summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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      Charles O'malley, by Charles Lever.
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  <body>
    <h1>
      CHARLES O'MALLEY
    </h1>
    <h2>
      The Irish Dragoon
    </h2>
    <h2>
      BY CHARLES LEVER.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume
1 (of 2), by Charles Lever

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Title: Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 1 (of 2)

Author: Charles Lever

Release Date: August 13, 2004 [EBook #8577]
Last Updated: November 6, 2012

Language: English

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</pre>
    <h1>
      CHARLES O'MALLEY
    </h1>
    <h2>
      The Irish Dragoon
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      BY CHARLES LEVER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      IN TWO VOLUMES.
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Volume I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="The Sunk Fence " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A WORD OF EXPLANATION. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CHARLES O'MALLEY. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XXLIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LXIX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER LXIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER LXV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0066"> CHAPTER LXVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0067"> CHAPTER LXVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /><br /> <br /><br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>ILLUSTRATIONS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0001"> The Sunk Fence </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0002"> Mr. Blake's Dressing Room. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0003"> The Election. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0004"> The Rescue. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0005"> Mr. Crow Well Plucked. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0006"> Frank Webber at his Studies. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0007"> Miss Judy Macan. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0008"> Charles Pops the Question. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0009"> The Adjutant's After Dinner Ride. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0010"> The Rival Flunkies. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0011"> Major Monsoon and Donna Maria. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0012"> The Salutation. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0013"> The Skirmish. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0014"> A Touch at Leap-frog With Napoleon. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0015"> Major Monsoon Trying to Charge. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0016"> Mr. Free's Song. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkimage-0017"> The Coat of Mail. </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

    TO THE

    MOST NOBLE THE MARQUESS OF DOURO, M.P., D.C.L., ETC., ETC.


    MY DEAR LORD,&mdash;

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

    Believe me, my dear Lord, with every respect and esteem,

    Yours, most sincerely,

    THE AUTHOR.

