance like a<br>
wild beast. 'Yes, Truguet, so I am; you shall dine with me
to-day. And you,<br>
sir,' said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, as he came closer
towards<br>
me,&mdash;'and you have dared to speak thus? Call in a guard there.
Capitaine,<br>
put this person under arrest; he is disgraced. He is no longer
page of the<br>
palace. Out of my presence! away, sir!'</p>

<p>"The room wheeled round; my legs tottered; my senses reeled;
and I saw no<br>
more.</p>

<p>"Three weeks' bread and water in St. P&eacute;lagie, however,
brought me to my<br>
recollection; and at last my kind, my more than kind friend, the
Empress,<br>
obtained my pardon, and sent me to Fontainebleau, till the
Emperor should<br>
forget all about it. How I contrived again to refresh his memory
I have<br>
already told you; and certainly you will acknowledge that I have
not been<br>
fortunate in my interviews with Napoleon."</p>

<p>I am conscious how much St. Croix's story loses in my telling.
The simple<br>
expressions, the grace of the narrative, were its charm: and
these, alas!<br>
I can neither translate nor imitate, no more than I can convey
the strange<br>
mixture of deep feeling and levity, shrewdness and simplicity,
that<br>
constituted the manner of the narrator.</p>

<p>With many a story of his courtly career he amused me as we
trotted along;<br>
when, towards nightfall of the third day, a peasant informed us
that a<br>
body of French cavalry occupied the convent of San Cristoval,
about three<br>
leagues off. The opportunity of his return to his own army
pleased him far<br>
less than I expected. Ho heard, without any show of satisfaction,
that the<br>
time of his liberation had arrived; and when the moment of
leave-taking<br>
drew near, he became deeply affected.</p>

<p>"<i>Eh, bien</i>, Charles," said he, smiling sadly through his
dimmed and<br>
tearful eyes. "You've been a kind friend to me. Is the time never
to come<br>
when I can repay you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes; we'll meet again, be assured of it. Meanwhile there
is one way<br>
you can more than repay anything I have done for you."</p>

<p>"Oh, name it at once!"</p>

<p>"Many a brave fellow of ours is now, and doubtless many more
will be,<br>
prisoners with your army in this war. Whenever, therefore, your
lot brings<br>
you in contact with such&mdash;"</p>

<p>"They shall be my brothers," said he, springing towards me and
throwing his<br>
arms round my neck. "Adieu, adieu!" With that he rushed from the
spot, and<br>
before I could speak again, was mounted upon the peasant's horse
and waving<br>
his hand to me in farewell.</p>

<p>I looked after him as he rode at a fast gallop down the slope
of the green<br>
mountain, the noise of the horse's feet echoing along the silent
plain. I<br>
turned at length to leave the spot, and then perceived for the
first<br>
time that when taking his farewell of me he had hung around my
neck his<br>
miniature of the Empress. Poor boy! How sorrowful I felt thus to
rob him of<br>
what he had held so dear! How gladly would I have overtaken him
to restore<br>
it! It was the only keepsake he possessed; and knowing that I
would not<br>
accept it if offered, he took this way of compelling me to keep
it.</p>

<p>Through the long hours of the summer's night I thought of him;
and when<br>
at last I slept, towards morning, my first thought on waking was
of the<br>
solitary day before me. The miles no longer slipped imperceptibly
along; no<br>
longer did the noon and night seem fast to follow. Alas, that one
should<br>
grow old! The very sorrows of our early years have something soft
and<br>
touching in them. Arising less from deep wrong than slight
mischances, the<br>
grief they cause comes ever with an alloy of pleasant thoughts,
telling<br>
of the tender past, and amidst the tears called up, forming some
bright<br>
rainbow of future hope.</p>

<p>Poor St. Croix had already won greatly upon me, and I felt
lonely and<br>
desolate when he departed.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LIII.</p>

<p>ALVAS.</p>

<p>Nothing of incident marked our farther progress towards the
frontier of<br>
Spain, and at length we reached the small town of Alvas. It was
past sunset<br>
as we arrived, and instead of the usual quiet and repose of a
little<br>
village, we found the streets crowded with people, on horseback
and on<br>
foot; mules, bullocks, carts, and wagons blocked up the way, and
the oaths<br>
of the drivers and the screaming of women and children resounded
on all<br>
sides.</p>

<p>With what little Spanish I possessed I questioned some of
those near me,<br>
and learned, in reply, that a dreadful engagement had taken place
that day<br>
between the advanced guard of the French, under Victor, and the
Lusitanian<br>
legion; that the Portuguese troops had been beaten and completely
routed,<br>
losing all their artillery and baggage; that the French were
rapidly<br>
advancing, and expected hourly to arrive at Alvas, in consequence
of which<br>
the terror-stricken inhabitants were packing up their possessions
and<br>
hurrying away.</p>

<p>Here, then, was a point of considerable difficulty for me at
once. My<br>
instructions had never provided for such a conjuncture, and I was
totally<br>
unable to determine what was best to be done; both my men and
their horses<br>
were completely tired by a march of fourteen leagues, and had a
pressing<br>
need of some rest; on every side of me the preparations for
flight were<br>
proceeding with all the speed that fear inspires; and to my
urgent request<br>
for some information as to food and shelter, I could obtain no
other reply<br>
than muttered menaces of the fate before me if I remained, and
exaggerated<br>
accounts of French cruelty.</p>

<p>Amidst all this bustle and confusion a tremendous fall of
heavy rain set<br>
in, which at once determined me, come what might, to house my
party, and<br>
provide forage for our horses.</p>

<p>As we pushed our way slowly through the encumbered streets,
looking on<br>
every side for some appearance of a village inn, a tremendous
shout rose in<br>
our rear, and a rush of the people towards us induced us to
suppose<br>
that the French were upon us. For some minutes the din and uproar
were<br>
terrific,&mdash;the clatter of horses' feet, the braying of trumpets,
the<br>
yelling of the mob, all mingling in one frightful concert.</p>

<p>I formed my men in close column, and waited steadily for the
attack,<br>
resolving, if possible, to charge through the advancing
files,&mdash;any retreat<br>
through the crowded and blocked-up thoroughfares being totally
out of the<br>
question. The rain was falling in such torrents that nothing
could be seen<br>
a few yards off, when suddenly a pause of a few seconds occurred,
and from<br>
the clash of accoutrements, and the hoarse tones of a loud voice,
I judged<br>
that the body of men before us were forming for attack.</p>

<p>Resolving, therefore, to take them by surprise, I gave the
word to charge,<br>
and spurring our jaded cattle, onward we dashed. The mob fled
right and<br>
left from us as we came on; and through the dense mist we could
just<br>
perceive a body of cavalry before us.</p>

<p>In an instant we were among them; down they went on every
side, men and<br>
horses rolling pell-mell over each other; not a blow, not a shot
striking<br>
us as we pressed on. Never did I witness such total
consternation; some<br>
threw themselves from their horses, and fled towards the houses;
others<br>
turned and tried to fall back, but the increasing pressure from
behind held<br>
them, and finally succeeded in blocking us up among them.</p>

<p>It was just at this critical moment that a sudden gleam of
light from a<br>
window fell upon the disordered mass, and to my astonishment, I
need not<br>
say to my delight, I perceived that they were Portuguese troops.
Before<br>
I had well time to halt my party, my convictions were pretty
well<br>
strengthened by hearing a well-known voice in the rear of the
mass call<br>
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Charge, ye devils! charge, will ye? Illustrious Hidalgos! cut
them down;<br>
<i>los infidelos, sacrificados los!</i> Scatter them like
chaff!"</p>

<p>One roar of laughter was my only answer to this energetic
appeal for my<br>
destruction, and the moment after the dry features and pleasant
face of old<br>
Monsoon beamed on me by the light of a pine-torch he carried in
his right<br>
hand.</p>

<a name="0438"></a>
<img alt="0438.jpg (138K)" src="0438.jpg" height="596" width="651">

<p>[MAJOR MONSOON TRYING TO CHARGE.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"Are they prisoners? Have they surrendered?" inquired he,
riding up. "It is<br>
well for them; we'd have made mince-meat of them otherwise; now
they shall<br>
be well treated, and ransomed if they prefer."</p>

<p>"<i>Gracios excellenze!</i>" said I, in a feigned voice.</p>

<p>"Give up your sword," said the major, in an undertone.</p>

<p>"You behaved gallantly, but you fought against invincibles.
Lord love them!<br>
but they are the most terrified invincibles."</p>

<p>I nearly burst aloud at this.</p>

<p>"It was a close thing which of us ran first," muttered the
major, as he<br>
turned to give some directions to an aide-de-camp. "Ask them who
they are,"<br>
said he, in Spanish.</p>

<p>By this time I came close alongside of him, and placing my
mouth close to<br>
his ear, holloed out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Monsoon, old fellow, how goes the King of Spain's
sherry?"</p>

<p>"Eh, what! Why, upon my life, and so it is,&mdash;Charley, my boy,
so it's you,<br>
is it? Egad, how good; and we were so near being the death of
you! My poor<br>
fellow, how came you here?"</p>

<p>A few words of explanation sufficed to inform the major why we
were there,<br>
and still more to comfort him with the assurance that he had not
been<br>
charging the general's staff, and the conmander-in-chief
himself.</p>

<p>"Upon my life, you gave me a great start; though as long as I
thought you<br>
were French, it was very well."</p>

<p>"True, Major, but certainly the invincibles were merciful as
they were<br>
strong."</p>

<p>"They were tired, Charley, nothing more; why, lad, we've been
fighting<br>
since daybreak,&mdash;beat Victor at six o'clock, drove him back
behind the<br>
Tagus; took a cold dinner, and had at him again in the afternoon.
Lord love<br>
you! we've immortalized ourselves. But you must never speak of
this little<br>
business here; it tells devilish ill for the discipline of your
fellows,<br>
upon my life it does."</p>

<p>This was rather an original turn to give the transaction, but
I did not<br>
oppose; and thus chatting, we entered the little inn, where,
confidence<br>
once restored, some semblance of comfort already appeared.</p>

<p>"And so you're come to reinforce us?" said Monsoon; "there was
never<br>
anything more opportune,&mdash;though we surprised ourselves today
with valor, I<br>
don't think we could persevere."</p>

<p>"Yes, Major, the appointment gave me sincere pleasure; I
greatly desired<br>
to see a little service under your orders. Shall I present you
with my<br>
despatches?"</p>

<p>"Not now, Charley,&mdash;not now, my lad. Supper is the first thing
at this<br>
moment; besides, now that you remind me, I must send off a
despatch myself,<br>
Upon my life, it's a great piece of fortune that you're here; you
shall be<br>
secretary at war, and write it for me. Here now&mdash;how lucky that I
thought<br>
of it, to be sure! And it was just a mere chance; one has so many
things&mdash;"<br>
Muttering such broken, disjointed sentences, the major opened a
large<br>
portfolio with writing materials, which he displayed before me as
he rubbed<br>
his hands with satisfaction, and said, "Write away, lad."</p>

<p>"But, my dear Major, you forget; I was not in the action. You
must<br>
describe; I can only follow you."</p>

<p>"Begin then thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    HEADQUARTERS, ALVAS, JUNE 26.<br>
    YOUR EXCELLENCY,&mdash;Having learned from Don Alphonzo
Xaviero<br>
    da Minto, an officer upon my personal staff&mdash;</p>

<p>"Luckily sober at that moment&mdash;"</p>

<p>    That the advanced guard of the eighth corps of the
French<br>
    army&mdash;</p>

<p>"Stay, though, was it the eighth? Upon my life, I'm not quite
clear as to<br>
that; blot the word a little and go on&mdash;"</p>

<p>    That the&mdash;corps, under Marshal Victor, had commenced a
forward<br>
    movement towards Alcantara, I immediately ordered a flank<br>
    movement of the light infantry regiment to cover the bridge
over the<br>
    Tagus. After breakfast&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm afraid, Major, that is not precise enough."</p>

<p>"Well&mdash;"</p>

<p>    About eleven o'clock, the French skirmishers attacked, and
drove<br>
    in our pickets that were posted in front of our position, and
following<br>
    rapidly up with cavalry, they took a few prisoners, and
killed old<br>
    Alphonzo,&mdash;he ran like a man, they say, but they caught him
in<br>
    the rear.</p>

<p>"You needn't put that in, if you don't like."</p>

<p>    I now directed a charge of the cavalry brigade, under
Don<br>
    Asturias Y'Hajos, that cut them up in fine style. Our
artillery,<br>
    posted on the heights, mowing away at their columns like
fun.</p>

<p>    Victor didn't like this, and got into a wood, when we all
went<br>
    to dinner; it was about two o'clock then.</p>

<p>    After dinner, the Portuguese light corps, under Silva da
Onorha,<br>
    having made an attack upon, the enemy's left, without my
orders,<br>
    got devilish well trounced, and served them right; but coming
up<br>
    to their assistance, with the heavy brigade of guns, and the
cavalry,<br>
    we drove back the French, and took several prisoners, none of
whom<br>
    we put to death.</p>

<p>"Dash that&mdash;Sir Arthur likes respect for the usages of war.
Lord, how dry<br>
I'm getting!"</p>

<p>    The French were soon seen to retire their heavy guns,
and<br>
    speedily afterwards retreated. We pursued them for some time,
but<br>
    they showed fight; and as it was getting dark, I drew off my
forces,<br>
    and came here to supper. Your Excellency will perceive, by
the<br>
    enclosed return, that our loss has been considerable.</p>

<p>    I send this despatch by Don Emanuel Forgales, whose
services&mdash;</p>

<p>"I back him for mutton hash with onions against the whole
regiment&mdash;"</p>

<p>    &mdash;have been of the most distinguished nature, and beg to
recommend<br>
    him to your Excellency's favor.</p>

<p>    I have the honor, etc.</p>

<p>"Is it finished, Charley? Egad, I'm glad of it, for here comes
supper."</p>

<p>The door opened as he spoke, and displayed a tempting tray of
smoking<br>
viands, flanked by several bottles,&mdash;an officer of the major's
staff<br>
accompanied it, and showed, by his attentions to the etiquette of
the<br>
table and the proper arrangement of the meal, that his functions
in his<br>
superior's household were more than military.</p>

<p>We were speedily joined by two others in rich uniform, whose
names I now<br>
forget, but to whom the major presented me in all
form,&mdash;introducing me,<br>
as well as I could interpret his Spanish, as his most illustrious
ally and<br>
friend Don Carlos O'Malley.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LIV.</p>

<p>THE SUPPER.</p>

<p>I have often partaken of more luxurious cookery and rarer
wines; but never<br>
do I remember enjoying a more welcome supper than on this
occasion.</p>

<p>Our Portuguese guests left us soon, and the major and myself
were once<br>
more t&ecirc;te-a-t&ecirc;te beside a cheerful fire; a
well-chosen array of bottles<br>
guaranteeing that for some time at least no necessity of
leave-taking<br>
should arise from any deficiency of wine.</p>

<p>"That sherry is very near the thing, Charley; a little, a very
little<br>
sharp, but the after-taste perfect. And now, my boy, how have you
been<br>
doing since we parted?"</p>

<p>"Not so badly, Major. I have already got a step in promotion.
The affair at<br>
the Douro gave me a lieutenancy."</p>

<p>"I wish you joy with all my heart. I'll call you captain
always while<br>
you're with me. Upon my life I will. Why, man, they style me
your<br>
Excellency here. Bless your heart, we are great folk among the
Portuguese,<br>
and no bad service, after all."</p>

<p>"I should think not, Major. You seem to have always made a
good thing of<br>
it."</p>

<p>"No, Charley; no, my boy. They overlook us greatly in general
orders<br>
and despatches. Had the brilliant action of to-day been fought by
the<br>
British&mdash;But no matter, they may behave well in England, after
all; and<br>
when I'm called to the Upper House as Baron Monsoon of the
Tagus,&mdash;is that<br>
better than Lord Alcantara?"</p>

<p>"I prefer the latter."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I'll have it. Lord! what a treaty I'll move for
with Portugal,<br>
to let us have wine cheap. Wine, you know, as David says, gives
us a<br>
pleasant countenance; and oil,&mdash;I forget what oil does. Pass over
the<br>
decanter. And how is Sir Arthur, Charley? A fine fellow, but
sadly<br>
deficient in the knowledge of supplies. Never would have made any
character<br>
in the commissariat. Bless your heart, he pays for everything
here as if he<br>
were in Cheapside."</p>

<p>"How absurd, to be sure!"</p>

<p>"Isn't it, though? That was not my way, when I was
commissary-general about<br>
a year or two ago. To be sure, how I did puzzle them! They tried
to audit<br>
my accounts, and what do you think I did? I brought them in three
thousand<br>
pounds in my debt. They never tried on that game any more. 'No,
no,' said<br>
the Junta, 'Beresford and Monsoon are great men, and must be
treated with<br>
respect!' Do you think we'd let them search our pockets? But the
rogues<br>
doubled on us after all; they sent us to the northward,&mdash;a poor
country&mdash;"</p>

<p>"So that, except a little commonplace pillage of the convents
and<br>
nunneries, you had little or nothing?"</p>

<p>"Exactly so; and then I got a great shock about that time that
affected my<br>
spirits for a considerable while."</p>

<p>"Indeed, Major, some illness?"</p>

<p>"No, I was quite well; but&mdash;Lord, how thirsty it makes me to
think of it;<br>
my throat is absolutely parched&mdash;I was near being hanged!"</p>

<p>"Hanged!"</p>

<p>"Yes. Upon my life it's true,&mdash;very horrible, ain't it? It had
a great<br>
effect upon my nervous system; and they never thought of any
little pension<br>
to me as a recompense for my sufferings."</p>

<p>"And who was barbarous enough to think of such a thing,
Major?"</p>

<p>"Sir Arthur Wellesley himself,&mdash;none other, Charley?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it was a mistake, Major, or a joke."</p>

<p>"It was devilish near being a practical one, though. I'll tell
you how it<br>
occurred. After the battle of Vimeira, the brigade to which I was
attached<br>
had their headquarters at San Pietro, a large convent where all
the church<br>
plate for miles around was stored up for safety. A sergeant's
guard was<br>
accordingly stationed over the refectory, and every precaution
taken to<br>
prevent pillage, Sir Arthur himself having given particular
orders on the<br>
subject. Well, somehow,&mdash;I never could find out how,&mdash;but in
leaving the<br>
place, all the wagons of our brigade had got some trifling
articles of<br>
small value scattered, as it might be, among their stores,&mdash;gold
cups,<br>
silver candlesticks, Virgin Marys, ivory crucifixes, saints' eyes
set in<br>
topazes, and martyrs' toes in silver filagree, and a hundred
other similar<br>
things.</p>

<p>"One of these confounded bullock-cars broke down just at the
angle of the<br>
road where the commander-in-chief was standing with his staff to
watch the<br>
troops defile, and out rolled, among bread rations and salt beef,
a whole<br>
avalanche of precious relics and church ornaments. Every one
stood aghast!<br>
Never was there such a misfortune. No one endeavored to repair
the mishap,<br>
but all looked on in terrified amazement as to what was to
follow.</p>

<p>"'Who has the command of this detachment?' shouted out Sir
Arthur, in a<br>
voice that made more than one of us tremble.</p>

<p>"'Monsoon, your Excellency,&mdash;Major Monsoon, of the Portuguese
brigade.'</p>

<p>"'The d&mdash;d old rogue, I know him!' Upon my life that's what he
said. 'Hang<br>
him up on the spot,' pointing with his finger as he spoke; 'we
shall see<br>
if this practice cannot be put a stop to.' And with these words
he rode<br>
leisurely away, as if he had been merely ordering dinner for a
small party.</p>

<p>"When I came up to the place the halberts were fixed, and
Gronow, with a<br>
company of the Fusiliers, under arms beside them.</p>