    BRUSSELS, November, 1841.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A WORD OF EXPLANATION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      KIND PUBLIC,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Having so lately taken my leave of the stage, in a farewell benefit, it is
      but fitting that I should explain the circumstances which once more bring
      me before you,&mdash;that I may not appear intrusive, where I have met
      with but too much indulgence.
    </p>
    <p>
      A blushing <i>debutant</i>&mdash;<i>entre nous</i>, the most impudent
      Irishman that ever swaggered down Sackville Street&mdash;has requested me
      to present him to your acquaintance. He has every ambition to be a
      favorite with you; but 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 slight grounds, and with what slender pretension, <i>my</i>
      Confessions have met with favor at the hands of the press and the public;
      and the idea has occurred to him to indite his <i>own</i>. Had his
      determination ended here, I should have nothing to object to; but
      unfortunately, he expects me to become his editor, and in some sort
      responsible for the faults of his production. I have wasted much eloquence
      and more breath in assuring him that I was no tried favorite of the
      public, who dared take liberties with them; that the small rag of
      reputation I enjoyed, was a very scanty covering for my own nakedness;
      that the plank which swam with one, would most inevitably sink with two;
      and lastly, that the indulgence so often bestowed upon a first effort is
      as frequently converted into censure on the older offender. My arguments
      have, however, totally failed, and he remains obdurate and unmoved. Under
      these circumstances I have yielded; and as, happily for me, the short and
      pithy direction to the river Thames, in the Critic, "to keep between its
      banks," has been imitated by my friend, I find all that is required of me
      is to write my name upon the title and go in 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
      remain unpaid, you would kindly bear in mind that your remedy lies against
      the drawer of the bill and not against its mere humble indorser,
    </p>
    <p>
      HARRY LORREQUER
    </p>
    <p>
      BRUSSELS, March, 1840.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The success of Harry Lorrequer was the reason for writing Charles
      O'Malley. That I myself was in no wise prepared for the favor the public
      bestowed on, my first attempt is easily enough understood. The ease with
      which I strung my stories together,&mdash;and in reality the Confessions
      of Harry Lorrequer are little other than a note-book of absurd and
      laughable incidents,&mdash;led me to believe that I could draw on this
      vein of composition without any limit whatever. I felt, or thought I felt,
      an inexhaustible store of fun and buoyancy within me, and I began to have
      a misty, half-confused impression that Englishmen generally labored under
      a sad-colored temperament, took depressing views of life, and were
      proportionately grateful to any one who would rally them even passingly
      out of their despondency, and give them a 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,
      very low with fortune, and the success of a new venture was pretty much as
      eventful to me as the turn of the right color at <i>rouge-et-noir</i>. At
      the same time I had then an amount of spring in my temperament, and a
      power of enjoying life which I can honestly say I never found surpassed.
      The world had for me all the interest of an admirable comedy, in which the
      part allotted myself, if not a high or a foreground one, was eminently
      suited to my taste, and brought me, besides, sufficiently often on the
      stage to enable me to follow all the fortunes of the piece. Brussels,
      where I was then living, was adorned at the period by a most agreeable
      English society. Some leaders of the fashionable world of London had come
      there to refit and recruit, both in body and estate. There were several
      pleasant and a great number of pretty people among them; and so far as I
      could judge, the fashionable dramas of Belgrave Square and its vicinity
      were being performed in the Rue Royale and the Boulevard de Waterloo with
      very considerable success. There were dinners, balls, déjeûners, and
      picnics in the Bois de Cambre, excursions to Waterloo, and select little
      parties to Bois-fort,&mdash;a charming little resort in the forest whose
      intense cockneyism became perfectly inoffensive as being in a foreign
      land, and remote from the invasion of home-bred vulgarity. I mention all
      these things to show the adjuncts by which I was aided, and the rattle of
      gayety by which I was, as it were, "accompanied," when I next tried my
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The soldier element tinctured strongly our society, and I will say most
      agreeably. Among those whom I remember best were several old Peninsulars.
      Lord Combermere was of this number, and another of our set was an officer
      who accompanied, if indeed he did not command, the first boat party who
      crossed the Douro. It is needless to say how I cultivated a society so
      full of all the storied details I was eager to obtain, and how generously
      disposed were they to give me all the information I needed. On topography
      especially were they valuable to me, and with such good result that I have
      been more than once complimented on the accuracy of my descriptions of
      places which I have never seen and whose features I have derived entirely
      from the narratives of my friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, therefore, my publishers asked me could I write a story in the
      Lorrequer vein, in which active service and military adventure could
      figure more prominently than mere civilian life, and where the
      achievements of a British army might form the staple of the narrative,&mdash;when
      this question was propounded me, I was ready to reply: Not one, but fifty.