<p>"'Devilish sorry for it, Major,' said he; 'It's confoundedly
unpleasant;<br>
but can't be helped. We've got orders to see you hanged.'</p>

<p>"Faith, it was just so he said it, tapping his snuff-box as he
spoke, and<br>
looking carelessly about him. Now, had it not been for the fixed
halberts<br>
and the provost-marshal, I'd not have believed him; but one
glance at them,<br>
and another at the bullock-cart with all the holy images, told me
at once<br>
what had happened.</p>

<p>"'He only means to frighten me a little? Isn't that all,
Gronow?' cried I,<br>
in a supplicating voice.</p>

<p>"'Very possibly, Major,' said he; 'but I must execute my
orders.'</p>

<p>"'You'll surely not&mdash;' Before I could finish, up came Dan
Mackinnon,<br>
cantering smartly.</p>

<p>"'Going to hang old Monsoon, eh, Gronow? What fun!'</p>

<p>"'Ain't it, though,' said I, half blubbering.</p>

<p>"'Well, if you're a good Catholic, you may have your choice of
a saint,<br>
for, by Jupiter, there's a strong muster of them here.' This
cruel allusion<br>
was made in reference to the gold and silver effigies that lay
scattered<br>
about the highway.</p>

<p>"'Dan,' said I, in a whisper, 'intercede for me. Do, like a
good, kind<br>
fellow. You have influence with Sir Arthur.'</p>

<p>"'You old sinner,' said he, 'it's useless.'</p>

<p>"'Dan, I'll forgive you the fifteen pounds.'</p>

<p>"'That you owe <i>me</i>,' said Dan, laughing.</p>

<p>"'Who'll ever be the father to you I have been? Who'll mix
your punch with<br>
burned Madeira, when I'm gone?' said I.</p>

<p>"'Well, really, I am sorry for you, Monsoon. I say, Gronow,
don't tuck him<br>
up for a few minutes; I'll speak for the old villain, and if I
succeed,<br>
I'll wave my handkerchief.'</p>

<p>"Well, away went Dan at a full gallop. Gronow sat down on a
bank, and<br>
I fidgeted about in no very enviable frame of mind, the
confounded<br>
provost-marshal eying me all the while.</p>

<p>"'I can only give you five minutes more, Major,' said Gronow,
placing his<br>
watch beside him on the grass. I tried to pray a little, and said
three or<br>
four of Solomon's proverbs, when he again called out: 'There, you
see it<br>
won't do! Sir Arthur is shaking his head.'</p>

<p>"'What's that waving yonder?'</p>

<p>"'The colors of the 6th Foot. Come, Major, off with your
stock.'</p>

<p>"'Where is Dan now; what is he doing?'&mdash;for I could see
nothing myself.</p>

<p>"'He's riding beside Sir Arthur. They all seem laughing.'</p>

<p>"'God forgive them! what an awful retrospect this will prove
to some of<br>
them.'</p>

<p>"'Time's up!' said Gronow, jumping up, and replacing his watch
in his<br>
pocket.</p>

<p>"'Provost-Marshal, be quick now&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'Eh! what's that?&mdash;there, I see it waving! There's a shout
too!'</p>

<p>"'Ay, by Jove! so it is; well, you're saved this time, Major;
that's the<br>
signal.'</p>

<p>"So saying, Gronow formed his fellows in line and resumed his
march quite<br>
coolly, leaving me alone on the roadside to meditate over martial
law and<br>
my pernicious taste for relics.</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, this gave me a great shock, and I think, too,
it must have<br>
had a great effect upon Sir Arthur himself; but, upon my life, he
has<br>
wonderful nerves. I met him one day afterwards at dinner in
Lisbon; he<br>
looked at me very hard for a few seconds: 'Eh, Monsoon! Major
Monsoon, I<br>
think?'</p>

<p>"'Yes, your Excellency,' said I, briefly; thinking how painful
it must be<br>
for him to meet me.</p>

<p>"'Thought I had hanged you,&mdash;know I intended it,&mdash;no matter. A
glass of<br>
wine with you?'</p>

<p>"Upon my life, that was all; how easily some people can
forgive themselves!<br>
But Charley, my hearty, we are getting on slowly with the tipple;
are they<br>
all empty? So they are! Let us make a sortie on the cellar; bring
a candle<br>
with you, and come along."</p>

<p>We had scarcely proceeded a few steps from the door, when a
most vociferous<br>
sound of mirth, arising from a neighboring apartment, arrested
our<br>
progress.</p>

<p>"Are the dons so convivial, Major?" said I, as a hearty burst
of laughter<br>
broke forth at the moment.</p>

<p>"Upon my life, they surprise me; I begin to fear they have
taken some of<br>
our wine."</p>

<p>We now perceived that the sounds of merriment came from the
kitchen,<br>
which opened upon a little courtyard. Into this we crept
stealthily, and<br>
approaching noiselessly to the window, obtained a peep at the
scene within.</p>

<p>Around a blazing fire, over which hung by a chain a massive
iron pot, sat a<br>
goodly party of some half-dozen people. One group lay in dark
shadow; but<br>
the others were brilliantly lighted up by the cheerful blaze, and
showed<br>
us a portly Dominican friar, with a beard down to his waist, a
buxom,<br>
dark-eyed girl of some eighteen years, and between the two,
most<br>
comfortably leaning back, with an arm round each, no less a
person than my<br>
trusty man Mickey Free.</p>

<p>It was evident, from the alternate motion of his head, that
his attentions<br>
were evenly divided between the church and the fair sex;
although, to<br>
confess the truth, they seemed much more favorably received by
the latter<br>
than the former,&mdash;a brown earthen flagon appearing to absorb all
the worthy<br>
monk's thoughts that he could spare from the contemplation of
heavenly<br>
objects.</p>

<p>"Mary, my darlin,' don't be looking at me that way, through
the corner of<br>
your eye; I know you're fond of me,&mdash;but the girls always was.
You think<br>
I'm joking, but troth I wouldn't say a lie before the holy man
beside me;<br>
sure I wouldn't, Father?"</p>

<p>The friar grunted out something in reply, not very unlike, in
sound at<br>
least, a hearty anathema.</p>

<p>"Ah, then, isn't it yourself has the illigant time of it,
Father dear!"<br>
said he, tapping him familiarly upon his ample paunch, "and
nothing to<br>
trouble you; the best of divarsion wherever you go, and whether
it's<br>
Badahos or Ballykilruddery, it's all one; the women is fond of
ye. Father<br>
Murphy, the coadjutor in Scariff, was just such another as
yourself, and<br>
he'd coax the birds off the trees with the tongue of him. Give us
a pull at<br>
the pipkin before it's all gone, and I'll give you a chant."</p>

<p>With this he seized the jar, and drained it to the bottom; the
smack of his<br>
lips as he concluded, and the disappointed look of the friar as
he peered<br>
into the vessel, throwing the others, once more, into a loud
burst of<br>
laughter.</p>

<p>"And now, your rev'rance, a good chorus is all I'll ask, and
you'll not<br>
refuse it for the honor of the church."</p>

<p>So saying, he turned a look of most droll expression upon the
monk, and<br>
began the following ditty, to the air of "Saint Patrick was a
Gentleman":&mdash;</p>

<p>    What an illegant life a friar leads,<br>
     With a fat round paunch before him!<br>
    He mutters a prayer and counts his beads,<br>
     And all the women adore him.<br>
    It's little he's troubled to work or think,<br>
     Wherever devotion leads him;<br>
    A "pater" pays for his dinner and drink,<br>
     For the Church&mdash;good luck to her!&mdash;feeds him.</p>

<p>    From the cow in the field to the pig in the sty,<br>
     From the maid to the lady in satin,<br>
    They tremble wherever he turns an eye.<br>
     He can talk to the Devil in Latin!<br>
    He's mighty severe to the ugly and ould,<br>
     And curses like mad when he's near 'em;<br>
    But one beautiful trait of him I've been tould,<br>
     The innocent craytures don't fear him.</p>

<p>    It's little for spirits or ghosts he cares;<br>
     For 'tis true as the world supposes,<br>
    With an Ave he'd make them march down-stairs,<br>
     Av they dared to show their noses.<br>
    The Devil himself's afraid, 'tis said,<br>
     And dares not to deride him;<br>
    For "angels make each night his bed,<br>
     And then&mdash;lie down beside him."</p>

<p>A perfect burst of laughter from Monsoon prevented my hearing
how Mike's<br>
minstrelsy succeeded within doors; but when I looked again, I
found<br>
that the friar had decamped, leaving the field open to his
rival,&mdash;a<br>
circumstance, I could plainly perceive, not disliked by either
party.</p>

<p>"Come back, Charley, that villain of yours has given me the
cramp, standing<br>
here on the cold pavement. We'll have a little warm posset,&mdash;very
small and<br>
thin, as they say in Tom Jones,&mdash;and then to bed."</p>

<p>Notwithstanding the abstemious intentions of the major, it was
daybreak<br>
ere we separated, and neither party in a condition for performing
upon the<br>
tight-rope.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LV.</p>

<p>THE LEGION.</p>

<p>My services while with the Legion were of no very
distinguished character,<br>
and require no lengthened chronicle. Their great feat of arms,
the repulse<br>
of an advanced guard of Victor's corps, had taken place the very
morning I<br>
had joined them, and the ensuing month was passed in soft repose
upon their<br>
laurels.</p>

<p>For the first few days, indeed, a multiplicity of cares beset
the worthy<br>
major. There was a despatch to be written to Beresford, another
to<br>
the Supreme Junta, a letter to Wilson, at that time with the
corps of<br>
observation to the eastward. There were some wounded to be looked
after, a<br>
speech to be made to the conquering heroes themselves, and
lastly, a few<br>
prisoners were taken, whose fate seemed certainly to partake of
the most<br>
uncertain of war's proverbial chances.</p>

<p>The despatches gave little trouble; with some very slight
alterations, the<br>
great original, already sent forward to Sir Arthur, served as a
basis for<br>
the rest. The wounded were forwarded to Alcantara, with a medical
staff; to<br>
whom Monsoon, at parting, pleasantly hinted that he expected to
see all the<br>
sick at their duty by an early day, or he would be compelled to
report the<br>
doctors. The speech, which was intended as a kind of general
order, he<br>
deferred for some favorable afternoon when he could get up his
Portuguese;<br>
and lastly, came the prisoners, by far the most difficult of all
his cares.<br>
As for the few common soldiers taken, they gave him little
uneasiness,&mdash;as<br>
Sir John has it, they were "mortal men, and food for powder;" but
there<br>
was a staff-officer among them, aiguilletted and epauletted. The
very<br>
decorations he wore were no common temptation. Now, the major
deliberated a<br>
long time with himself, whether the usages of modern war might
not admit of<br>
the ancient, time-honored practice of ransom. The battle, save in
glory,<br>
had been singularly unproductive: plunder there was none; the
few<br>
ammunition-wagons and gun-carriages were worth little or nothing;
so that,<br>
save the prisoners, nothing remained. It was late in the
evening&mdash;the<br>
mellow hour of the major's meditations&mdash;when he ventured to open
his heart<br>
to me upon the matter.</p>

<p>"I was just thinking, Charley, how very superior they were in
olden times<br>
to us moderns, in many matters, and nothing more than in their
treatment of<br>
prisoners. They never took them away from their friends and
country;<br>
they always ransomed them,&mdash;if they had wherewithal to pay their
way. So<br>
good-natured!&mdash;upon my life it was a most excellent custom! They
took any<br>
little valuables they found about them, and then put them up at
auction.<br>
Moses and Eleazar, a priest, we are told, took every piece of
gold, and<br>
their wrought jewels,&mdash;meaning their watches, and ear-rings. You
needn't<br>
laugh, they all wore ear-rings, those fellows did. Now, why
shouldn't<br>
I profit by their good example? I have taken Agag, the King of
the<br>
Amalekites,&mdash;no, but upon my life, I have got a French major, and
I'd let<br>
him go for fifty doubloons."</p>

<p>It was not without much laughing, and some eloquence, that I
could persuade<br>
Monsoon that Sir Arthur's military notions might not accept of
even the<br>
authority of Moses; and as our headquarters were at no great
distance,<br>
the danger of such a step as he meditated was too considerable at
such a<br>
moment.</p>

<p>As for ourselves, no fatiguing drills, no harassing
field-days, and no<br>
provoking inspections interfered with the easy current of our
lives.<br>
Foraging parties there were, it was true, and some occasional
outpost duty<br>
was performed. But the officers for both were selected with a
tact that<br>
proved the major's appreciation of character; for while the gay,
joyous<br>
fellow that sung a jovial song and loved his <i>liquor</i> was
certain of being<br>
entertained at headquarters, the less-gifted and less-congenial
spirit had<br>
the happiness of scouring the country for forage, and presenting
himself as<br>
a target to a French rifle.</p>

<p>My own endeavors to fulfil my instructions met with but
little<br>
encouragement or support; and although I labored hard at my task,
I must<br>
confess that the soil was a most ungrateful one. The cavalry
were, it is<br>
true, composed mostly of young fellows well-appointed, and in
most cases<br>
well-mounted; but a more disorderly, careless, undisciplined set
of<br>
good-humored fellows never formed a corps in the world.</p>

<p>Monsoon's opinions were felt in every branch of the service,
from the<br>
adjutant to the drumboy,&mdash;the same reckless, indolent,
plunder-loving<br>
spirit prevailed everywhere. And although under fire they showed
no lack of<br>
gallantry or courage, the moment of danger passed, discipline
departed with<br>
it, and their only conception of benefiting by a victory
consisted in the<br>
amount of pillage that resulted from it.</p>

<p>From time to time the rumors of great events reached us. We
heard that<br>
Soult, having succeeded in re-organizing his beaten army, was,
in<br>
conjunction with Ney's corps, returning from the north; that the
marshals<br>
were consolidating their forces in the neighborhood of Talavera;
and that<br>
King Joseph himself, at the head of a large army, had marched for
Madrid.</p>

<p>Menacing as such an aspect of affairs was, it had little
disturbed the<br>
major's equanimity; and when our advanced posts reported daily
the<br>
intelligence that the French were in retreat, he cared little
with what<br>
object of concentrating they retired, provided the interval
between us<br>
grew gradually wider. His speculations upon the future were
singularly<br>
prophetic. "You'll see, Charley, what will happen; old Cuesta
will pursue<br>
them, and get thrashed. The English will come up, and perhaps get
thrashed<br>
too; but we, God bless us! are only a small force, partially
organized and<br>
ill to depend on,&mdash;we'll go up the mountains till all is over!"
Thus did<br>
the major's discretion not only extend to the avoidance of
danger, but he<br>
actually disqualified himself from even making its
acquaintance.</p>

<p>Meanwhile our operations consisted in making easy marches to
Almarez,<br>
halting wherever the commissariat reported a well-stocked cellar
or<br>
well-furnished hen-roost, taking the primrose path in life, and
being, in<br>
words of the major, "contented and grateful, even amidst great
perils!"</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LVI.</p>

<p>THE DEPARTURE.</p>

<p>On the morning of the 10th July a despatch reached us
announcing that Sir<br>
Arthur Wellesley had taken up his headquarters at Placentia for
the purpose<br>
of communicating with Cuesta, then at Casa del Puerto; and
ordering me<br>
immediately to repair to the Spanish headquarters and await Sir
Arthur's<br>
arrival, to make my report upon the effective state of our corps.
As for<br>
me, I was heartily tired of the inaction of my present life, and
much as I<br>
relished the eccentricities of my friend the major, longed
ardently for a<br>
different sphere of action.</p>

<p>Not so Monsoon; the prospect of active employment and the
thoughts of being<br>
left once more alone, for his Portuguese staff afforded him
little society,<br>
depressed him greatly; and as the hour of my departure drew near,
he<br>
appeared lower in spirits than I had ever seen him.</p>

<p>"I shall be very lonely without you, Charley," said he, with a
sigh, as we<br>
sat the last evening together beside our cheerful wood fire. "I
have little<br>
intercourse with the dons; for my Portuguese is none of the best,
and only<br>
comes when the evening is far advanced; and besides, the
villains, I fear,<br>
may remember the sherry affair. Two of my present staff were with
me then."</p>

<p>"Is that the story Power so often alluded to, Major; the King
of Spain's&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There, Charley, hush; be cautious, my boy. I'd rather not
speak about that<br>
till we get among our own fellows."</p>

<p>"Just as you like, Major; but, do you know, I have a strong
curiosity to<br>
hear the narrative."</p>

<p>"If I'm not mistaken, there is some one listening at the
door,&mdash;gently;<br>
that's it, eh?"</p>

<p>"No, we are perfectly alone; the night's early; who knows when
we shall<br>
have as quiet an hour again together? Let me hear it, by all
means."</p>

<p>"Well, I don't care; the thing, Heaven knows! is tolerably
well known; so<br>
if you'll amuse yourself making a devil of the turkey's legs
there, I'll<br>
tell you the story. It's very short, Charley, and there's no
moral; so<br>
you're not likely to repeat it."</p>

<p>So saying, the major filled up his glass, drew a little closer
to the fire,<br>
and began:&mdash;</p>

<p>"When the French troops, under Laborde, were marching, upon
Alcobaca,<br>
in concert with Loison's corps, I was ordered to convey a very
valuable<br>
present of sherry the Duo d'Albu-querque was making to the
Supreme<br>
Junta,&mdash;no less than ten hogsheads of the best sherry the royal
cellars of<br>
Madrid had formerly contained.</p>

<p>"It was stored in the San Vincente convent; and the Junta,
knowing a little<br>
about monkish tastes and the wants of the Church, prudently
thought it<br>
would be quite as well at Lisbon. I was accordingly ordered, with
a<br>
sufficient force, to provide for its safe conduct and secure
arrival, and<br>
set out upon my march one lovely morning in April with my
precious convoy.</p>

<p>"I don't know, I never could understand, why temptations are
thrown in our<br>
way in this life, except for the pleasure of yielding to them. As
for me,<br>
I'm a stoic when there's nothing to be had; but let me get a
scent of<br>
a well-kept haunch, the odor of a wine-bin once in my nose, I
forget<br>
everything except appropriation. That bone smells deliciously,
Charley; a<br>
little garlic would improve it vastly.</p>

<p>"Our road lay through cross-paths and mountain tracts, for the
French were<br>
scouring the country on every side, and my fellows, only twenty
altogether,<br>
trembled at the very name of them; so that our only chance was to
avoid<br>
falling in with any forage parties. We journeyed along for
several days,<br>
rarely making more than a few leagues between sunrise and sunset,
a scout<br>
always in advance to assure us that all was safe. The road was a
lonesome<br>
one and the way weary, for I had no one to speak to or converse
with, so I<br>
fell into a kind of musing fit about the old wine in the great
brown casks.<br>
I thought on its luscious flavor, its rich straw tint, its oily
look as it<br>
flowed into the glass, the mellow after-taste warming the heart
as it went<br>
down, and I absolutely thought I could smell it through the
wood.</p>

<p>"How I longed to broach one of them, if it were only to see if
my dreams<br>
about it were correct. 'May be it's brown sherry,' thought I,
'and I am<br>
all wrong.' This was a very distressing reflection. I mentioned
it to the<br>
Portuguese intendant, who travelled with us as a kind of
supercargo; but<br>
the villain only grinned and said something about the Junta and
the galleys<br>
for life, so I did not recur to it afterwards. Well, it was upon
the third<br>
evening of our march that the scout reported that at Merida,
about a league<br>
distant, he had fallen in with an English cavalry regiment, who
were on<br>
their march to the northern provinces, and remaining that night
in the<br>
village. As soon, therefore, as I had made all my arrangements
for the<br>
night, I took a fresh horse and cantered over to have a look at
my<br>
countrymen, and hear the news. When I arrived, it was a dark
night, but I<br>
was not long in finding out our fellows. They were the 11th Light
Dragoons,<br>
commanded by my old friend Bowes, and with as jolly a mess as any
in the<br>
service.</p>

<p>"Before half an hour's time I was in the midst of them,
hearing all about<br>
the campaign, and telling them in return about my convoy,
dilating upon the<br>
qualities of the wine as if I had been drinking it every day at
dinner.</p>

<p>"We had a very mellow night of it; and before four o'clock the
senior<br>
major and four captains were under the table, and all the subs,
in a state<br>
unprovided for by the articles of war. So I thought I'd be going,
and<br>
wishing the sober ones a good-by, set out on my road to join my
own party.</p>

<p>"I had not gone above a hundred yards when I heard some one
running after,<br>
and calling out my name.</p>

<p>"'I say, Monsoon; Major, confound you, pull up.'</p>

<p>"'Well, what's the matter? Has any more lush turned up?'
inquired I, for we<br>
had drank the tap dry when I left.</p>

<p>"'Not a drop, old fellow!' said he; 'but I was thinking of
what you've been<br>
saying about that sherry.'</p>

<p>"'Well! What then?'</p>

<p>"'Why, I want to know how we could get a taste of it?'</p>

<p>"'You'd better get elected one of the Cortes,' said I,
laughing; 'for it<br>
doesn't seem likely you'll do so in any other way.'</p>

<p>"'I'm not so sure of that,' said he, smiling. 'What road do
you travel<br>
to-morrow?'</p>

<p>"'By Cavalhos and Reina.'</p>

<p>"'Whereabouts may you happen to be towards sunset?'</p>

<p>"'I fear we shall be in the mountains,' said I, with a knowing
look, 'where<br>
ambuscades and surprise parties would be highly dangerous.'</p>

<p>"'And your party consists of&mdash;'</p>

<p>"'About twenty Portuguese, all ready to run at the first
shot.'</p>

<p>"'I'll do it, Monsoon; I'll be hanged if I don't.'</p>

<p>"'But, Tom,' said I, 'don't make any blunder; only blank
cartridge, my<br>
boy.'</p>

<p>"'Honor bright!' cried he. 'Your fellows are armed of
course?'</p>

<p>"'Never think of that; they may shoot each other in the
confusion. But if<br>
you only make plenty of noise coming on, they'll never wait for
you.'</p>

<p>"'What capital fellows they must be!'</p>

<p>"'Crack troops, Tom; so don't hurt them. And now,
good-night.'</p>

<p>"As I cantered off, I began to think over O'Flaherty's idea;
and upon my<br>
life, I didn't half like it. He was a reckless, devil-may-care
fellow; and<br>
it was just as likely he would really put his scheme into
practice.</p>

<p>"When morning broke, however, we got under way again, and I
amused myself<br>
all the forenoon in detailing stories of French cruelty; so that
before we<br>
had marched ten miles, there was not a man among us not ready to
run at the<br>
slightest sound of attack on any side. As evening was falling we
reached<br>
Morento, a little mountain pass which follows the course of a
small river,<br>
and where, in many places, the mule carts had barely space enough
to pass<br>
between the cliffs and the stream. 'What a place for Tom
O'Flaherty and his<br>
foragers!' thought I, as we entered the little mountain gorge;
but all was<br>
silent as the grave,&mdash;except the tramp of our party, not a sound
was heard.<br>
There was something solemn and still in the great brown mountain,
rising<br>
like vast walls on either side, with a narrow streak of gray sky
at top and<br>
in the dark, sluggish stream, that seemed to awe us, and no one
spoke. The<br>
muleteer ceased his merry song, and did not crack or flourish his
long whip<br>
as before, but chid his beasts in a half-muttered voice, and
urged them<br>
faster, to reach the village before nightfall.</p>

<p>"Egad, somehow I felt uncommonly uncomfortable; I could not
divest my mind<br>
of the impression that some disaster was impending, and I wished
O'Flaherty<br>
and his project in a very warm climate. 'He'll attack us,'
thought I,<br>
'where we can't run; fair play forever. But if they are not able
to get<br>
away, even the militia will fight.' However, the evening crept
on, and no<br>
sign of his coming appeared on any side; and to my sincere
satisfaction, I<br>
could see, about half a league distant, the twinkling light of
the little<br>
village where we were to halt for the night. It was just at this
time that<br>
a scout I had sent out some few hundred yards in advance came
galloping up,<br>
almost breathless.</p>

<p>"'The French, Captain; the French are upon us!' said he, with
a face like a<br>
ghost.</p>

<p>"'Whew! Which way? How many?' said I, not at all sure that he
might not be<br>
telling the truth.</p>

<p>"'Coming in force!' said the fellow. 'Dragoons! By this
road!'</p>

<p>"'Dragoons? By this road?' repeated every man of the party,
looking at each<br>
other like men sentenced to be hanged.</p>

<p>"Scarcely had they spoken when we heard the distant noise of
cavalry<br>
advancing at a brisk trot. Lord, what a scene ensued! The
soldiers ran<br>
hither and thither like frightened sheep; some pulled out
crucifixes and<br>
began to say their prayers; others fired off their muskets in a
panic; the<br>
mule-drivers cut their traces, and endeavored to get away by
riding; and<br>
the intendant took to his heels, screaming out to us, as he went,
to fight<br>
manfully to the last, and that he'd report us favorably to the
Junta.</p>

<p>"Just at this moment the dragoons came in sight; they came
galloping up,<br>
shouting like madmen. One look was enough for my fellows; they
sprang to<br>
their legs from their devotions, fired a volley straight at the
new moon,<br>
and ran like men.</p>

<p>"I was knocked down in the rush. As I regained my legs, Tom
O'Flaherty was<br>
standing beside me, laughing like mad.</p>

<p>"'Eh, Monsoon! I've kept my word, old fellow! What legs they
have! We shall<br>
make no prisoners, that's certain. Now, lads, here it is! Put the
horses<br>
to, here. We shall take but one, Monsoon; so that your gallant
defence of<br>
the rest will please the Junta. Good-night, good-night! I will
drink your<br>
health every night these two months.'</p>

<p>"So saying, Tom sprang to his saddle; and in less time than
I've been<br>
telling it, the whole was over and I sitting by myself in the
gray<br>
moonlight, meditating on all I saw, and now and then shouting for
my<br>
Portuguese friends to come back again. They came in time, by twos
and<br>
threes; and at last the whole party re-assembled, and we set
forth again,<br>
every man, from the intendant to the drummer, lauding my valor,
and saying<br>
that Don Monsoon was a match for the Cid."</p>

<p>"And how did the Junta behave?"</p>

<p>"Like trumps, Charley. Made me a Knight of Battalha, and
kissed me on both<br>
cheeks, having sent twelve dozen of the rescued wine to my
quarters, as a<br>
small testimony of their esteem. I have laughed very often at it
since. But<br>
hush, Charley? What's that I hear without there?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it's my fellow Mike. He asked my leave to entertain his
friends before<br>
parting, and I perceive he is delighting them with a song."</p>

<p>"But what a confounded air it is! Are the words Hebrew?"</p>

<p>"Irish, Major; most classical Irish, too, I'll be bound!"</p>

<p>"Irish! I've heard most tongues, but that certainly surprises
me. Call him<br>
in, Charley, and let us have the canticle."</p>

<p>In a few minutes more, Mr. Free appeared in a state of very
satisfactory<br>
elevation, his eyebrows alternately rising and falling, his mouth
a little<br>
drawn to one side, and a side motion in his knee-joints that
might puzzle a<br>
physiologist to account for.</p>

<p>"A sweet little song of yours, Mike," said the major; "a very
sweet thing<br>
indeed. Wet your lips, Mickey."</p>

<p>"Long life to your honor and Master Charles there, too, and
them that<br>
belongs to both of yez. May a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for
the man<br>
would harm either of ye."</p>

<p>"Thank you, Mike. And now about that song."</p>

<p>"It's the ouldest tune ever was sung," said Mike, with a
hiccough, "barring<br>
Adam had a taste for music; but the words&mdash;the poethry&mdash;is not so
ould."</p>

<p>"And how comes that?"</p>

<p>"The poethry, ye see, was put to it by one of my
ancesthors,&mdash;he was a<br>
great inventhor in times past, and made beautiful songs,&mdash;and
ye'd never<br>
guess what it's all about."</p>

<p>"Love, mayhap?" quoth Monsoon.</p>

<p>"Sorra taste of kissing from beginning to end."</p>

<p>"A drinking song?" said I.</p>

<p>"Whiskey is never mentioned."</p>

<p>"Fighting is the only other national pastime. It must be in
praise of<br>
sudden death?"</p>

<p>"You're out again; but sure you'd never guess it," said Mike.
"Well, ye<br>
see, here's what it is. It's the praise and glory of ould Ireland
in the<br>
great days that's gone, when we were all Phenayceans and
Armenians,<br>
and when we worked all manner of beautiful contrivances in gold
and<br>
silver,&mdash;bracelets and collars and teapots, elegant to look
at,&mdash;and read<br>
Roosian and Latin, and played the harp and the barrel-organ, and
eat and<br>
drank of the best, for nothing but asking."</p>

<p>"Blessed times, upon my life!" quoth the major; "I wish we had
them back<br>
again."</p>

<p>"There's more of your mind," said Mike, steadying himself. "My
ancesthors<br>
was great people in them days; and sure it isn't in my present
situation<br>
I'd be av we had them back again,&mdash;sorra bit, faith! It isn't,
'Come<br>
here, Mickey, bad luck to you, Mike!' or, 'That blackguard,
Mickey Free!'<br>
people'd be calling me. But no matter; here's your health again,
Major<br>
Monsoon&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Never mind vain regrets, Mike. Let us hear your song; the
major has taken<br>
a great fancy to it."</p>

<p>"Ah, then, it's joking you are, Mister Charles," said Mike,
affecting an<br>
air of most bashful coyness.</p>

<p>"By no means; we want to hear you sing it."</p>

<p>"To be sure we do. Sing it by all means; never be ashamed.
King David was<br>
very fond of singing,&mdash;upon my life he was."</p>

<p>"But you'd never understand a word of it, sir."</p>

<p>"No matter; we know what it's about. That's the way with the
Legion; they<br>
don't know much English, but they generally guess what I'm
at."</p>

<p>This argument seemed to satisfy all Mike's remaining scruples;
so placing<br>
himself in an attitude of considerable pretension as to grace, he
began,<br>
with a voice of no very measured compass, an air of which neither
by name<br>
nor otherwise can I give any conception; my principal amusement
being<br>
derived from a tol-de-rol chorus of the major, which concluded
each verse,<br>
and indeed in a lower key accompanied the singer throughout.</p>

<p>Since that I have succeeded in obtaining a free-and-easy
translation of the<br>
lyric; but in my anxiety to preserve the metre and something of
the spirit<br>
of the original, I have made several blunders and many
anachronisms. Mr.<br>
Free, however, pronounces my version a good one, and the world
must take<br>
his word till some more worthy translator shall have consigned it
to<br>
immortal verse.</p>

<p>With this apology, therefore, I present Mr. Free's song:</p>

<p>       AIR,&mdash;<i>Na Guilloch y' Goulen</i>.</p>

<p>    Oh, once we were illigint people,<br>
      Though we now live in cabins of mud;<br>
    And the land that ye see from the steeple<br>
      Belonged to us all from the Flood.<br>
    My father was then King of Connaught,<br>
      My grand-aunt Viceroy of Tralee;<br>
    But the Sassenach came, and signs on it,<br>
      The devil an acre have we.</p>

<p>    The least of us then were all earls,<br>
      And jewels we wore without name;<br>
    We drank punch out of rubies and pearls,&mdash;<br>
      Mr. Petrie can tell you the same.<br>
    But except some turf mould and potatoes,<br>
      There's nothing our own we can call;<br>
    And the English,&mdash;bad luck to them!&mdash;hate us,<br>
      Because we've more fun than them all!</p>

<p>    My grand-aunt was niece to Saint Kevin,<br>
      That's the reason my name's Mickey Free!<br>
    Priest's nieces,&mdash;but sure he's in heaven,<br>
      And his failins is nothin' to me.<br>
    And we still might get on without doctors,<br>
      If they'd let the ould Island alone;<br>
    And if purple-men, priests, and tithe-proctors<br>
      Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone.</p>

<a name="0460"></a>
<img alt="0460.jpg (115K)" src="0460.jpg" height="585" width="645">

<p>[MR. FREE'S SONG.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>As Mike's melody proceeded, the major's thorough bass waxed
beautifully<br>
less,&mdash;now and then, it's true, roused by some momentary strain,
it swelled<br>
upwards in full chorus, but gradually these passing flights grew
rarer, and<br>
finally all ceased, save a long, low, droning sound, like the
expiring sigh<br>
of a wearied bagpipe. His fingers still continued mechanically to
beat time<br>
upon the table, and still his head nodded sympathetically to the
music;<br>
his eyelids closed in sleep; and as the last verse concluded, a
full-drawn<br>
snore announced that Monsoon, if not in the land of dreams, was
at least in<br>
a happy oblivion of all terrestrial concerns, and caring as
little for the<br>
woes of green Erin and the altered fortunes of the Free family as
any Saxon<br>
that ever oppressed them.</p>

<p>There he sat, the finished decanter and empty goblet
testifying that his<br>
labors had only ceased from the pressure of necessity; but the
broken,<br>
half-uttered words that fell from his lips evinced that he
reposed on the<br>
last bottle of the series.</p>

<p>"Oh, thin, he's a fine ould gentleman!" said Mike, after a
pause of some<br>
minutes, during which he had been contemplating the major with
all the<br>
critical acumen Chantrey or Canova would have bestowed upon an
antique<br>
statue,&mdash;"a fine ould gentleman, every inch of him; and it's the
master<br>
would like to have him up at the Castle."</p>

<p>"Quite true, Mike; but let us not forget the road. Look to the
cattle, and<br>
be ready to start within an hour."</p>

<p>When he left the room for this purpose I endeavored to shake
the major into<br>
momentary consciousness ere we parted.</p>

<p>"Major, Major," said I, "time is up. I must start."</p>

<p>"Yes, it's all true, your Excellency: they pillaged a little;
and if they<br>
did change their facings, there was a great temptation. All the
red velvet<br>
they found in the churches&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Good-by, old fellow, good-by!"</p>

<p>"Stand at ease!"</p>

<p>"Can't, unfortunately, yet awhile; so farewell. I'll make a
capital report<br>
of the Legion to Sir Arthur; shall I add anything particularly
from<br>
yourself?"</p>

<p>This, and the shake that accompanied it, aroused him. He
started up, and<br>
looked about him for a few seconds.</p>

<p>"Eh, Charley! You didn't say Sir Arthur was here, did
you?"</p>

<p>"No, Major; don't be frightened; he's many a league off. I
asked if you had<br>
anything to say when I met him?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, Charley! Tell him we're capital troops in our own
little way in<br>
the mountains; would never do in pitched battles,&mdash;skirmishing's
our forte;<br>
and for cutting off stragglers, or sacking a town, back them at
any odds."</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, I know all that; you've nothing more?"</p>

<p>"Nothing," said he, once more closing his eyes and crossing
his hands<br>
before him, while his lips continued to mutter on,&mdash;"nothing
more, except<br>
you may say from me,&mdash;he knows me, Sir Arthur does. Tell him to
guard<br>
himself from intemperance; a fine fellow if he wouldn't
drink."</p>

<p>"You horrid old humbug, what nonsense are you muttering
there?"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes; Solomon says, 'Who hath red eyes and carbuncles?'
they that mix<br>
their lush. Pure <i>Sneyd</i> never injured any one. Tell him so
from me,&mdash;it's<br>
an old man's advice, and I have drunk some hogsheads of it."</p>

<p>With these words he ceased to speak, while his head, falling
gently forward<br>
upon his chest, proclaimed him sound asleep.</p>

<p>"Adieu, then, for the last time," said I, slapping him gently
on the<br>
shoulder. "And now for the road."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LVII.</p>

<p>CUESTA.</p>

<p>The second day of our journey was drawing to a close as we
came in view of<br>
the Spanish army.</p>

<p>The position they occupied was an undulating plain beside the
Teitar River;<br>
the country presented no striking feature of picturesque beauty,
but the<br>
scene before us needed no such aid to make it one of the most
interesting<br>
kind. From the little mountain path we travelled we beheld
beneath a force<br>
of thirty thousand men drawn up in battle array, dense columns of
infantry<br>
alternating with squadrons of horse or dark masses of artillery
dotted<br>
the wide plain, the bright steel glittering in the rich sunset of
a July<br>
evening when not a breath of air was stirring; the very banners
hung down<br>
listlessly, and not a sound broke the solemn stillness of the
hour. All was<br>
silent. So impressive and so strange was the spectacle of a vast
army thus<br>
resting mutely under arms, that I reined in my horse, and almost
doubted<br>
the reality of the scene as I gazed upon it. The dark shadows of
the tall<br>
mountain were falling across the valley, and a starry sky was
already<br>
replacing the ruddy glow of sunset as we reached the plain; but
still no<br>
change took place in the position of the Spanish army.</p>

<p>"Who goes there?" cried a hoarse voice, as we issued from the
mountain<br>
gorge, and in a moment we found ourselves surrounded by an
outpost party.<br>
Having explained, as well as I was able, who I was, and for what
reason I<br>
was there, I proceeded to accompany the officer towards the
camp.</p>

<p>On my way thither I learned the reason of the singular display
of troops<br>
which had been so puzzling to me. From an early hour of that day
Sir Arthur<br>
Wellesley's arrival had been expected, and old Cuesta had drawn
up his men<br>
for inspection, and remained thus for several hours patiently
awaiting his<br>
coming; he himself, overwhelmed with years and infirmity, sitting
upon his<br>
horse the entire time.</p>

<p>As it was not necessary that I should be presented to the
general, my<br>
report being for the ear of Sir Arthur himself, I willingly
availed myself<br>
of the hospitality proffered by a Spanish officer of cavalry; and
having<br>
provided for the comforts of my tired cattle and taken a hasty
supper,<br>
issued forth to look at the troops, which, although it was now
growing<br>
late, were still in the same attitude.</p>

<p>Scarcely had I been half an hour thus occupied, when the
stillness of<br>
the scene was suddenly interrupted by the loud report of a large
gun,<br>
immediately followed by a long roll of musketry, while at the
same moment<br>
the bands of the different regiments struck up, and as if by
magic a blaze<br>
of red light streamed across the dark ranks. This was effected by
pine<br>
torches held aloft at intervals, throwing a lurid glare upon the
grim and<br>
swarthy features of the Spaniards, whose brown uniforms and
slouching hats<br>
presented a most picturesque effect as the red light fell upon
them.</p>

<p>The swell of the thundering cannon grew louder and
nearer,&mdash;the shouldering<br>
of muskets, the clash of sabres, and the hoarse roll of the drum,
mingling<br>
in one common din. I at once guessed that Sir Arthur had arrived,
and as I<br>
turned the flank of a battalion I saw the staff approaching.
Nothing can be<br>
conceived more striking than their advance. In the front rode old
Cuesta<br>
himself, clad in the costume of a past century, his slashed
doublet and<br>
trunk hose reminding one of a more chivalrous period, his heavy,
unwieldy<br>
figure looming from side to side, and threatening at each moment
to fall<br>
from his saddle. On each side of him walked two figures
gorgeously dressed,<br>
whose duty appeared to be to sustain the chief in his seat. At
his<br>
side rode a far different figure. Mounted upon a slight-made,
active<br>
thorough-bred, whose drawn flanks bespoke a long and weary
journey, sat<br>
Sir Arthur Wellesley, a plain blue frock and gray trousers being
his<br>
unpretending costume; but the eagle glance which he threw around
on every<br>
side, the quick motion of his hand as he pointed hither and
thither among<br>
the dense battalions, bespoke him every inch a soldier. Behind
them came<br>
a brilliant staff, glittering in aiguillettes and golden
trappings, among<br>
whom I recognized some well-remembered faces,&mdash;our gallant leader
at the<br>
Douro, Sir Charles Stewart, among the number.</p>