      Do not mistake me, and suppose that any overweening confidence in my
      literary powers would have emboldened me to make this reply; my whole
      strength lay in the fact that I could not recognize anything like literary
      effort in the matter. If the world would only condescend to read that
      which I wrote precisely as I was in the habit of talking, nothing could be
      easier than for me to occupy them. Not alone was it very easy to me, but
      it was intensely interesting and amusing to myself, to be so engaged.
    </p>
    <p>
      The success of Harry Lorrequer had been freely wafted across the German
      ocean, but even in its mildest accents it was very intoxicating incense to
      me; and I set to work on my second book with a thrill of hope as regards
      the world's favor which&mdash;and it is no small thing to say it&mdash;I
      can yet recall.
    </p>
    <p>
      I can recall, too, and I am afraid more vividly still, some of the
      difficulties of my task when I endeavored to form anything like an
      accurate or precise idea of some campaigning incident or some passage of
      arms from the narratives of two distinct and separate "eye-witnesses."
      What mistrust I conceived for all eye-witnesses from my own brief
      experience of their testimonies! What an impulse did it lend me to study
      the nature and the temperament of narrator, as indicative of the peculiar
      coloring he might lend his narrative; and how it taught me to know the
      force of the French epigram that has declared how it was entirely the
      alternating popularity of 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
      I might, the wheat from the chaff, I was in a measure training myself for
      what, without my then knowing it, was to become my career in life. This
      was not therefore altogether without a certain degree of labor, but so
      light and pleasant withal, so full of picturesque peeps at character and
      humorous views of human nature, that it would be the very rankest
      ingratitude of me if I did not own that I gained all my earlier
      experiences of the world in very pleasant company,&mdash;highly enjoyable
      at the time, and with matter for charming souvenirs long after.
    </p>
    <p>
      That certain traits of my acquaintances found themselves embodied in some
      of the characters of this story I do not to deny. The principal of natural
      selection adapts itself to novels as to Nature, and it would have demanded
      an effort above my strength to have disabused myself at the desk of all
      the impressions of the dinner-table, and to have forgotten features which
      interested or amused me.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the personages of my tale I drew, however, with very little aid
      from fancy. I would go so far as to say that I took him from the life, if
      my memory did not confront me with the lamentable inferiority of my
      picture to the great original it was meant to portray.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the exception of the quality of courage, I never met a man who
      contained within himself so many of the traits of Falstaff as the
      individual who furnished me with Major Monsoon. But the major&mdash;I must
      call him so, though that rank was far beneath his own&mdash;was a man of
      unquestionable bravery. His powers as a story-teller were to my thinking
      unrivalled; the peculiar reflections on life which he would passingly
      introduce, the wise apothegms, were after a morality essentially of his
      own invention. Then he would indulge in the unsparing exhibition of
      himself in situations such as other men would never have confessed to, all
      blended up with a racy enjoyment of life, dashed occasionally with sorrow
      that our tenure of it was short of patriarchal. All these, accompanied by
      a face redolent of intense humor, and a voice whose modulations were
      managed with the skill of a consummate artist,&mdash;all these, I say,
      were above me to convey; nor indeed as I re-read any of the adventures in
      which he figures, am I other than ashamed at the weakness of my drawing
      and the poverty of my coloring.
    </p>
    <p>
      That I had a better claim to personify him than is always the lot of a
      novelist; that I possessed, so to say, a vested interest in his life and
      adventures,&mdash;I will relate a little incident in proof; and my
      accuracy, if 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 for
      the bathing, during the summer of 1840. The city was comparatively empty,&mdash;all
      the so-called society being absent at the various spas or baths of
      Germany. One member of the British legation, who remained at his post to
      represent the mission, and myself, making common cause of our desolation
      and ennui, spent much of our time together, and dined <i>tête-à-tête</i>
      every day.
    </p>
    <p>
      It chanced that one evening, as we were hastening through the park on our
      way to dinner, we espied the major&mdash;for as major I must speak of him&mdash;lounging
      along with that half-careless, half-observant air we had both of us
      remarked as indicating a desire to be somebody's, anybody's guest, rather
      than surrender himself to the homeliness of domestic fare.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's that confounded old Monsoon," cried my diplomatic friend. "It's
      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
      humoristic side of the major's character, was not always in the vein to
      enjoy it; and when so indisposed he could invest the object of his dislike
      with something little short of antipathy. "Promise me," said he, as
      Monsoon came towards us,&mdash;"promise me, you'll not ask him to dinner."
      Before I could make any reply, the major was shaking a hand of either of
      us, and rapturously expatiating over his good luck at meeting us. "Mrs.
      M.," said he, "has got a dreary party of old ladies to dine with her, and
      I have come out here to find some pleasant fellow to join me, and take our