<p>As they passed the spot where I was standing, the torch of a
foot soldier<br>
behind me flared suddenly up and threw a strong flash upon the
party.<br>
Cuesta's horse grew frightened, and plunged so fearfully for a
minute that<br>
the poor old man could scarcely keep his seat. A smile shot
across Sir<br>
Arthur's features at the moment, but the next instant he was
grave and<br>
steadfast as before.</p>

<p>A wretched hovel, thatched and in ruins, formed the
headquarters of the<br>
Spanish army, and thither the staff now bent their steps,&mdash;a
supper being<br>
provided there for our commander-in-chief and the officers of his
suite.<br>
Although not of the privileged party, I lingered round the spot
for some<br>
time, anxiously expecting to find some friend or acquaintance who
might<br>
tell me the news of our people, and what events had occurred in
my absence.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LVIII.</p>

<p>THE LETTER.</p>

<p>The hours passed slowly over, and I at length grew weary of
waiting.<br>
For some time I had amused myself with observing the slouching
gait and<br>
unsoldier-like air of the Spaniards as they lounged carelessly
about,<br>
looking in dress, gesture, and appointment, far move like a
guerilla than a<br>
regular force. Then again, the strange contrast of the miserable
hut with<br>
falling chimney and ruined walls, to the glitter of the mounted
guard of<br>
honor who sat motionless beside it, served to pass the time; but
as the<br>
night was already far advanced, I turned towards my quarters,
hoping that<br>
the next morning might gratify my curiosity about my friends.</p>

<p>Beside the tent where I was billeted, I found Mike in waiting,
who, the<br>
moment he saw me, came hastily forward with a letter in his hand.
An<br>
officer of Sir Arthur's staff had left it while I was absent,
desiring<br>
Mike on no account to omit its delivery the first instant he met
me.<br>
The hand&mdash;not a very legible one&mdash;was perfectly unknown to me,
and the<br>
appearance of the billet such as betrayed no over-scrupulous care
in the<br>
writer.</p>

<p>I trimmed my lamp leisurely, threw a fresh log upon the fire,
disposed<br>
myself completely at full length beside it, and then proceeded to
form<br>
acquaintance with my unknown correspondent. I will not attempt
any<br>
description of the feelings which gradually filled me as I read
on; the<br>
letter itself will suggest them to those who know my story. It
ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>                                             PLACENTIA, July
8, 1809.<br>
    DEAR O'MALLEY,&mdash;Although I'd rather march to Lisbon
barefoot<br>
    than write three lines, Fred Power insists upon my turning
scribe,<br>
    as he has a notion you'll be up at Cuesta's headquarters
about this<br>
    time. You're in a nice scrape, devil a lie in it! Here has
Fred<br>
    been fighting that fellow Trevyllian for you,&mdash;all because
you would<br>
    not have patience and fight him yourself the morning you left
the<br>
    Douro,&mdash;so much for haste! Let it be a lesson to you for
life.</p>

<p>    Poor Fred got the ball in his hip, and the devil a one of
the doctors<br>
    can find it. But he's getting better any way, and going to
Lisbon<br>
    for change of air. Meanwhile, since Power's been wounded,
Trevyllian's<br>
    speaking very hardly of you, and they all say here you
must<br>
    come back&mdash;no matter how&mdash;and put matters to rights. Fred
has<br>
    placed the thing in my hands, and I'm thinking we'd better
call out<br>
    the "heavies" by turns,&mdash;for most of them stand by
Trevyllian.<br>
    Maurice Quill and myself sat up considering it last night;
but,<br>
    somehow, we don't clearly remember to-day a beautiful plan we
hit<br>
    upon. However, we'll have at it again this evening.
Meanwhile,<br>
    come over here, and let us be doing something. We hear that
old<br>
    Monsoon has blown up a town, a bridge, and a big convent.
They<br>
    must have been hiding the plunder very closely, or he'd never
have<br>
    been reduced to such extremities. We'll have a brush with
the<br>
    French soon.<br>
    Yours most eagerly,<br>
    D. O'SHAUGHNESSY.</p>

<p>My first thought, as I ran my eye over these lines, was to
seek for Power's<br>
note, written on the morning we parted. I opened it, and to my
horror<br>
found that it only related to my quarrel with Hammersley. My
meeting with<br>
Trevyllian had been during Fred's absence, and when he assured me
that all<br>
was satisfactorily arranged, and a full explanation tendered,
that nothing<br>
interfered with my departure,&mdash;I utterly forgot that he was only
aware of<br>
one half my troubles, and in the haste and bustle of my
departure, had not<br>
a moment left me to collect myself and think calmly on the
matter. The two<br>
letters lay before me, and as I thought over the stain upon my
character<br>
thus unwittingly incurred; the blast I had thrown upon my
reputation; the<br>
wound of my poor friend, who exposed himself for my sake,&mdash;I grew
sick at<br>
heart, and the bitter tears of agony burst from my eyes.</p>

<p>That weary night passed slowly over; the blight of all my
prospects, when<br>
they seemed fairest and brightest, presented itself to me in a
hundred<br>
shapes; and when, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, I closed my
eyes to<br>
sleep, it was only to follow up in my dreams my waking thoughts.
Morning<br>
came at length; but its bright sunshine and balmy air brought no
comfort to<br>
me. I absolutely dreaded to meet my brother officers; I felt that
in such a<br>
position as I stood, no half or partial explanation could suffice
to set me<br>
right in their estimation; and yet, what opportunity had I for
aught else?<br>
Irresolute how to act, I sat leaning my head upon my hands, when
I heard<br>
a footstep approach; I looked up and saw before me no other than
my poor<br>
friend Sparks, from whom I had been separated so long. Any other
adviser<br>
at such a moment would, I acknowledge, have been as welcome; for
the<br>
poor fellow knew but little of the world, and still less of the
service.<br>
However, one glance convinced me that his heart at least was
true; and I<br>
shook his outstretched hand with delight. In a few words he
informed me<br>
that Merivale had secretly commissioned him to come over in the
hope of<br>
meeting me; that although all the 14th men were persuaded that I
was not to<br>
blame in what had occurred,&mdash;yet that reports so injurious had
gone abroad,<br>
so many partial and imperfect statements were circulated, that
nothing but<br>
my return to headquarters would avail, and that I must not lose a
moment in<br>
having Trevyllian out, with whom all the misrepresentation had
originated.</p>

<p>"This, of course," said Sparks, "is to be a secret; Merivale,
being our<br>
colonel&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Of course," said I, "he cannot countenance, much less
counsel, such a<br>
proceeding; Now, then, for the road."</p>

<p>"Yes; but you cannot leave before making your report. Gordon
expects to see<br>
you at eleven; he told me so last night."</p>

<p>"I cannot help it; I shall not wait; my mind is made up. My
career here<br>
matters but little in comparison with this horrid charge. I shall
be broke,<br>
but I shall be avenged."</p>

<p>"Come, come, O'Malley; you are in our hands now, and you must
be guided.<br>
You <i>shall</i> wait; you shall see Gordon. Half an hour will
make your report,<br>
and I have relays of horses along the road, and we shall reach
Placentia by<br>
nightfall."</p>

<p>There was a tone of firmness in this, so unlike anything I
ever looked for<br>
in the speaker, and withal so much of foresight and precaution,
that I<br>
could scarcely credit my senses as he spoke. Having at length
agreed to his<br>
proposal, Sparks left me to think over my return of the Legion,
promising<br>
that immediately after my interview with the military secretary,
we should<br>
start together for headquarters.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXIX.</p>

<p>MAJOR O'SHAUGHNESSY.</p>

<p>"This is Major O'Shaughnessy's quarters, sir," said a
sergeant, as he<br>
stopped short at the door of a small, low house in the midst of
an olive<br>
plantation; an Irish wolf-dog&mdash;the well-known companion of the
major&mdash;lay<br>
stretched across the entrance, watching with eager and bloodshot
eyes the<br>
process of cutting up a bullock, which two soldiers in undress
jackets were<br>
performing within a few yards of the spot.</p>

<p>Stepping cautiously across the savage-looking sentinel, I
entered the<br>
little hall, and finding no one near, passed into a small room,
the door of<br>
which lay half open.</p>

<p>A very palpable odor of cigars and brandy proclaimed, even
without his<br>
presence, that this was O'Shaughnessy's sitting-room; so I sat
myself down<br>
upon an old-fashioned sofa to wait patiently for his return,
which I heard<br>
would be immediately after the evening parade. Sparks had become
knocked up<br>
during our ride, so that for the last three leagues I was alone,
and like<br>
most men in such circumstances, pressed on only the harder.
Completely worn<br>
out for want of rest, I had scarcely placed myself on the sofa
when I<br>
fell sound asleep. When I awoke, all was dark around me, save the
faint<br>
flickerings of the wood embers on the hearth, and for some
moments I could<br>
not remember where I was; but by degrees recollection came, and
as I<br>
thought over my position and its possible consequences, I was
again nearly<br>
dropping to sleep, when the door suddenly opened, and a heavy
step sounded<br>
on the floor.</p>

<p>I lay still and spoke not, as a large figure in a cloak
approached the<br>
fire-place, and stooping down endeavored to light a candle at the
fast<br>
expiring fire.</p>

<p>I had little difficulty in detecting the major even by the
half-light; a<br>
muttered execration upon the candle, given with an energy that
only an<br>
Irishman ever bestows upon slight matters, soon satisfied me on
this head.</p>

<p>"May the Devil fly away with the commissary and the chandler
to the forces!<br>
Ah, you've lit at last!"</p>

<p>With these words he stood up, and his eyes falling on me at
the moment,<br>
he sprang a yard or two backwards, exclaiming as he did so, "The
blessed<br>
Virgin be near us, what's this?" a most energetic crossing of
himself<br>
accompanying his words. My pale and haggard face, thus suddenly
presented,<br>
having suggested to the worthy major the impression of a
supernatural<br>
visitor, a hearty burst of laughter, which I could not resist,
was my only<br>
answer; and the next moment O'Shaughnessy was wrenching my hand
in a grasp<br>
like a steel vice.</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience, I thought it was your ghost; and if you
kept quiet a<br>
little longer, I was going to promise you Christian burial, and
as many<br>
Masses for your soul as my uncle the bishop could say between
this and<br>
Easter. How are you, my boy? A little thin, and something paler,
I think,<br>
than when you left us."</p>

<p>Having assured him that fatigue and hunger were in a great
measure the<br>
cause of my sickly looks, the major proceeded to place before me
the<br>
<i>d&eacute;bris</i> of his day's dinner, with a sufficiency of
bottles to satisfy a<br>
mess-table, keeping up as he went a running fire of
conversation.</p>

<p>"I'm as glad as if the Lord took the senior major, to see you
here this<br>
night. With the blessing of Providence we'll shoot Trevyllian in
the<br>
morning, and any more of the heavies that like it. You are an
ill-treated<br>
man, that's what it is, and Dan O'Shaughnessy says it. Help
yourself, my<br>
boy; crusty old port in that bottle as ever you touched your lips
to.<br>
Power's getting all right; it was contract powder, warranted not
to kill.<br>
Bad luck to the commissaries once more! With such ammunition Sir
Arthur<br>
does right to trust most to the bayonet. And how is Monsoon, the
old<br>
rogue?"</p>

<p>"Gloriously, living in the midst of wine and olives."</p>

<p>"No fear of him, the old sinner; but he is a fine fellow,
after all.<br>
Charley, you are eating nothing, boy."</p>

<p>"To tell you the truth, I'm far more anxious to talk with you
at this<br>
moment than aught else."</p>

<p>"So you shall: the night's young. Meanwhile, I had better not
delay<br>
matters. You want to have Trevyllian out,&mdash;is not that so?"</p>

<p>"Of course; you are aware how it happened?"</p>

<p>"I know everything. Go on with your supper, and don't mind me;
I'll be back<br>
in twenty minutes or less."</p>

<p>Without waiting for any reply, he threw his cloak around him,
and strode<br>
out of the room. Once more I was alone; but already my frame of
mind was<br>
altered,&mdash;the cheering tone of my reckless, gallant countryman
had raised<br>
my spirits, and I felt animated by his very manner.</p>

<p>An hour elapsed before the major returned; and when he did
come, his<br>
appearance and gestures bespoke anger and disappointment. He
threw himself<br>
hurriedly into a seat, and for some minutes never spoke.</p>

<p>"The world's beautifully changed, anyhow, since I began it,
O'Malley,&mdash;when<br>
you thanked a man civilly that asked you to fight him! The Devil
take the<br>
cowards, say I."</p>

<p>"What has happened? Tell me, I beseech you?"</p>

<p>"He won't fight," said the major, blurting out the words as if
they would<br>
choke him.</p>

<p>"He'll not fight! And why?"</p>

<p>The major was silent. He seemed confused and embarrassed. He
turned from<br>
the fire to the table, from the table to the fire, poured out a
glass of<br>
wine, drank it hastily off, and springing from his chair, paced
the room<br>
with long, impatient strides.</p>

<p>"My dear O'Shaughnessy, explain, I beg of you. Does he refuse
to meet me<br>
for any reason&mdash;"</p>

<p>"He does," said the major, turning on me a look of deep
feeling as he<br>
spoke; "and he does it to ruin you, my boy. But as sure as my
name is<br>
Dan, he'll fail this time. He was sitting with his friend
Beaufort when I<br>
reached his quarters, and received me with all the ceremonious
politeness<br>
he well knows how to assume. I told him in a few words the object
of my<br>
visit; upon which Trevyllian, standing up, referred me to his
friend for<br>
a reply, and left the room. I thought that all was right, and sat
down to<br>
discuss, as I believed, preliminaries, when the cool puppy, with
his back<br>
to the fire, carelessly lisped out, 'It can't be, Major; your
friend is too<br>
late.'</p>

<p>"'Too late? too late?' said I.</p>

<p>"'Yes, precisely so; not up to time. The affair should have
come off some<br>
weeks since. We won't meet him now.'</p>

<p>"'This is really your answer?'</p>

<p>"'This is really my answer; and not only so, but the decision
of our mess.'</p>

<p>"What I said after this <i>he</i> may remember; devil take me
if <i>I</i> can. But I<br>
have a vague recollection of saying something that the aforesaid
mess will<br>
never petition the Horse Guards to put on their regimental
colors; and here<br>
I am&mdash;"</p>

<p>With these words the major gulped down a full goblet of wine,
and once<br>
more resumed his walk through the room. I shall not attempt to
record the<br>
feelings which agitated me during the major's recital. In one
rapid glance<br>
I saw the aim of my vindictive enemy. My honor, not my life, was
the object<br>
he sought for; and ten thousand times more than ever did I pant
for the<br>
opportunity to confront him in a deadly combat.</p>

<p>"Charley," said O'Shaughnessy, at length, placing his hand
upon my<br>
shoulder, "you must get to bed now. Nothing more can be done
to-night in<br>
any way. Be assured of one thing, my boy,&mdash;I'll not desert you;
and if that<br>
assurance can give you a sound sleep, you'll not need a
lullaby."</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LX.</p>

<p>PRELIMINARIES.</p>

<p>I awoke refreshed on the following morning, and came down to
breakfast with<br>
a lighter heart than I had even hoped for. A secret feeling that
all<br>
would go well had somehow taken possession of me, and I longed
for<br>
O'Shaughnessy's coming, trusting that he might be able to confirm
my hopes.<br>
His servant informed me that the major had been absent since
daybreak, and<br>
left orders that he was not to be waited for at breakfast.</p>

<p>I was not destined, however, to pass a solitary time in his
absence, for<br>
every moment brought some new arrival to visit me; and during the
morning<br>
the colonel and every officer of the regiment not on actual duty
came over.<br>
I soon learned that the feeling respecting Trevyllian's conduct
was one of<br>
unmixed condemnation among my own corps, but that a kind of party
spirit<br>
which had subsisted for some months between the regiment he
belonged to and<br>
the 14th had given a graver character to the affair, and induced
many men<br>
to take up his views of the transaction; and although I heard of
none who<br>
attributed my absence to any dislike to a meeting, yet there were
several<br>
who conceived that, by my going at the time, I had forfeited all
claim to<br>
satisfaction at his hands.</p>

<p>"Now that Merivale is gone," said an officer to me as the
colonel left the<br>
room, "I may confess to you that he sees nothing to blame in your
conduct<br>
throughout; and even had you been aware of how matters were
circumstanced,<br>
your duty was too imperative to have preferred your personal
consideration<br>
to it."</p>

<p>"Does any one know where Conyers is?" said Baker.</p>

<p>"The story goes that Conyers can assist us here. Conyers is at
Zaza la<br>
Mayor, with the 28th; but what can he do?"</p>

<p>"That I'm not able to tell you; but I know O'Shaughnessy heard
something at<br>
parade this morning, and has set off in search of him on every
side."</p>

<p>"Was Conyers ever out with Trevyllian?"</p>

<p>"Not as a principal, I believe. The report is, however, that
he knows more<br>
about him than other people, as Tom certainly does of
everybody."</p>

<p>"It is rather a new thing for Trevyllian to refuse a meeting.
They say,<br>
O'Malley, he has heard of your shooting."</p>

<p>"No, no," said another; "he cares very little for any man's
pistol. If the<br>
story be true, he fires a second or two before his adversary; at
least, it<br>
was in that way he killed Carysfort."</p>

<p>"Here comes the great O'Shaughnessy!" cried some one at the
window; and the<br>
next moment the heavy gallop of a horse was heard along the
causeway. In an<br>
instant we all rushed to the door to receive him.</p>

<p>"It's all right, lads!" cried he, as he came up. "We have him
this time!"</p>

<p>"How?" "When?" "Why?" "In what way have you managed?" fell
from a dozen<br>
voices, as the major elbowed his way through the crowd to the
sitting-room.</p>

<p>"In the first place," said O'Shanghnessy, drawing a long
breath, "I have<br>
promised secrecy as to the steps of this transaction; secondly,
if I<br>
hadn't, it would puzzle me to break it, for I'll be hanged if I
know more<br>
than yourselves. Tom Conyers wrote me a few lines for Trevyllian,
and<br>
Trevyllian pledges himself to meet our friend; and that's all we
need know<br>
or care for."</p>

<p>"Then you have seen Trevyllian this morning?"</p>

<p>"No; Beaufort met me at the village. But even now it seems
this affair is<br>
never to come off. Trevyllian has been sent with a forage party
towards<br>
Lesco. However, that can't be a long absence. But, for Heaven's
sake, let<br>
me have some breakfast!"</p>

<p>While O'Shaughnessy proceeded to attack the viands before him,
the others<br>
chatted about in little groups; but all wore the pleased and
happy looks of<br>
men who had rescued their friend from a menaced danger. As for
myself, my<br>
heart swelled with gratitude to the kind fellows around me.</p>

<p>"How has Conyers assisted us at this juncture?" was my first
question to<br>
O'Shaughnessy, when we were once more alone.</p>

<p>"I am not at liberty to speak on that subject, Charley. But be
satisfied<br>
the reasons for which Trevyllian meets you are fair and
honorable."</p>

<p>"I am content."</p>

<p>"The only thing now to be done is to have the meeting as soon
as possible."</p>

<p>"We are all agreed upon that point," said I; "and the more so
as the matter<br>
had better be decided before Sir Arthur's return."</p>

<p>"Quite true. And now, O'Malley, you had better join your
people as soon as<br>
may be, and it will put a stop to all talking about the
matter."</p>

<p>The advice was good, and I lost no time in complying with it;
and when<br>
I joined the regiment that day at mess, it was with a light heart
and a<br>
cheerful spirit, for come what might of the affair, of one thing
I was<br>
certain,&mdash;my character was now put above any reach of aspersion,
and my<br>
reputation beyond attack.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXI.</p>

<p>ALL RIGHT.</p>

<p>Some days after coming back to headquarters, I was returning
from a visit I<br>
had been making to a friend at one of the outposts, when an
officer whom I<br>
knew slightly overtook me and informed me that Major
O'Shaughnessy had<br>
been to my quarters in search of me, and had sent persons in
different<br>
directions to find me.</p>

<p>Suspecting the object of the major's haste, I hurried on at
once, and as<br>
I rode up to the spot, found him in the midst of a group of
officers,<br>
engaged, to all appearance, in most eager conversation.</p>

<p>"Oh, here he comes!" cried he, as I cantered up. "Come, my
boy, doff the<br>
blue frock as soon as you can, and turn out in your best-fitting
black.<br>
Everything has been settled for this evening at seven o'clock,
and we have<br>
no time to lose."</p>

<p>"I understand you," said I, "and shall not keep you waiting."
So saying, I<br>
sprang from my saddle and hastened to my quarters. As I entered
the room I<br>
was followed by O'Shaughnessy, who closed the door after him as
he came in,<br>
and having turned the key in it, sat down beside the table, and
folding<br>
his arms, seemed buried in reflection. As I proceeded with my
toilet he<br>
returned no answers to the numerous questions I put to him,
either as to<br>
the time of Trevyllian's return, the place of the meeting, or any
other<br>
part of the transaction. His attention seemed to wander far from
all around<br>
and about him; and as he muttered indistinctly to himself, the
few words I<br>
could catch bore not in the remotest degree upon the matter
before us.</p>

<p>"I have written a letter or two here, Major," said I, opening
my<br>
writing-desk. "In case anything happens, you will look to a few
things I<br>
have mentioned here. Somehow, I could not write to poor Fred
Power; but you<br>
must tell him from me that his noble conduct towards me was the
last thing<br>
I spoke of."</p>

<p>"What confounded nonsense you are talking!" said
O'Shaughnessy, springing<br>
from his seat and crossing the room with tremendous strides,
"croaking away<br>
there as if the bullet was in your thorax. Hang it, man, bear
up!"</p>

<p>"But, Major, my dear friend, what the deuce are you thinking
of? The few<br>
things I mentioned&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The devil! you are not going over it all again, are you?"
said he, in a<br>
voice of no measured tone.</p>

<p>I now began to feel irritated in turn, and really looked at
him for some<br>
seconds in considerable amazement. That he should have mistaken,
the<br>
directions I was giving him and attributed them to any cowardice
was too<br>
insulting a thought to bear; and yet how otherwise was I to
understand the<br>
very coarse style of his interruption?</p>

<p>At length my temper got the victory, and with a voice of most
measured<br>
calmness, I said, "Major O'Shaughnessy, I am grateful, most
deeply<br>
grateful, for the part you have acted towards me in this
difficult<br>
business; at the same time, as you now appear to disapprove of my
conduct<br>
and bearing, when I am most firmly determined to alter nothing, I
shall beg<br>
to relieve you of the unpleasant office of my friend."</p>

<p>"Heaven grant that you could do so!" said he, interrupting me,
while his<br>
clasped hands and eager look attested the vehemence of the wish.
He paused<br>
for a moment, then, springing from his chair, rushed towards me,
and threw<br>
his arms around me. "No, my boy, I can't do it,&mdash;I can't do it. I
have<br>
tried to bully myself into insensibility for this evening's
work,&mdash;I have<br>
endeavored to be rude to you, that you might insult me, and steel
my heart<br>
against what might happen; but it won't do, Charley, it won't
do."</p>

<p>With these words the big tears rolled down his stern cheeks,
and his voice<br>
became thick with emotion.</p>

<p>"But for me, all this need not have happened. I know it; I
feel it. I<br>
hurried on this meeting; your character stood fair and
unblemished without<br>
that,&mdash;at least they tell me so now; and I still have to assure
you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come, my dear, kind friend, don't give way in this fashion.
You have stood<br>
manfully by me through every step of the road; don't desert me on
the<br>
threshold of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The grave, O'Malley?"</p>

<p>"I don't think so, Major; but see, half-past six! Look to
these pistols for<br>
me. Are they likely to object to hair-triggers?"</p>

<p>A knocking at the door turned off our attention, and the next
moment<br>
Baker's voice was heard.</p>

<p>"O'Malley, you'll be close run for time; the meeting-place is
full three<br>
miles from this."</p>

<p>I seized the key and opened the door. At the same instant,
O'Shaughnessy<br>
rose and turned towards the window, holding one of the pistols in
his hand.</p>

<p>"Look at that, Baker,&mdash;what a sweet tool it is!" said he, in a
voice that<br>
actually made me start. Not a trace of his late excitement
remained; his<br>
usually dry, half-humorous manner had returned, and his droll
features were<br>
as full of their own easy, devil-may-care fun as ever.</p>

<p>"Here comes the drag," said Baker. "We can drive nearly all
the way, unless<br>
you prefer riding."</p>

<p>"Of course not. Keep your hand steady, Charley, and if you
don't bring him<br>
down with that saw-handle, you're not your uncle's nephew."</p>

<p>With these words we mounted into the tax-cart, and set off for
the<br>
meeting-place.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXII.</p>

<p>THE DUEL.</p>

<p>A small and narrow ravine between the two furze-covered dells
led to the<br>
open space where the meeting had been arranged for. As we reached
this,<br>
therefore, we were obliged to descend from the drag, and proceed
the<br>
remainder of the way afoot. We had not gone many yards when a
step was<br>
heard approaching, and the next moment Beaufort appeared. His
usually easy<br>
and <i>d&eacute;gag&eacute;</i> air was certainly tinged with
somewhat of constraint; and<br>
though his soft voice and half smile were as perfect as ever, a
slightly<br>
flurried expression about the lip, and a quick and nervous motion
of his<br>
eyebrow, bespoke a heart not completely at ease. He lifted his
foraging cap<br>
most ceremoniously to salute us as we came up, and casting an
anxious look<br>
to see if any others were following, stood quite still.</p>

<p>"I think it right to mention, Major O'Shaughnessy," said he,
in a voice of<br>
most dulcet sweetness, "that I am the only friend of Captain
Trevyllian on<br>
the ground; and though I have not the slightest objection to
Captain Baker<br>
being present, I hope you will see the propriety of limiting the
witnesses<br>
to the three persons now here."</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience, as far as I am concerned, or my friend
either, we<br>
are perfectly indifferent if we fight before three or three
thousand. In<br>
Ireland we rather like a crowd."</p>

<p>"Of course, then, as you see no objection to my proposition, I
may count<br>
upon your co-operation in the event of any intrusion,&mdash;I mean,
that while<br>
we, upon our sides, will not permit any of our friends to come
forward, you<br>
will equally exert yourself with yours."</p>

<p>"Here we are, Baker and myself, neither more nor less. We
expect no one,<br>
and want no one; so that I humbly conceive all the preliminaries
you are<br>
talking of will never be required."</p>

<p>Beaufort tried to smile, and bit his lips, while a small red
spot upon his<br>
cheek spoke that some deeper feeling of irritation than the mere
careless<br>
manner of the major could account for, still rankled in his
bosom. We<br>
now walked on without speaking, except when occasionally some
passing<br>
observation of Beaufort upon the fineness of the evening, or the
rugged<br>
nature of the road, broke the silence. As we emerged from the
little<br>
mountain pass into the open meadow land, the tall and
soldier-like figure<br>
of Trevyllian was the first object that presented itself. He was
standing<br>
beside a little stone cross that stood above a holy well, and
seemed<br>
occupied in deciphering the inscription. He turned at the noise
of our<br>
approach, and calmly waited our coming. His eye glanced quickly
from the<br>
features of O'Shaughnessy to those of Baker; but seeming rapidly
reassured<br>
as he walked forward, his face at once recovered its usual
severity and its<br>
cold, impassive look of sternness.</p>

<p>"All right!" said Beaufort, in a whisper the tones of which I
overheard, as<br>
he drew near to his friend. Trevyllian smiled in return, but did
not speak.<br>
During the few moments which passed in conversation between the
seconds,<br>
I turned from the spot with Baker, and had scarcely time to
address a<br>
question to him, when O'Shaughnessy called out, "Hollo,
Baker!&mdash;come here<br>
a moment!" The three seemed now in eager discussion for some
minutes, when<br>
Baker walked towards Trevyllian, and saying something, appeared
to wait<br>
for his reply. This being obtained, he joined the others, and the
moment<br>
afterwards came to where I was standing. "You are to toss for
first shot,<br>
O'Malley. O'Shaughnessy has made that proposition, and the others
agree<br>
that with two crack marksmen, it is perhaps the fairest way. I
suppose you<br>
have no objection?"</p>

<p>"Of course, I shall make none. Whatever O'Shaughnessy decides
for me I am<br>
ready to abide by."</p>

<p>"Well, then, as to the distance?" said Beaufort, loud enough
to be heard by<br>
me where I was standing. O'Shaughnessy's reply I could not catch,
but it<br>
was evident, from the tone of both parties, that some difference
existed on<br>
the point.</p>

<p>"Captain Baker shall decide between us," said Beaufort, at
length, and they<br>
all walked away to some distance. During all the while I could
perceive<br>
that Trevyllian's uneasiness and impatience seemed extreme; he
looked from<br>
the speakers to the little mountain pass, and strained his eyes
in every<br>
direction. It was clear that he dreaded some interruption. At
last, unable<br>
any longer to control his feelings, he called out, "Beaufort, I
say, what<br>
the devil are we waiting for now?"</p>

<p>"Nothing at present," said Beaufort, as he came forward with a
dollar in<br>
his hand. "Come, Major O'Shaughnessy, you shall call for your
friend."</p>

<p>He pitched the piece of money as he spoke high into the air,
and watched it<br>
as it fell on the soft grass beneath.</p>

<p>"Head! for a thousand," cried O'Shaughnessy, running over and
stooping<br>
down; "and head it is!"</p>

<p>"You've won the first shot," whispered Baker; "for Heaven's
sake be cool!"</p>

<p>Beaufort grew deadly pale as he bent over the crownpiece, and
seemed<br>
scarcely to have courage to look his friend in his face. Not so
Trevyllian;<br>
he pulled off his gloves without the slightest semblance of
emotion,<br>
buttoned up his well-fitting black frock to the throat, and
throwing a<br>
rapid glance around, seemed only eager to begin the combat.</p>

<p>"Fifteen paces, and the words, 'One, two!'"</p>

<p>"Exactly. My cane shall mark the spot."</p>

<p>"Devilish long paces you make them," said O'Shaughnessy, who
did not seem<br>
to approve of the distance. "They have some confounded advantage
in this,<br>
depend upon it," said the major, in a whisper to Baker.</p>

<p>"Are you ready?" inquired Beaufort.</p>

<p>"Ready,&mdash;quite ready!"</p>

<p>"Take your ground, then!"</p>

<p>As Trevyllian moved forward to his place, he muttered
something to his<br>
friend. I did not hear the first part, but the latter words which
met me<br>
were ominous enough: "For as I intend to shoot him, 'tis just as
well as it<br>
is."</p>

<p>Whether this was meant to be overheard and intimidate me I
knew not;<br>
but its effect proved directly opposite. My firm resolution to
hit my<br>
antagonist was now confirmed, and no compunctious visitings
unnerved my<br>
arm. As we took our places some little delay again took place,
the flint of<br>
my pistol having fallen; and thus we remained full ten or twelve
seconds<br>
steadily regarding each other. At length O'Shaughnessy came
forward, and<br>
putting my weapon in my hand, whispered low, "Remember, you have
but one<br>
chance."</p>

<p>"You are both ready?" cried Beaufort.</p>

<p>"Ready!"</p>

<p>"Then: One, two&mdash;"</p>

<p>The last word was lost in the report of my pistol, which went
off at the<br>
instant. For a second the flash and smoke obstructed my view; but
the<br>
moment after I saw Trevyllian stretched upon the ground, with his
friend<br>
kneeling beside him. My first impulse was to rush over, for now
all feeling<br>
of enmity was buried in most heartfelt anxiety for his fate; but
as I was<br>
stepping forward, O'Shaughnessy called out, "Stand fast, boy,
he's only<br>
wounded!" and the same moment he rose slowly from the ground,
with the<br>
assistance of his friend, and looked with the same wild gaze
around him.<br>
Such a look! I shall never forget it; there was that intense
expression of<br>
searching anxiety, as if he sought to trace the outlines of some
visionary<br>
spirit as it receded before him. Quickly reassured, as it seemed,
by<br>
the glance he threw on all sides, his countenance lighted up, not
with<br>
pleasure, but with a fiendish expression of revengeful triumph,
which even<br>
his voice evinced as he called out: "It's my turn now."</p>

<p>I felt the words in their full force, as I stood silently
awaiting my death<br>
wound. The pause was a long one. Twice did he interrupt his
friend, as he<br>
was about to give the word, by an expression of suffering,
pressing his<br>
hand upon his side, and seeming to writhe with torture; and yet
this was<br>
mere counterfeit.</p>

<p>O'Shaughnessy was now coming forward to interfere and prevent
these<br>
interruptions, when Trevyllian called out in a firm tone, "I'm
ready!" At<br>
the words, "One, two!" the pistol slowly rose; his dark eye
measured me<br>
coolly, steadily; his lip curled; and just as I felt that my last
moment<br>
of life had arrived, a heavy sound of a horse galloping along the
rocky<br>
causeway seemed to take off his attention. His frame trembled,
his hand<br>
shook, and jerking upwards his weapon, the ball passed high above
my head.</p>

<p>"You bear me witness I fired in the air," said Trevyllian,
while the large<br>
drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead, and his features
worked as<br>
if in a fit.</p>

<p>"You saw it, sir; and you, Beaufort, my friend, you also.
Speak! Why will<br>
you not speak?"</p>

<p>"Be calm, Trevyllian; be calm, for Heaven's sake! What's the
matter with<br>
you?"</p>

<a name="0484"></a>
<img alt="0484.jpg (125K)" src="0484.jpg" height="511" width="658">

<p>[THE COAT OF MAIL.]</p>
<br><br>

<p>"The affair is then ended," said Baker, "and most happily so.
You are, I<br>
hope, not dangerously wounded."</p>

<p>As he spoke, Trevyllian's features grew deadly livid; his
half-open mouth<br>
quivered slightly, his eyes became fixed, and his arm dropped
heavily<br>
beside him, and with a low moan he fell fainting to the
ground.</p>

<p>As we bent over him I now perceived that another person had
joined our<br>
party; he was a short, determined-looking man of about forty,
with black<br>
eyes and aquiline features. Before I had time to guess who it
might be, I<br>
heard O'Shaughnessy address him as Colonel Conyers.</p>

<p>"He is dying!" said Beaufort, still stooping over his friend,
whose cold<br>
hand he grasped within his own. "Poor, poor fellow!"</p>

<p>"He fired in the air," said Baker, as he spoke in reply to a
question from<br>
Conyers.</p>

<p>What he answered I heard not, but Baker rejoined,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, I am certain of it. We all saw it."</p>

<p>"Had you not better examine his wounds?" said Conyers, in a
tone of<br>
sarcastic irony I could almost have struck him for. "Is your
friend not<br>
hit? Perhaps he is bleeding?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said O'Shaughnessy, "let us look to the poor fellow
now." So saying,<br>
with Beaufort's aid he unbuttoned his frock and succeeded in
opening his<br>
waistcoat. There was no trace of blood anywhere, and the idea of
internal<br>
hemorrhage at once occurred to us, when Conyers, stooping down,
pushed me<br>
aside, saying at the same time,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Your fears for his safety need not distress you much,&mdash;look
here!" As he<br>
spoke he tore open his shirt, and disclosed to our almost
doubting senses<br>
a vest of chain-mail armor fitting close next the skin and
completely<br>
pistol-proof.</p>

<p>I cannot describe the effect this sight produced upon us.
Beaufort sprang<br>
to his feet with a bound as he screamed out, rather than spoke,
"No man<br>
believes me to have been aware&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No, no, Beaufort, your reputation is very far removed from
such a stain,"<br>
said Conyers.</p>

<p>O'Shaughnessy was perfectly speechless. He looked from one to
the other, as<br>
though some unexplained mystery still remained, and only seemed
restored<br>
to any sense of consciousness as Baker said, "I can feel no pulse
at his<br>
wrist,&mdash;his heart, too, does not beat."</p>

<p>Conyers placed his hand upon his bosom, then felt along his
throat, lifted<br>
up an arm, and letting it fall heavily upon the ground, he
muttered, "He is<br>
dead!"</p>

<p>It was true. No wound had pierced him,&mdash;the pistol bullet was
found within<br>
his clothes. Some tremendous conflict of the spirit within had
snapped the<br>
cords of life, and the strong man had perished in his agony.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXIII.</p>

<p>NEWS FROM GALWAY.</p>

<p>I have but a vague and most imperfect recollection of the
events which<br>
followed this dreadful scene; for some days my faculties seemed
stunned and<br>
paralyzed, and my thoughts clung to the minute detail of the
ground,&mdash;the<br>
persons about, the mountain path, and most of all the
half-stifled cry that<br>
spoke the broken heart,&mdash;with a tenacity that verged upon
madness.</p>

<p>A court-martial was appointed to inquire into the affair; and
although I<br>
have been since told that my deportment was calm, and my answers
were firm<br>
and collected, yet I remember nothing of the proceedings.</p>

<p>The inquiry, through a feeling of delicacy for the friends of
him who was<br>
no more, was made as brief and as private as possible. Beaufort
proved the<br>
facts which exonerated me from any imputation in the matter; and
upon the<br>
same day the court delivered the decision: "That Lieutenant
O'Malley was<br>
not guilty of the charges preferred against him, and that he
should be<br>
released from arrest, and join his regiment."</p>

<p>Nothing could be more kind and considerate than the conduct of
my brother<br>
officers,&mdash;a hundred little plans and devices for making me
forget the<br>
late unhappy event were suggested and practised,&mdash;and I look back
to that<br>
melancholy period, marked as it was by the saddest circumstance
of my life,<br>
as one in which I received more of truly friendly companionship
than even<br>
my palmiest days of prosperity boasted.</p>

<p>While, therefore, I deeply felt the good part my friends were
performing<br>
towards me, I was still totally unsuited to join in the happy
current of<br>
their daily pleasures and amusements. The gay and unreflecting
character of<br>
O'Shaughnessy, the careless merriment of my brother officers,
jarred upon<br>
my nerves, and rendered me irritable and excited; and I sought in
lonely<br>
rides and unfrequented walks, the peace of spirit that calm
reflection and<br>
a firm purpose for the future rarely fail to lead to.</p>

<p>There is in deep sorrow a touch of the prophetic. It is at
seasons when the<br>
heart is bowed down with grief, and the spirit wasted with
suffering, that<br>
the veil which conceals the future seems to be removed, and a
glance, short<br>
and fleeting as the lightning flash, is permitted us into the
gloomy valley<br>
before us.</p>

<p>Misfortunes, too, come not singly,&mdash;the seared heart is not
suffered to<br>
heal from one affliction ere another succeeds it; and this
anticipation<br>
of the coming evil is, perhaps, one of the most poignant features
of<br>
grief,&mdash;the ever-watchful apprehension, the ever-rising question,
"What<br>
next?" is a torture that never sleeps.</p>