      mutton-chop together."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We're behind our time, Major," said my friend, "sorry to leave you so
      abruptly, but must push on. Eh, Lorrequer," added he, to evoke
      corroboration on my part.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Harry says nothing of the kind," replied Monsoon, "he says, or he's going
      to say, 'Major, I have a nice bit of dinner waiting for me at home, enough
      for two, will feed three, or if there be a short-coming, nothing easier
      than to eke out the deficiency by another bottle of Moulton; come along
      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
      within his, and away we went. For a moment my friend tried to get free and
      leave me, but I held him fast and carried him along in spite of himself.
      He was, however, so chagrined and provoked that till the moment we reached
      my door he never uttered a word, nor paid the slightest attention to
      Monsoon, who talked away in a vein that occasionally made gravity all but
      impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our dinner proceeded drearily enough, the diplomatist's stiffness never
      relaxed for a moment, and my own awkwardness damped all my attempts at
      conversation. Not so, however, Monsoon, he ate heartily, approved of
      everything, and pronounced my wine to be exquisite. He gave us a perfect
      discourse on sherry and Spanish wines in general, told us the secret of
      the Amontillado flavor, and explained that process of browning by boiling
      down wine which some are so fond of in England. At last, seeing perhaps
      that the protection had little charm for us, with his accustomed tact, he
      diverged into anecdote. "I was once fortunate enough," said he, "to fall
      upon some of that choice sherry from the St. Lucas Luentas which is always
      reserved for royalty. It was a pale wine, delicious in the drinking, and
      leaving no more flavor in the mouth than a faint dryness that seemed to
      say, another glass. Shall I tell you how I came by it?" And scarcely
      pausing for reply, he told the story of having robbed his own convoy, and
      stolen the wine he was in charge of for safe conveyance.
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish I could give any, even the weakest idea of how he narrated that
      incident,&mdash;the struggle that he portrayed between duty and
      temptation, and the apologetic tone of his voice in which he explained
      that the frame of mind that succeeds to any yielding to seductive
      influences, is often, in the main, more profitable to a man than is the
      vain-glorious sense of having resisted a temptation. "Meekness is the
      mother of all the virtues," said he, "and there is no being meek without
      frailty." The story, told as he told it, was too much for the
      diplomatist's gravity, he resisted all signs of attention as long as he
      was able, and at last fairly roared out with laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as I myself recovered from the effects of his drollery, I said,
      "Major, I have a proposition to make you. Let me tell the story in print,
      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
      me and my whole life, every adventure that ever befell me, ay, and if you
      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 high contracting parties must know what they give and what they
      receive, I'll draw out the treaty."
    </p>
    <p>
      He did so at full length on a sheet of that solemn blue-tinted paper, so
      dedicated to despatch purposes; he duly set fourth the concession and the
      consideration. We each signed the document; he witnessed and sealed it;
      and Monsoon pocketed my five napoleons, filling a bumper to any success
      the bargain might bring me, and of which I have never had reason to
      express deep disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      This document, along with my university degree, my commission in a militia
      regiment, and a vast amount of letters very interesting to me, was seized
      by the Austrian authorities on the way from Como to Florence, in the
      August of 1847, being deemed part of a treasonable correspondence,&mdash;probably
      purposely allegorical in form,&mdash;and never restored to me. I fairly
      own that I'd give all the rest willingly to repossess myself of the
      Monsoon treaty, not a little for the sake of that quaint old autograph,
      faintly shaken by the quiet laugh with which he wrote it.
    </p>
    <p>
      That I did not entirely fail in giving my major some faint resemblance to
      the great original from whom I copied him, I may mention that he was
      speedily recognized in print by the Marquis of Londonderry, the well-known
      Sir Charles Stuart of the Peninsular campaign. "I know that fellow well,"
      said he, "he once sent me a challenge, and I had to make him a very humble
      apology. The occasion was this: I had been out with a single aide-de-camp
      to make a reconnaissance in front of Victor's division; and to avoid
      attracting any notice, we covered over our uniform with two common gray
      overcoats which reached to the feet, and effectually concealed our rank as
      officers. Scarcely, however, had we topped a hill which commanded the view
      of the French, than a shower of shells flew over and around us. Amazed to
      think how we could have been so quickly noticed, I looked around me, and
      discovered, quite close in my rear, your friend Monsoon with what he
      called his staff,&mdash;a popinjay set of rascals dressed out in green and
      gold, and with more plumes and feathers than the general staff ever
      boasted. Carried away by momentary passion at the failure of my
      reconnaissance, I burst out with some insolent allusion to the harlequin
      assembly which had drawn the French fire upon us. Monsoon saluted me
      respectfully, and retired without a word; but I had scarcely reached my
      quarters when a 'friend' of his waited on me with a message, a very
      categorical message it was, too, 'it must be a meeting or an ample