<p>This was the frame of my mind for several days after I
returned to my<br>
duty,&mdash;a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last
thought at<br>
night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since
my arrival<br>
in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that
some<br>
brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my
thoughts. Was<br>
he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded
by the<br>
friends he loved,&mdash;the old familiar faces around the hospitable
hearth his<br>
kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh,
could I but<br>
see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his hand
upon my<br>
head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell
from his<br>
lips, and sunk into my heart!</p>

<p>Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered,
unaccompanied, from my<br>
quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by
the noise<br>
of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers
announced its<br>
approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way
brought it into<br>
view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a
small<br>
orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the
mail-cart with<br>
letters from Lisbon.</p>

<p>Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily
back, and<br>
retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the
adjutant-general's<br>
quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled;
the report<br>
that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and
accordingly,<br>
every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides,
and eagerly<br>
inquiring, "If the bags had been opened?" The scene of riot,
confusion, and<br>
excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all belief,
each man<br>
reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs and
domestic<br>
concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of
exclamations of<br>
surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the intelligence
severally<br>
suggested,&mdash;the disappointed expectants cursing their idle
correspondents,<br>
bemoaning their fate about remittances that never arrived, or
drafts never<br>
honored; while here and there some public benefactor, with an
outspread<br>
"Times" or "Chronicle," was retailing the narrative of our own
exploits in<br>
the Peninsula or the more novel changes in the world of politics
since we<br>
left England. A cross-fire of news and London gossip ringing on
every side<br>
made up a perfect Babel most difficult to form an idea of. The
jargon<br>
partook of every accent and intonation the empire boasts of; and
from the<br>
sharp precision of the North Tweeder to the broad doric of Kerry,
every<br>
portion, almost every county, of Great Britain had its
representative. Here<br>
was a Scotch paymaster, in a lugubrious tone, detailing to his
friend the<br>
apparently not over-welcome news that Mistress M'Elwain had just
been<br>
safely delivered of twins, which, with their mother, were doing
as well<br>
as possible. Here an eager Irishman, turning over the pages
rather than<br>
reading his letter, while he exclaimed to his friend,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, the devil a rap she's sent me. The old story about
runaway tenants and<br>
distress notices,&mdash;sorrow else tenants seem to do in Ireland than
run away<br>
every half-year."</p>

<p>A little apart some sentimental-looking cockney was devouring
a very<br>
crossed epistle which he pressed to his lips whenever any one
looked at<br>
him; while a host of others satisfied themselves by reading in a
kind of<br>
buzzing undertone, every now and then interrupting themselves
with some<br>
broken exclamation as commentary,&mdash;such as, "Of course she will!"
"Never<br>
knew him better!" "That's the girl for my money!" "Fifty per
cent, the<br>
devil!" and so on. At last I was beginning to weary of the scene,
and<br>
finding that there appeared to be nothing for me, was turning to
leave the<br>
place, when I saw a group of two or three endeavoring to spell
out the<br>
address of a letter.</p>

<p>"That's an Irish post-mark, I'll swear," said one; "but who
can make<br>
anything of the name? It's devilish like Otaheite, isn't it?"</p>

<p>"I wish my tailor wrote as illegibly," said another; "I'd keep
up a most<br>
animated correspondence with him."</p>

<p>"Here, O'Shaughnessy, you know something of savage
life,&mdash;spell us this<br>
word here."</p>

<p>"Show it here. What nonsense, it's as plain as the nose on my
face: 'Master<br>
Charles O'Malley, in foreign parts!'"</p>

<p>A roar of laughter followed this announcement, which, at any
other time,<br>
perhaps, I should have joined in, but which now grated sadly on
my ruffled<br>
feelings.</p>

<p>"Here, Charley, this is for you," said the major; and added in
a<br>
whisper,&mdash;"and upon my conscience, between ourselves, your
friend, whoever<br>
he is, has a strong action against his writing-master,&mdash;devil
such a fist<br>
ever I looked at!"</p>

<p>One glance satisfied me as to my correspondent. It was from
Father Rush,<br>
my old tutor. I hurried eagerly from the spot, and regaining my
quarters,<br>
locked the door, and with a beating heart broke the seal and
began, as well<br>
as I was able, to decipher his letter. The hand was cramped and
stiffened<br>
with age, and the bold, upright letters were gnarled and twisted
like a<br>
rustic fence, and demanded great patience arid much time in
unravelling. It<br>
ran thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>    THE PRIORY, Lady-day, 1809.<br>
    MY DEAR MASTER CHARLES,&mdash;Your uncle's feet are so big and<br>
    so uneasy that he can't write, and I am obliged to take up
the pen<br>
    myself, to tell you how we are doing here since you left us.
And,<br>
    first of all, the master lost the lawsuit in Dublin, all for
the want<br>
    of a Galway jury,&mdash;but they don't go up to town for strong
reasons<br>
    they had; and the Curranolick property is gone to Ned
M'Manus,<br>
    and may the devil do him good with it! Peggy Maher left this
on<br>
    Tuesday; she was complaining of a weakness; she's gone to
consult<br>
    the doctors. I'm sorry for poor Peggy.</p>

<p>    Owen M'Neil beat the Slatterys out of Portunma on
Saturday,<br>
    and Jem, they say, is fractured. I trust it's true, for he
never was<br>
    good, root nor branch, and we've strong reasons to suspect
him for<br>
    drawing the river with a net at night. Sir Harry Boyle
sprained his<br>
    wrist, breaking open his bed-room, that he locked when he was
inside.<br>
    The count and the master were laughing all the evening at<br>
    him. Matters are going very hard in the country,&mdash;the people
paying<br>
    their rents regularly, and not caring half as much as they
used<br>
    about the real gentry and the old families.</p>

<p>    We kept your birthday at the Castle in great style,&mdash;had
the<br>
    militia band from the town, and all the tenants. Mr. James
Daly<br>
    danced with your old friend Mary Green, and sang a beautiful
song,<br>
    and was going to raise the devil, but I interfered; he burned
down<br>
    half the blue drawing-room the last night with his
tricks,&mdash;not that<br>
    your uncle cares, God preserve him to us! it's little
anything like<br>
    that would fret him. The count quarrelled with a young
gentleman<br>
    in the course of the evening, but found out he was only an
attorney<br>
    from Dublin, so he didn't shoot him; but he was ducked in the
pond<br>
    by the people, and your uncle says he hopes they have a true
copy of<br>
    him at home, as they'll never know the original.</p>

<p>    Peter died soon after you went away, but Tim hunts the
dogs<br>
    just as well. They had a beautiful run last Wednesday, and
the<br>
    Lord[2] sent for him and gave him a five-pound note; but he
says<br>
    he'd rather see yourself back again than twice as much.
They<br>
    killed near the big turnip-field, and all went down to see
where you<br>
    leaped Badger over the sunk fence,&mdash;they call it
"Hammersley's<br>
    Nose" ever since. Bodkin was at Ballinasloe the last fair,
limping<br>
    about with a stick; he's twice as quiet as he used to be, and
never<br>
    beat any one since that morning.</p>

<p>    Nellie Guire, at the cross-roads, wants to send you four
pair of<br>
    stockings she knitted for you, and I have a keg of potteen of
Barney's<br>
    own making this two months, not knowing how to send it. May
be<br>
    Sir Arthur himself would like a taste,&mdash;he's an Irishman
himself,<br>
    and one we're proud of, too! The Maynooth chaps are flying
all<br>
    about the country, and making us all uncomfortable,&mdash;God's
will be<br>
    done, but we used to think ourselves good enough! Your
foster-sister,<br>
    Kitty Doolan, had a fine boy; it's to be called after you,
and<br>
    your uncle's to give a christening. He bids me tell you to
draw<br>
    on him when you want money, and that there's &pound;400 ready
for you<br>
    now somewhere in Dublin,&mdash;I forget the name, and as he's
asleep, I<br>
    don't like asking him. There was a droll devil down here in
the<br>
    summer that knew you well,&mdash;a Mr. Webber. The master
treated<br>
    him like the Lord Lieutenant, had dinner parties for him,
and<br>
    gave him Oliver Cromwell to ride over to Meelish. He is
expected<br>
    again for the cock-shooting, for the master likes him
greatly. I'm<br>
    done at last, for my paper is finished and the candle just
out; so with<br>
    every good wish and every good thought, remember your own
old<br>
    friend,&mdash;<br>
    PETER RUSH.<br>
    P.S. It's Smart and Sykes, Fleet Street, has the money.<br>
    Father O'Shaughnessey, of Ennis, bids me ask if you ever met
his<br>
    nephew. If you do, make him sing "Larry M'Hale." I hear it's
a<br>
    treat.</p>

<p>    How is Mickey Free going on? There are three decent
young<br>
    women in the parish he promised to marry, and I suppose he's
pursuing<br>
    the same game with the Portuguese. But he was never<br>
    remarkable for minding his duties. Tell him I am keeping my
eye<br>
    on him.<br>
    P. R.</p>

<p>[Footnote:2 To excuse Father Rush for any apparent impiety, I
must add<br>
that, by "the Lord," he means "Lord Clanricarde."]</p>

<p>Here concluded this long epistle; and though there were many
parts I could<br>
not help smiling at, yet upon the whole I felt sad and
dispirited. What I<br>
had long foreseen and anticipated was gradually
accomplishing,&mdash;the wreck<br>
of an old and honored house, the fall of a name once the
watch-word for<br>
all that was benevolent and hospitable in the land. The
termination of the<br>
lawsuit I knew must have been a heavy blow to my poor uncle, who,
every<br>
consideration of money apart, felt in a legal combat all the
enthusiasm and<br>
excitement of a personal conflict. With him there was less a
question of<br>
to whom the broad acres reverted, so much as whether that
"scoundrel Tom<br>
Basset, the attorney at Athlone, should triumph over us;" or
"M'Manus live<br>
in the house as master where his father had officiated as
butler." It was<br>
at this his Irish pride took offence; and straitened
circumstances and<br>
narrowed fortunes bore little upon him in comparison with this
feeling.</p>

<p>I could see, too, that with breaking fortunes, bad health was
making heavy<br>
inroads upon him; and while, with the reckless desperation of
ruin, he<br>
still kept open house, I could picture to myself his cheerful eye
and<br>
handsome smile but ill concealing the slow but certain march of a
broken<br>
heart.</p>

<p>My position was doubly painful: for any advice, had I been
calculated to<br>
give it, would have seemed an act of indelicate interference from
one who<br>
was to benefit by his own counsel; and although I had been reared
and<br>
educated as my uncle's heir, I had no title nor pretension to
succeed him<br>
other than his kind feelings respecting me. I could, therefore,
only look<br>
on in silence, and watch the painful progress of our downfall
without power<br>
to arrest it.</p>

<p>These were sad thoughts, and came when my heart was already
bowed down with<br>
its affliction. That my poor uncle might be spared the misery
which sooner<br>
or later seemed inevitable, was now my only wish; that he might
go down to<br>
the grave without the embittering feelings which a ruined fortune
and a<br>
fallen house bring home to the heart, was all my prayer. Let him
but close<br>
his eyes in the old wainscoted bed-room, beneath the old roof
where his<br>
fathers and grand-fathers have done so for centuries. Let the
faithful<br>
followers he has known since his childhood stand round his bed;
while his<br>
fast-failing sight recognizes each old and well-remembered
object, and the<br>
same bell which rang its farewell to the spirit of his ancestors
toll for<br>
him, the last of his race. And as for me, there was the wide
world before<br>
me, and a narrow resting-place would suffice for a soldier's
sepulchre.</p>

<p>As the mail-cart was returning the next day to Lisbon, I
immediately sat<br>
down and replied to the worthy Father's letter, speaking as
encouragingly<br>
as I could of my own prospects. I dwelt much upon what was
nearest my<br>
heart, and begged of the good priest to watch over my uncle's
health, to<br>
cheer his spirits and support his courage; and that I trusted the
day was<br>
not far distant when I should be once more among them, with many
a story<br>
of fray and battle-field to enliven their firesides. Pressing him
to write<br>
frequently to me, I closed my hurried letter; and having
despatched it, sat<br>
sorrowfully down to muse over my fortunes.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXIV.</p>

<p>AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR ARTHUR.</p>

<p>The events of the last few days had impressed me with a weight
of years.<br>
The awful circumstances of that evening lay heavily at my heart;
and though<br>
guiltless of Trevyllian's blood, the reproach that conscience
ever carries<br>
when one has been involved in a death-scene never left my
thoughts.</p>

<p>For some time previously I had been depressed and
dis-spirited, and the<br>
awful shock I had sustained broke my nerve and unmanned me
greatly.</p>

<p>There are times when our sorrows tinge all the colorings of
our thoughts,<br>
and one pervading hue of melancholy spreads like a pall upon what
we have<br>
of fairest and brightest on earth. So was it now: I had lost hope
and<br>
ambition; a sad feeling that my career was destined to misfortune
and<br>
mishap gained hourly upon me; and all the bright aspirations of a
soldier's<br>
glory, all my enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance of
glorious war,<br>
fell coldly upon my heart, and I looked upon the chivalry of a
soldier's<br>
life as the empty pageant of a dream.</p>

<p>In this sad frame of mind, I avoided all intercourse with my
brother<br>
officers; their gay and joyous spirits only jarred upon my
brooding<br>
thoughts, and feigning illness, I kept almost entirely to my
quarters.</p>

<p>The inactivity of our present life weighed also heavily upon
me. The<br>
stirring events of a campaign&mdash;the march, the bivouac, the
picket&mdash;call<br>
forth a certain physical exertion that never fails to react upon
the torpid<br>
mind.</p>

<p>Forgetting all around me, I thought of home; I thought of
those whose<br>
hearts I felt were now turning towards me, and considered within
myself how<br>
I could have exchanged the home, the days of peaceful happiness
there, for<br>
the life of misery and disappointment I now endured.</p>

<p>A brooding melancholy gained daily more and more upon me. A
wish, to return<br>
to Ireland, a vague and indistinct feeling that my career was not
destined<br>
for aught of great and good crept upon me, and I longed to sink
into<br>
oblivion, forgotten and forgot.</p>

<p>I record this painful feeling here, while it is still a
painful memory, as<br>
one of the dark shadows that cross the bright sky of our happiest
days.</p>

<p>Happy, indeed, are they, as we look back to them and remember
the times we<br>
have pronounced ourselves "the most miserable of mankind." This,
somehow,<br>
is a confession we never make later on in life, when real
troubles and true<br>
afflictions assail us. Whether we call in more philosophy to our
aid, or<br>
that our senses become less acute and discerning, I'm sure I know
not.</p>

<p>As for me, I confess by far the greater portion of my sorrows
seemed to<br>
come in that budding period of existence when life is ever
fairest and most<br>
captivating. Not, perhaps, that the fact was really so, but the
spoiled<br>
and humored child, whose caprices were a law, felt heavily the
threatening<br>
difficulties of his first voyage; while as he continued to sail
over the<br>
ocean of life, he braved the storm and the squall, and felt only
gratitude<br>
for the favoring breeze that wafted him upon his course.</p>

<p>What an admirable remedy for misanthropy is the being placed
in a<br>
subordinate condition in life! Had I, at the period that I write,
been Sir<br>
Arthur Wellesley; had I even been Marshal Beresford,&mdash;to all
certainty I'd<br>
have played the very devil with his Majesty's forces; I'd have
brought my<br>
rascals to where they'd have been well-peppered, that's
certain.</p>

<p>But as, luckily for the sake of humanity in general and the
well-being of<br>
the service in particular, I was merely Lieutenant O'Malley, 14th
Light<br>
Dragoons, the case was very different. With what heavy censure
did I<br>
condemn the commander of the forces in my own mind for his want
of daring<br>
and enterprise! Whole nights did I pass in endeavoring to account
for his<br>
inactivity and lethargy. Why he did not <i>seriatim</i> fall upon
Soult, Ney,<br>
and Victor, annihilate the French forces, and sack Madrid, I
looked upon as<br>
little less than a riddle; and yet there he waited, drilling,
exercising,<br>
and foraging, as if he were at Hounslow. Now most fortunately
here again I<br>
was not Sir Arthur.</p>

<p>Something in this frame of mind, I was taking one evening a
solitary ride<br>
some miles from the camp. Without noticing the circumstance, I
had entered<br>
a little mountain tract, when, the ground being broken and
uneven, I<br>
dismounted and proceeded a-foot, with the bridle within my arm. I
had not<br>
gone far when the clatter of a horse's hoofs came rapidly towards
me, and<br>
though there was something startling in the pace over such a
piece of road,<br>
I never lifted my eyes as the horseman came up, but continued my
slow<br>
progress onwards, my head sunk upon my bosom.</p>

<p>"Hallo, sir!" cried a sharp voice, whose tones seemed,
somehow, not heard<br>
for the first time. I looked up, saw a slight figure closely
buttoned up<br>
in a blue horseman's cloak, the collar of which almost entirely
hid his<br>
features; he wore a plain, cocked hat without a feather, and was
mounted<br>
upon a sharp, wiry-looking hack.</p>

<p>"Hallo, sir! What regiment do you belong to?"</p>

<p>As I had nothing of the soldier about me, save a blue foraging
cap, to<br>
denote my corps, the tone of the demand was little calculated to
elicit<br>
a very polished reply; but preferring, as most impertinent, to
make no<br>
answer, I passed on without speaking.</p>

<p>"Did you hear, sir?" cried the same voice, in a still louder
key. "What's<br>
your regiment?"</p>

<p>I now turned round, resolved to question the other in turn;
when, to my<br>
inexpressible shame and confusion, he had lowered the collar of
his cloak,<br>
and I saw the features of Sir Arthur Wellesley.</p>

<p>"Fourteenth Light Dragoons, sir," said I, blushing as I
spoke.</p>

<p>"Have you not read the general order, sir? Why have you left
the camp?"</p>

<p>Now, I had not read a general order nor even heard one for
above a<br>
fortnight. So I stammered out some bungling answer.</p>

<p>"To your quarters, sir, and report yourself under arrest.
What's your<br>
name?"</p>

<p>"Lieutenant O'Malley, sir."</p>

<p>"Well, sir, your passion for rambling shall be indulged. You
shall be sent<br>
to the rear with despatches; and as the army is in advance,
probably the<br>
lesson may be serviceable." So saying, he pressed spurs to his
horse, and<br>
was out of sight in a moment.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXV.</p>

<p>TALAVERA.</p>

<p>Having been despatched to the rear with orders for General
Crawfurd, I did<br>
not reach Talavera till the morning of the 28th. Two days' hard
fighting<br>
had left the contending armies still face to face, and without
any decided<br>
advantage on either side.</p>

<p>When I arrived upon the battle-field, the combat of the
morning was over.<br>
It was then ten o'clock, and the troops were at breakfast, if the
few<br>
ounces of wheat sparingly dealt out among them could be dignified
by that<br>
name. All was, however, life and animation on every side; the
merry laugh,<br>
the passing jest, the careless look, bespoke the free and daring
character<br>
of the soldiery, as they sat in groups upon the grass; and except
when a<br>
fatigue party passed by, bearing some wounded comrade to the
rear, no touch<br>
of seriousness rested upon their hardy features. The morning was
indeed<br>
a glorious one; a sky of unclouded blue stretched above a
landscape<br>
unsurpassed in loveliness. Far to the right rolled on in placid
stream the<br>
broad Tagus, bathing in its eddies the very walls of Talavera,
the ground<br>
from which, to our position, gently undulated across a plain of
most<br>
fertile richness and terminated on our extreme left in a bold
height,<br>
protected in front by a ravine, and flanked by a deep and rugged
valley.</p>

<p>The Spaniards occupied the right of the line, connecting with
our troops at<br>
a rising ground, upon which a strong redoubt had been hastily
thrown up.<br>
The fourth division and the Guards were stationed here, next to
whom came<br>
Cameron's brigade and the Germans, Mackenzie and Hill holding the
extreme<br>
left of all, which might be called the key of our position. In
the valley<br>
beneath the latter were picketed three cavalry regiments, among
which I was<br>
not long in detecting my gallant friends of the Twenty-third.</p>

<p>As I rode rapidly past, saluting some old familiar face at
each moment, I<br>
could not help feeling struck at the evidence of the desperate
battle that<br>
so lately had raged there. The whole surface of the hill was one
mass of<br>
dead and dying, the bearskin of the French grenadier lying side
by side<br>
with the tartan of the Highlander. Deep furrows in the soil
showed the<br>
track of the furious cannonade, and the terrible evidences of a
bayonet<br>
charge were written in the mangled corpses around.</p>

<p>The fight had been maintained without any intermission from
daybreak<br>
till near nine o'clock that morning, and the slaughter on both
sides was<br>
dreadful. The mounds of fresh earth on every side told of the
soldier's<br>
sepulchre; and the unceasing tramp of the pioneers struck sadly
upon the<br>
ear, as the groans of the wounded blended with the funeral sounds
around<br>
them.</p>

<p>In front were drawn up the dark legions of France,&mdash;massive
columns of<br>
infantry, with dense bodies of artillery alternating along the
line. They,<br>
too, occupied a gently rising ground, the valley between the two
armies<br>
being crossed half way by a little rivulet; and here, during the
sultry<br>
heat of the morning, the troops on both sides met and mingled to
quench<br>
their thirst ere the trumpet again called them to the
slaughter.</p>

<p>In a small ravine near the centre of our line were drawn up
Cotton's<br>
brigade, of whom the Fusiliers formed a part. Directly in front
of this<br>
were Campbell's brigade, to the left of which, upon a gentle
slope, the<br>
staff were now assembled. Thither, accordingly, I bent my steps,
and as<br>
I came up the little scarp, found myself among the generals of
division,<br>
hastily summoned by Sir Arthur to deliberate upon a forward
movement. The<br>
council lasted scarcely a quarter of an hour, and when I
presented myself<br>
to deliver my report, all the dispositions for the battle had
been decided<br>
upon, and the commander of the forces, seated upon the grass at
his<br>
breakfast, looked by far the most unconcerned and uninterested
man I had<br>
seen that morning.</p>

<p>He turned his head rapidly as I came up, and before the
aide-de-camp could<br>
announce me, called out:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, sir, what news of the reinforcements?"</p>

<p>"They cannot reach Talavera before to-morrow, sir."</p>

<p>"Then, before that, we shall not want them. That will do,
sir."</p>

<p>So saying, he resumed his breakfast, and I retired, more than
ever struck<br>
with the surprising coolness of the man upon whom no
disappointment seemed<br>
to have the slightest influence.</p>

<p>I had scarcely rejoined my regiment, and was giving an account
to my<br>
brother officers of my journey, when an aide-de-camp came
galloping at full<br>
speed down the line, and communicating with the several
commanding officers<br>
as he passed.</p>

<p>What might be the nature of the orders we could not guess at;
for no word<br>
to fall in followed, and yet it was evident something of
importance was<br>
at hand. Upon the hill where the staff were assembled no unusual
bustle<br>
appeared; and we could see the bay cob of Sir Arthur still being
led up and<br>
down by the groom, with a dragoon's mantle thrown over him. The
soldiers,<br>
overcome by the heat and fatigue of the morning, lay stretched
around upon<br>
the grass, and everything bespoke a period of rest and
refreshment.</p>

<p>"We are going to advance, depend upon it!" said a young
officer beside me;<br>
"the repulse of this morning has been a smart lesson to the
French, and Sir<br>
Arthur won't leave them without impressing it upon them."</p>

<p>"Hark, what's that?" cried Baker; "listen!"</p>

<p>As he spoke, a strain of most delicious music came wafted
across the plain.<br>
It was from the band of a French regiment, and mellowed by the
distance,<br>
it seemed in the calm stillness of the morning air like something
less of<br>
earth than heaven. As we listened, the notes swelled upwards yet
fuller;<br>
and one by one the different bands seemed to join, till at last
the whole<br>
air seemed full of the rich flood of melody.</p>

<p>We could now perceive the stragglers were rapidly falling
back, while high<br>
above all other sounds the clanging notes of the trumpet were
heard along<br>
the line. The hoarse drum now beat to arms; and soon after a
brilliant<br>
staff rode slowly from between two dense bodies of infantry, and
advancing<br>
some distance into the plain, seemed to reconnoitre us. A cloud
of Polish<br>
cavalry, distinguished by their long lances and floating banners,
loitered<br>
in their rear.</p>

<p>We had not time for further observation, when the drums on our
side beat to<br>
arms, and the hoarse cry, "Fall in,&mdash;fall in there, lads!"
resounded along<br>
the line.</p>

<p>It was now one o'clock, and before half an hour the troops had
resumed the<br>
position of the morning, and stood silent and anxious spectators
of the<br>
scene before them.</p>

<p>Upon the table-land to the rear of the French position, we
could descry the<br>
gorgeous tent of King Joseph, around which a large and
splendidly-accoutred<br>
staff were seen standing. Here, too, the bustle and excitement
seemed<br>
considerable, for to this point the dark masses of the infantry
seemed<br>
converging from the extreme right; and here we could perceive the
royal<br>
guards and the reserve now forming in column of attack.</p>

<p>From the crest of the hill down to the very valley, the dark,
dense ranks<br>
extended, the flanks protected by a powerful artillery and deep
masses of<br>
heavy cavalry. It was evident that the attack was not to commence
on our<br>
side, and the greatest and most intense anxiety pervaded us as to
what part<br>
of our line was first to be assailed.</p>

<p>Meanwhile Sir Arthur Wellesley, who from the height had been
patiently<br>
observing the field of battle, despatched an aide-de-camp at full
gallop<br>
towards Campbell's brigade, posted directly in advance of us. As
he passed<br>
swiftly along, he called out, "You're in for it, Fourteenth;
you'll have to<br>
open the ball to-day."</p>

<p>Scarcely were the words spoken, when a signal gun from the
French boomed<br>
heavily through the still air. The last echo was growing fainter,
and the<br>
heavy smoke breaking into mist, when the most deafening thunder
ever my<br>
ears heard came pealing around us; eighty pieces of artillery had
opened<br>
upon us, sending a very tempest of balls upon our line, while
midst the<br>
smoke and dust we could see the light troops advancing at a run,
followed<br>
by the broad and massive columns in all the terror and majesty of
war.</p>

<p>"What a splendid attack! How gallantly they come on!" cried an
old veteran<br>
officer beside me, forgetting all rivalry in his noble admiration
of our<br>
enemy.</p>

<p>The intervening space was soon passed, and the tirailleurs
falling back as<br>
the columns came on, the towering masses bore down upon
Campbell's division<br>
with a loud cry of defiance. Silently and steadily the English
infantry<br>
awaited the attack, and returning the fire with one withering
volley, were<br>
ordered to charge. Scarcely were the bayonets lowered, when the
head of the<br>
advancing column broke and fled, while Mackenzie's brigade,
overlapping the<br>
flank, pushed boldly forward, and a scene of frightful carnage
followed;<br>
for a moment a hand-to-hand combat was sustained, but the
unbroken files<br>
and impregnable bayonets of the English conquered, and the French
fled,<br>
leaving six guns behind them.</p>

<p>The gallant enemy were troops of tried and proved courage, and
scarcely had<br>
they retreated when they again formed; but just as they prepared
to come<br>
forward, a tremendous shower of grape opened upon them from our
batteries,<br>
while a cloud of Spanish horse assailed them in flank and nearly
cut them<br>
in pieces.</p>

<p>While this was passing on the right, a tremendous attack
menaced the hill<br>
upon which our left was posted. Two powerful columns of French
infantry,<br>
supported by some regiments of light cavalry, came steadily
forward to the<br>
attack; Anson's brigade were ordered to charge.</p>

<p>Away they went at top speed, but had not gone above a hundred
yards when<br>
they were suddenly arrested by a deep chasm; here the German
hussars pulled<br>
short up, but the Twenty-third dashing impetuously forward; a
scene of<br>
terrific carnage ensued, men and horses rolling indiscriminately
together<br>
under a withering fire from the French squares. Even here,
however, British<br>
valor quailed not, for Major Francis Ponsonby, forming all who
came up,<br>
rode boldly upon a brigade of French chasseurs in the rear.
Victor, who<br>
from the first had watched the movement, at once despatched a
lancer<br>
regiment against them, and then these brave fellows were
absolutely cut to<br>
atoms, the few who escaped having passed through the French
columns and<br>
reached Bassecour's Spanish division on the far right.</p>

<p>During this time the hill was again assailed, and even more
desperately<br>
than before; while Victor himself led on the fourth corps to an
attack upon<br>
our right and centre.</p>

<p>The Guards waited without flinching the impetuous rush of the
advancing<br>
columns, and when at length within a short distance, dashed
forward with<br>
the bayonet, driving everything before them. The French fell back
upon<br>
their sustaining masses, and rallying in an instant, again came
forward,<br>
supported by a tremendous fire from their batteries. The Guards
drew back,<br>
and the German Legion, suddenly thrown into confusion, began to
retire<br>
in disorder. This was the most critical moment of the day, for
although<br>
successful upon the extreme right and left of our line, our
centre was<br>
absolutely broken. Just at this moment Gordon rode up to our
brigade; his<br>
face was pale, and his look flurried and excited.</p>

<p>"The Forty-eighth are coining; here they are,&mdash;support them,
Fourteenth."</p>

<p>These few words were all he spoke; and the next moment the
measured tread<br>
of a column was heard behind us. On they came like one man, their
compact<br>
and dense formation looking like some massive wall; wheeling by
companies,<br>
they suffered the Guards and Germans to retire behind them, and
then,<br>
reforming into line, they rushed forward with the bayonet. Our
artillery<br>
opened with a deafening thunder behind them, and then we were
ordered to<br>
charge.</p>

<p>We came on at a trot; the Guards, who had now recovered their
formation,<br>
cheered us as we proceeded. The smoke of the cannonade obscured
everything<br>
until we had advanced some distance, but just as we emerged
beyond the line<br>
of the gallant Forty-eighth, the splendid panorama of the
battle-field<br>
broke suddenly upon us.</p>

<p>"Charge, forward!" cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and
we were upon<br>
them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering
musketry of our<br>
people, gave way before us, and unable to form a square, retired
fighting<br>
but in confusion, and with tremendous loss, to their position.
One glorious<br>
cheer, from left to right of our line, proclaimed the victory,
while a<br>
deafening discharge of artillery from the French replied to this
defiance,<br>
and the battle was over. Had the Spanish army been capable of a
forward<br>
movement, our successes at this moment would have been, much
more<br>
considerable; but they did not dare to change their position, and
the<br>
repulse of our enemy was destined to be all our glory. The
French, however,<br>
suffered much more severely than we did; and retiring during the
night,<br>
fell back behind the Alberche, leaving us the victory and the
battle-field.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXVI.</p>

<p>NIGHT AFTER TALAVERA.</p>

<p>The night which followed the battle was a sad one. Through the
darkness,<br>
and under a fast-falling rain, the hours were spent in searching
for<br>
our wounded comrades amidst the heap of slain upon the field; and
tho<br>
glimmering of the lanterns, as they flickered far and near across
the wide<br>
plain, bespoke the track of the fatigue parties in their mournful
round;<br>
while the groans of the wounded rose amidst the silence with an
accent of<br>
heart-rending anguish; so true was it, as our great commander
said, "There<br>
is nothing more sad than a victory, except a defeat."</p>

<p>Around our bivouac fires, the feeling of sorrowful depression
was also<br>
evident. We had gained a great victory, it was true: we had
beaten the<br>
far-famed legions of France upon a ground of their own choosing,
led by the<br>
most celebrated of their marshals and under the eyes of the
Emperor's own<br>
brother; but still we felt all the hazardous daring of our
position, and<br>
had no confidence whatever in the courage or discipline of our
allies; and<br>
we saw that in the very <i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i> of the battle
the efforts of the enemy<br>
were directed almost exclusively against our line, so confidently
did they<br>
undervalue the efforts of the Spanish troops. Morning broke at
length, and<br>
scarcely was the heavy mist clearing away before the red
sunlight, when the<br>
sounds of fife and drum were heard from a distant part of the
field. The<br>
notes swelled or sank as the breeze rose or fell, and many a
conjecture was<br>
hazarded as to their meaning, for no object was well visible for
more than<br>
a few hundred yards off; gradually, however, they grew nearer and
nearer,<br>
and at length, as the air cleared, and the hazy vapor evaporated,
the<br>
bright scarlet uniform of a British regiment was seen advancing
at a<br>
quick-step.</p>

<p>As they came nearer, the well-known march of the gallant 43d
was recognized<br>
by some of our people, and immediately the rumor fled like
lightning: "It<br>
is Crawfurd's brigade!" and so it was; the noble fellow had
marched his<br>
division the unparalleled distance of sixty English miles in
twenty-seven<br>
hours. Over a burning sandy soil, exposed to a raging sun,
without rations,<br>
almost without water, these gallant troops pressed on in the
unwearied hope<br>
of sharing the glory of the battle-field. One tremendous cheer
welcomed the<br>
head of the column as they marched past, and continued till the
last file<br>
had deployed before us.</p>

<p>As these splendid regiments moved by we could not help feeling
what<br>
signal service they might have rendered us but a few hours
before. Their<br>
soldier-like bearing, their high and effective state of
discipline, their<br>
well-known reputation, were in every mouth; and I scarcely think
that any<br>
corps who stood the brunt of the mighty battle were the subject
of more<br>
encomium than the brave fellows who had just joined us.</p>

<p>The mournful duties of the night were soon forgotten in the
gay and buoyant<br>
sounds on every side. Congratulations, shaking of hands, kind
inquiries,<br>
went round; and as we looked to the hilly ground where so lately
were<br>
drawn up in battle array the dark columns of our enemy, and where
not one<br>
sentinel now remained, the proud feeling of our victory came home
to our<br>
hearts with the ever-thrilling thought, "What will they say at
home?"</p>

<p>I was standing amidst a group of my brother officers, when I
received an<br>
order from the colonel to ride down to Talavera for the return of
our<br>
wounded, as the arrival of the commander-in-chief was momentarily
looked<br>
for. I threw myself upon my horse, and setting out at a brisk
pace, soon<br>
reached the gates.</p>

<p>On entering the town, I was obliged to dismount and proceed on
foot. The<br>
streets were completely filled with people, treading their way
among<br>
wagons, forage carts, and sick-litters. Here was a booth filled
with all<br>
imaginable wares for sale; there was a temporary gin-shop
established<br>
beneath a broken baggage-wagon; here might be seen a merry party
throwing<br>
dice for a turkey or a kid; there, a wounded man, with bloodless
cheek and<br>
tottering step, inquiring the road to the hospital. The accents
of<br>
agony mingled with the drunken chorus, and the sharp crack of
the<br>
provost-marshal's whip was heard above the boisterous revelling
of the<br>
debauchee. All was confusion, bustle, and excitement. The staff
officer,<br>
with his flowing plume and glittering epaulettes, wended his way
on foot,<br>
amidst the din and bustle, unnoticed and uncared for; while the
little<br>
drummer amused an admiring audience of simple country-folk by
some wondrous<br>
tale of the great victory.</p>

<p>My passage through this dense mass was necessarily a slow one.
No one made<br>
way for another; discipline for the time was at an end, and with
it all<br>
respect for rank or position. It was what nothing of mere
vicissitude in<br>
the fortune of war can equal,&mdash;the wild orgies of an army the day
after a<br>
battle.</p>

<p>On turning the corner of a narrow street, my attention was
attracted by a<br>
crowd which, gathered round a small fountain, seemed, as well as
I could<br>
perceive, to witness some proceeding with a more than ordinary
interest.<br>
Exclamations in Portuguese, expressive of surprise and
admiration, wore<br>
mingled with English oaths and Irish ejaculations, while high
above all<br>
rose other sounds,&mdash;the cries of some one in pain and suffering;
forcing my<br>
way through the dense group, I at length reached the interior of
the crowd<br>
when, to my astonishment, I perceived a short, fat,
punchy-looking man,<br>
stripped of his coat and waist-coat, and with his shirt-sleeves
rolled<br>
up to his shoulder, busily employed in operating upon a wounded
soldier.<br>
Amputation knives, tourniquets, bandages, and all other
imaginable<br>
instruments for giving or alleviating torture were strewed about
him, and<br>
from the arrangement and preparation, it was clear that he had
pitched upon<br>
this spot as an hospital for his patients. While he continued to
perform<br>
his functions with a singular speed and dexterity, he never for a
moment<br>
ceased 'a running fire of small talk, now addressed to the
patient in<br>
particular, now to the crowd at large, sometimes a soliloquy to
himself,<br>
and not unfrequently, abstractedly, upon things in general. These
little<br>
specimens of oratory, delivered in such a place at such a time,
and, not<br>
least of all, in the richest imaginable Cork accent, were
sufficient to<br>
arrest my steps, and I stopped for some time to observe him.</p>

<p>The patient, who was a large, powerfully-built fellow, had
been wounded<br>
in both legs by the explosion of a shell, but yet not so severely
as to<br>
require amputation.</p>

<p>"Does that plaze you, then?" said the doctor, as he applied
some powerful<br>
caustic to a wounded vessel; "there's no satisfying the like of
you. Quite<br>
warm and comfortable ye'll be this morning after that. I saw the
same shell<br>
coming, and I called out to Maurice Blake, 'By your leave,
Maurice, let<br>
that fellow pass, he's in a hurry!' and faith, I said to myself,
'there's<br>
more where you came from,&mdash;you're not an only child, and I never
liked the<br>
family.' What are ye grinning for, ye brown thieves?" This was
addressed<br>
to the Portuguese. "There, now, keep the limb quiet and easy.
Upon my<br>
conscience, if that shell fell into ould Lundy Foot's shop this
morning,<br>
there'd be plenty of sneezing in Sacksville Street. Who's next?"
said he,<br>
looking round with an expression that seemed to threaten that if
no wounded<br>
man was ready he was quite prepared to carve out a patient for
himself. Not<br>
exactly relishing the invitation in the searching that
accompanied it,<br>
I backed my way through the crowd, and continued my path towards
the<br>
hospital.</p>

<p>Here the scene which presented itself was shocking beyond<br>
belief,&mdash;frightful and ghastly wounds from shells and cannon-shot
were seen<br>
on all sides, every imaginable species of suffering that man is
capable of<br>
was presented to view; while amidst the dead and dying,
operations the most<br>
painful were proceeding with a haste and bustle that plainly
showed how<br>
many more waited their turn for similar offices. The stairs were
blocked<br>
up with fresh arrivals of wounded men, and even upon the
corridors and<br>
landing-places the sick were strewn on all sides.</p>

<p>I hurried to that part of the building where my own people
were, and soon<br>
learned that our loss was confined to about fourteen wounded;
five of them<br>
were officers. But fortunately, we lost not a man of our gallant
fellows,<br>
and Talavera brought us no mourning for a comrade to damp the
exultation we<br>
felt in our victory.</p>

<br><br><br><br><p>CHAPTER LXVII.</p>

<p>THE OUTPOST.</p>

<p>During the three days which succeeded the battle, all things
remained as<br>
they were before. The enemy had gradually withdrawn all his
forces, and our<br>
most advanced pickets never came in sight of a French detachment.
Still,<br>
although we had gained a great victory, our situation was
anything but<br>
flattering. The most strenuous exertions of the commissariat were
barely<br>
sufficient to provision the troops; and we had even already but
too much<br>
experience of how little trust or reliance could be reposed in
the most<br>
lavish promises of our allies. It was true, our spirits failed us
not;<br>
but it was rather from an implicit and never-failing confidence
in the<br>
resources of our great leader, than that any among us could see
his way<br>
through the dense cloud of difficulty and danger that seemed to
envelop us<br>
on every side.</p>

<p>To add to the pressing emergency of our position, we learned
on the evening<br>
of the 31st that Soult was advancing from the north, and at the
head<br>
of fourteen thousand chosen troops in full march upon Placentia;
thus<br>
threatening our rear, at the very moment too, when any further
advance was<br>
evidently impossible.</p>

<p>On the morning of the 1st of August, I was ordered, with a
small party, to<br>
push forward in the direction of the Alberche, upon the left bank
of which<br>
it was reported that the French were again concentrating their
forces, and<br>
if possible, to obtain information of their future movements.
Meanwhile the<br>
army was about to fall back upon Oropesa, there to await Soult's
advance,<br>
and if necessary, to give him battle; Cuesta engaging with his
Spaniards<br>
to secure Talavera, with its stores and hospitals, against any
present<br>
movement from Victor.</p>

<p>After a hearty breakfast, and a kind "Good-by!" from my
brother officers,<br>
I set out. My road along the Tagus, for several miles of the way,
was a<br>
narrow path scarped from the rocky ledge of the river, shaded by
rich olive<br>
plantations that throw a friendly shade over us during the
noonday heat.</p>

<p>We travelled along silently, sparing our cattle from time to
time, but<br>
endeavoring ere nightfall to reach Torrijos, in which village we
had heard<br>
several French soldiers were in hospital. Our information leading
us to<br>
believe them very inadequately guarded, we hoped to make some
prisoners,<br>
from whom the information we sought could in all likelihood be
obtained.<br>
More than once during the day our road was crossed by parties
similar to<br>
our own, sent forward to reconnoitre; and towards evening a party
of the<br>
23d Light Dragoons, returning towards Talavera, informed us that
the French<br>
had retired from Torrijos, which was now occupied by an English
detachment<br>
under my old friend O'Shaughnessy.</p>

<p>I need not say with what pleasure I heard this piece of news,
and eagerly<br>
pressed forward, preferring the warm shelter and hospitable board
the<br>
major was certain of possessing, to the cold blast and dripping
grass of<br>
a bivouac. Night, however, fell fast; darkness, without an
intervening<br>
twilight, set in, and we lost our way. A bleak table-land with
here and<br>
there a stunted, leafless tree was all that we could discern by
the pale<br>
light of a new moon. An apparently interminable heath uncrossed
by path or<br>
foot-track was before us, and our jaded cattle seemed to feel the
dreary<br>
uncertainty of the prospect as sensitively as
ourselves,&mdash;stumbling and<br>
over-reaching at every step.</p>

<p>Cursing my ill-luck for such a misadventure, and once more
picturing to my<br>
mind the bright blazing hearth and smoking supper I had hoped to
partake<br>
of, I called a halt, and prepared to pass the night. My decision
was<br>
hastened by finding myself suddenly in a little grove of
pine-trees whose<br>
shelter was not to be despised; besides that, our bivouac fires
were now<br>
sure of being supplied.</p>

<p>It was fortunate the night was fine, though dark. In a calm,
still<br>
atmosphere, when not a leaf moved nor a branch stirred, we
picketed our<br>
tired horses, and shaking out their forage, heaped up in the
midst a<br>
blazing fire of the fir-tree. Our humble supper was produced, and
even with<br>
the still lingering revery of the major and his happier destiny,
I began to<br>
feel comfortable.</p>

<p>My troopers, who probably had not been flattering their
imaginations with<br>
such <i>gourmand</i> reflections and views, sat happily around
their cheerful<br>
blaze, chatting over the great battle they had so lately
witnessed, and<br>
mingling their stories of some comrade's prowess with sorrows for
the dead<br>
and proud hopes for the future. In the midst, upon his knees
beside<br>
the flame, was Mike, disputing, detailing, guessing, and
occasionally<br>
inventing,&mdash;all his arguments only tending to one view of the
late victory:<br>
"That it was the Lord's mercy the most of the 48th was Irish, or
we<br>
wouldn't be sitting there now!"</p>

<p>Despite Mr. Free's conversational gifts, however, his audience
one by one<br>
dropped off in sleep, leaving him sole monarch of the watch-fire,
and&mdash;what<br>
he thought more of&mdash;a small brass kettle nearly full of
brandy-and-water.<br>
This latter, I perceived, he produced when all was tranquil, and
seemed,<br>
as he cast a furtive glance around, to assure himself that he was
the only<br>
company present.</p>

<p>Lying some yards off, I watched him for about an hour, as he
sat rubbing<br>
his hands before the blaze, or lifting the little vessel to his
lips; his<br>
droll features ever and anon seeming acted upon by some passing
dream<br>
of former devilment, as he smiled and muttered some sentences in
an<br>
under-voice. Sleep at length overpowered me; but my last waking
thoughts<br>
were haunted with a singular ditty by which Mike accompanied
himself as<br>
he kept burnishing the buttons of my jacket before the fire, now
and then<br>
interrupting the melody by a recourse to the copper.</p>

<p>"Well, well; you're clean enough now, and sure it's little
good brightening<br>
you up, when you'll be as bad to-morrow. Like his father's son,
devil a lie<br>
in it! Nothing would serve him but his best blue jacket to fight
in, as if<br>
the French was particular what they killed us in. Pleasant trade,
upon my<br>
conscience! Well, never mind. That's beautiful <i>sperets</i>,
anyhow. Your<br>
health, Mickey Free; it's yourself that stands to me.</p>

<p>    "It's little for glory I care;<br>
      Sure ambition is only a fable;<br>
    I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,<br>
      With lashings of drink on the table.<br>
    I like to lie down in the sun<br>
      And <i>drame</i>, when my <i>faytures</i> is scorchin'<br>
    That when I'm too <i>ould</i> for more fun,<br>
      Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune.</p>

<p>    "And in winter, with bacon and eggs,<br>
      And a place, at the turf-fire basking,<br>
    Sip my punch as I roasted my legs,<br>
      Oh, the devil a more I'd be asking!<br>
    For I haven't a <i>janius</i> for work,&mdash;<br>
      It was never the gift of the Bradies,&mdash;<br>
    But I'd make a most <i>illigant</i> Turk,<br>
      For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies."</p>

<p>This confounded <i>refrain</i> kept ringing through my dream,
and "tobacco and<br>
ladies" mingled with my thoughts of storm and battle-field long
after their<br>
very gifted author had composed himself to slumber.</p>

<p>Sleep, and sound sleep, came at length, and many hours elapsed
ere I awoke.<br>
When I did so, my fire was reduced to its last embers. Mike, like
the<br>
others, had sunk in slumber, and midst the gray dawn that
precedes the<br>
morning, I could just perceive the dark shadows of my troopers as
they lay<br>
in groups around.</p>

<p>The fatigues of the previous day had so completely overcome
me, that it was<br>
with difficulty I could arouse myself so far as to heap fresh
logs upon the<br>
fire. This I did with my eyes half closed, and in that listless,
dreamy<br>
state which seems the twilight of sleep.</p>

<p>I managed so much, however, and was returning to my couch
beneath a tree,<br>
when suddenly an object presented itself to my eyes that
absolutely rooted<br>
me to the spot. At about twenty or thirty yards distant, where
but the<br>
moment before the long line of horizon terminated the view, there
now stood<br>
a huge figure of some ten or twelve feet in height,&mdash;two heads,
which<br>
surmounted this colossal personage, moved alternately from side
to side,<br>
while several arms waved loosely to and fro in the most strange
and uncouth<br>
manner. My first impression was that a dream had conjured up this
distorted<br>
image; but when I had assured myself by repeated pinchings and
shakings<br>
that I was really awake, still it remained there. I was never
much given<br>
to believe in ghosts; but even had I been so, this strange
apparition<br>
must have puzzled me as much as ever, for it could not have been
the<br>
representative of anything I ever heard of before.</p>

<p>A vague suspicion that some French trickery was concerned,
induced me to<br>
challenge it in French; so, without advancing a step, I halloed
out, "<i>Qui<br>
va l&agrave;</i> ?"</p>

<p>My voice aroused a sleeping soldier, who, springing up beside
me, had his<br>
carbine at the cock; while, equally thunderstruck with myself, he
gazed at<br>
the monster.</p>

<p>"<i>Qui va l&agrave;</i> ?" shouted I again, and no answer was
returned, when suddenly<br>
the huge object wheeled rapidly around, and without waiting for
any further<br>
parley, made for the thicket.</p>

<p>The tramp of a horse's feet now assured me as to the nature of
at least<br>
part of the spectacle, when click went the trigger behind me, and
the<br>
trooper's ball rushed whistling through the brushwood. In a
moment the<br>
whole party were up and stirring.</p>

<p>"This way, lads!" cried I, as drawing my sabre, I dashed into
the pine<br>
wood.</p>

<p>For a few moments all was dark as midnight; but as we
proceeded farther, we<br>
came out upon a little open space which commanded the plain
beneath for a<br>
great extent.</p>

<p>"There it goes!" said one of the men, pointing to a narrow,
beaten path,<br>
in which the tall figure moved at a slow and stately pace, while
still the<br>
same wild gestures of heads and limbs continued.</p>

<p>"Don't fire, men! don't fire!" I cried, "but follow me," as I
set forward<br>
as hard as I could.</p>

<p>As we neared it, the frantic gesticulations grew more and more
remarkable,<br>
while some stray words, which we half caught, sounded like
English in our<br>
ears. We were now within pistol-shot distance, when suddenly the
horse&mdash;for<br>
that much at least we were assured of&mdash;stumbled and fell
forward,<br>
precipitating the remainder of the object headlong into the
road.</p>

<p>In a second we were upon the spot, when the first sounds which
greeted me<br>
were the following, uttered in an accent by no means new to
me:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, blessed Virgin! Wasn't it yourself that threw me in the
mud, or my<br>
nose was done for? Shaugh, Shaugh, my boy, since we are taken,
tip them the<br>
blarney, and say we're generals of division!"</p>

<p>I need not say with what a burst of laughter I received this
very original<br>
declaration.</p>

<p>"I ought to know that laugh," cried a voice I at once knew to
be my friend<br>
O'Shaughnessy's. "Are you Charles O'Malley, by any chance in
life?"</p>

<p>"The same, Major, and delighted to meet you; though, faith, we
were near<br>
giving you a rather warm reception. What, in the Devil's name,
did you<br>
represent, just now?"</p>

<p>"Ask Maurice, there, bad luck to him. I wish the Devil had him
when he<br>
persuaded me into it."</p>

<p>"Introduce me to your friend," replied the other, rubbing his
shins as he<br>
spoke. "Mr. O'Mealey,"&mdash;so he called me,&mdash;"I think. Happy to meet
you; my<br>
mother was a Ryan of Killdooley, married to a first cousin of
your father's<br>
before she took Mr. Quill, my respected progenitor. I'm Dr. Quill
of the<br>
48th, more commonly called Maurice Quill. Tear and ages! how sore
my back<br>
is! It was all the fault of the baste, Mr. O'Mealey. We set out
in search<br>
of you this morning, to bring you back with us to Torrijos, but
we fell in<br>
with a very pleasant funeral at Barcaventer, and joined them.
They invited<br>
us, I may say, to spend the day; and a very jovial day it was. I
was the<br>
chief mourner, and carried a very big candle through the village,
in<br>
consideration of as fine a meat-pie, and as much lush as my grief
permitted<br>
me to indulge in afterwards. But, my dear sir, when it was all
finished, we<br>
found ourselves nine miles from our quarters; and as neither of
us were in<br>
a very befitting condition for pedestrian exercise, we stole one
of the<br>
leaders out of the hearse,&mdash;velvet, plumes, and all,&mdash;and set off
home.</p>

<p>"When we came upon your party we were not over clear whether
you were<br>
English, Portuguese, or French, and that was the reason I called
out to<br>
you, 'God save all here!' in Irish. Your polite answer was a
shot, which<br>
struck the old horse in the knee, and although we wheeled about
in<br>
double-quick, we never could get him out of his professional
habits on the<br>
road. He had a strong notion he was engaged in another
funeral,&mdash;as he was<br>
very likely to be,&mdash;and the devil a bit faster than a dead march
could we<br>
get him to, with all our thrashing. Orderly time for men in a
hurry, with a<br>
whole platoon blazing away behind them! But long life to the
cavalry, they<br>
never hit anything!"</p>

<p>While he continued to run on in this manner, we reached our
watch-fire,<br>
when what was my surprise to discover, in my newly-made
acquaintance, the<br>
worthy doctor I had seen a day or two before operating at the
fountain at<br>
Talavera.</p>

<p>"Well, Mr. O'Mealey," said he, as he seated himself before the
blaze, "What<br>
is the state of the larder? Anything savory,&mdash;anything
drink-inspiring to<br>
be had?"</p>

<p>"I fear, Doctor, my fare is of the very humblest; still&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What are the fluids, Charley?" cried the major; "the cruel
performance I<br>
have been enacting on that cursed beast has left me in a
fever."</p>

<p>"This was a pigeon-pie, formerly," said Dr. Quill,
investigating the ruined<br>
walls of a pasty; "and,&mdash;but come, here's a duck; and if my nose
deceive<br>
me not, a very tolerable ham. Peter&mdash;Larry&mdash;Patsy&mdash;What's the
name of your<br>
familiar there?"</p>

<p>"Mickey&mdash;Mickey Tree."</p>

<p>"Mickey Free, then; come here, avick! Devise a little drink,
my son,&mdash;none<br>
of the weakest&mdash;no lemon&mdash;-hot! You understand, hot! That chap
has an eye<br>
for punch; there's no mistaking an Irish fellow, Nature has
endowed them<br>
richly,&mdash;fine features and a beautiful absorbent system! That's
the gift!<br>
Just look at him, blowing up the fire,&mdash;isn't he a picture? Well,
O'Mealey,<br>
I was fretting that we hadn't you up at Torrijos; we were
enjoying life<br>
very respectably,&mdash;we established a little system of small tithes
upon<br>
fowl, sheep, pigs' heads, and wine skins that throve remarkably
for the<br>
time. Here's the lush! Put it down there, Mickey, in the middle;
that's<br>
right. Your health, Shaugh. O'Mealey, here's a troop to you; and
in the<br>
mean time I'll give you a chant:&mdash;</p>

<p>    'Come, ye jovial souls, don't over the bowl be
sleeping,<br>
    Nor let the grog go round like a cripple creeping;<br>
    If your care comes, up, in the liquor sink it,<br>
    Pass along the lush, I'm the boy can drink it.<br>
      Isn't that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?<br>
      Isn't that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?'</p>

<p>"Shaugh, my hearty, this begins to feel comfortable."</p>

<p>"Your man, O'Mealey, has a most judicious notion of punch for
a small<br>
party; and though one has prejudices about a table, chairs, and
that sort<br>
of thing, take my word for it, it's better than fighting the
French, any<br>
day."</p>

<p>"Well, Charley, it certainly did look quite awkward enough the
other day<br>
towards three o'clock, when the Legion fell back before that
French column,<br>
and broke the Guards behind them."</p>

<p>"Yes, you're quite right; but I think every one felt that the
confusion was<br>
but momentary,&mdash;the gallant Forty-eighth was up in an
instant."</p>

<p>"Faith, I can answer for their alacrity!" said the doctor "I
was making my<br>
way to the rear with all convenient despatch, when an
aide-de-camp called<br>
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Cavalry coming! Take care, Forty-eighth!'</p>

<p>"'Left face, wheel! Fall in there, fall in there!' I heard on
every side,<br>
and soon found myself standing in a square, with Sir Arthur
himself and<br>
Hill and the rest of them all around me.</p>

<p>"'Steady, men! Steady, now!' said Hill, as he rode around the
ranks, while<br>
we saw an awful column of cuirassiers forming on the rising
ground to our<br>
left.</p>

<p>"'Here they come!' said Sir Arthur, as the French came
powdering along,<br>
making the very earth tremble beneath them.</p>

<p>"My first thought was, 'The devils are mad, and they'll ride
down into us,<br>
before they know they're kilt!' And sure enough, smash into our
first rank<br>
they pitched, sabring and cutting all before them; when at last
the word<br>
'Fire!' was given, and the whole head of the column broke like a
shell, and<br>
rolled horse over man on the earth.</p>

<p>"'Very well done! very well, indeed!' said Sir Arthur, turning
as coolly<br>
round to me as if he was asking for more gravy.</p>

<p>"'Mighty well done!' said I, in reply; and resolving not to be
outdone in<br>
coolness, I pulled out my snuff-box and offered him a pinch,
saying, 'The<br>
real thing, Sir Arthur; our own countryman,&mdash;blackguard.'</p>

<p>"He gave a little grim kind of a smile, took a pinch, and then
called<br>
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Let Sherbroke advance!' while turning again towards me, he
said, 'Where<br>
are your people, Colonel?'</p>

<p>"'Colonel!' thought I; 'is it possible he's going to promote
me?' But<br>
before I could answer, he was talking to another. Meanwhile Hill
came up,<br>
and looking at me steadily, burst out with,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Why the devil are you here, sir? Why ain't you at the
rear?'</p>

<p>"'Upon my conscience,' said I, 'that's the very thing I'm
puzzling myself<br>
about this minute! But if you think it's pride in me, you're
greatly<br>
mistaken, for I'd rather the greatest scoundrel in Dublin was
kicking me<br>
down Sackville Street, than be here now!'</p>

<p>"You'd think it was fun I was making, if you heard how they
all laughed,<br>
Hill and Cameron and the others louder than any.</p>

<p>"'Who is he?' said Sir Arthur, quickly.</p>

<p>"'Dr. Quill, surgeon of the Thirty-third, where I exchanged,
to be near my<br>
brother, sir, in the Thirty-fourth.'</p>

<p>"'A doctor,&mdash;a surgeon! That fellow a surgeon! Damn him, I
took him for<br>
Colonel Grosvenor! I say, Gordon, these medical officers must be
docked of<br>
their fine feathers, there's no knowing them from the
staff,&mdash;look to that<br>
in the next general order.'</p>

<p>"And sure enough they left us bare and naked the next morning;
and if the<br>
French sharpshooters pick us down now, devil mend them for
wasting powder,<br>
for if they look in the orderly books, they'll find their
mistake."</p>

<p>"Ah, Maurice, Maurice!" said Shaugh, with a sigh, "you'll
never<br>
improve,&mdash;you'll never improve!"</p>

<p>"Why the devil would I?" said he. "Ain't I at the top of
my<br>
profession&mdash;full surgeon&mdash;with nothing to expect, nothing to hope
for? Oh,<br>
if I had only remained in the light company, what wouldn't I be
now?"</p>

<p>"Then you were not always a doctor?" said I.</p>

<p>"Upon my conscience, I wasn't," said he. "When Shaugh knew me
first, I was<br>
the Adonis of the Roscommon militia, with more heiresses in my
list than<br>
any man in the regiment; but Shaugh and myself were always
unlucky."</p>

<p>"Poor Mrs. Rogers!" said the major, pathetically, drinking off
his glass<br>
and heaving a profound sigh.</p>

<p>"Ah, the darling!" said the doctor. "If it wasn't for a jug of
punch that<br>
lay on the hall table, our fortune in life would be very
different."</p>

<p>"True for you, Maurice!" quoth O'Shaughnessy.</p>

<p>"I should like much to hear that story," said I, pushing the
jug briskly<br>
round.</p>

<p>"He'll tell it you," said O'Shaughnessy, lighting his cigar,
and leaning<br>
pensively back against a tree,&mdash;"he'll tell it you."</p>

<p>"I will, with pleasure," said Maurice. "Let Mr. Free,
meantime, amuse<br>
himself with the punch-bowl, and I'll relate it."</p>

<p>END OF VOLUME I.</p>


<br><br><br><br><br>


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