      apology.' I made the apology, a most full one, for the major was right,
      and I had not a fraction of reason to sustain me in my 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
      other adventures whose exact veracity I was rather disposed to question,
      and did not therefore accord it all the faith that was its due; and I
      admit that the accidental corroboration of this one event very often
      served to puzzle me afterwards, when I listened to stories in which the
      major seemed a second Munchausen, but might, like in this of the duel,
      have been among the truest and most matter-of-fact of historians. May the
      reader be not 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
      personal experience it always was,&mdash;he was himself more amused by the
      credulity of the hearers, and the amount of interest he could excite in
      them, than were they by the story. He possessed the true narrative gusto,
      and there was a marvellous instinct in the way in which he would vary a
      tale to suit the tastes of an audience; while his moralizings were almost
      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
      delivered him into my hands, and dining with me two or three days a week,
      he never lapsed into any allusion to his appearance in print; and the
      story had been already some weeks published before he asked me to lend him
      "that 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
      earliest friends, my chum in college, and in the very chambers where I
      have located Charles O'Malley, in Old Trinity. He was a man of the highest
      order of abilities, and with a memory that never forgot, but ruined and
      run to seed by the idleness that came of a discursive, uncertain
      temperament. Capable of anything, he spent his youth in follies and
      eccentricities; every one of which, however, gave indications of a mind
      inexhaustible in resources, and abounding in devices and contrivances that
      none other but himself would have thought of. Poor fellow, he died young;
      and perhaps it is better it should have been so. Had he lived to a later
      day, he would most probably have been found a foremost leader of
      Fenianism; and from what I knew of him, I can say he would have been a
      more dangerous enemy to English rule than any of those dealers in the
      petty larceny of rebellion we have lately seen among us.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said that of Mickey Free I had not one but one thousand types.
      Indeed, I am not quite sure that in my last visit to Dublin, I did not
      chance on a living specimen of the "Free" family, much readier in
      repartée, quicker with an apropos, and droller in illustration than my own
      Mickey. This fellow was "boots" at a great hotel in Sackville Street; and
      I owe him more amusement and some heartier laughs than it has been always
      my fortune to enjoy in a party of wits. His criticisms on my sketches of
      Irish character were about the shrewdest and the best I ever listened to;
      and that I am not bribed to this by any flattery, I may remark that they
      were more often severe than complimentary, and that he hit every blunder
      of image, every mistake in figure, of my peasant characters, with an
      acuteness and correctness which made me very grateful to know that his
      daily 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
      that this story was the means of according me a more heartfelt glow of
      satisfaction, a more gratifying sense of pride, than anything I ever have
      or ever shall write, and in this wise. My brother, at that time the rector
      of an Irish parish, once forwarded to me a letter from a lady unknown to
      him, but who had heard he was the brother of "Harry Lorrequer," and who
      addressed him not knowing where a letter might be directed to myself. The
      letter was the grateful expression of a mother, who said, "I am the widow
      of a field officer, and with an only son, for whom I obtained a
      presentation to Woolwich; but seeing in my boy's nature certain traits of
      nervousness and timidity which induced me to hesitate on embarking him in
      the career of a soldier, I became very unhappy and uncertain which course
      to decide on.
    </p>
    <p>
      "While in this state of uncertainty, I chanced to make him a birthday
      present of 'Charles O'Malley,' the reading of which seemed to act like a
      charm on his whole character, inspiring him with a passion for movement
      and adventure, and spiriting him to an eager desire for a military life.
      Seeing that this was no passing enthusiasm, but a decided and determined
      bent, I accepted the cadetship for him; and his career has been not alone
      distinguished as a student, but one which has marked him out for an almost
      hare-brained courage, and for a dash and heroism that give high promise
      for his future.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank your brother for me," wrote she, "a mother's thanks for the welfare
      of an only son; and say how I wish that my best wishes for him and his
      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
      recording of this incident. It gave me an intense pleasure when I heard
      it; and now, as I look back on it, it invests this story for myself with
      an 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
      sincere gratitude for the favor the public still continues to bestow on
      me,&mdash;a favor which probably associates the memory of this book with
      whatever I have since done successfully, and compels me to remember that
      to the popularity of "Charles O'Malley" I am indebted for a great share of
      that kindliness in criticism, and that geniality in judgment, which&mdash;for
      more than a quarter of a century&mdash;my countrymen have graciously
      bestowed on their faithful friend and servant,
    </p>
    <p>
      CHARLES LEVER. TRIESTE, 1872. <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
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    <h1>
      CHARLES O'MALLEY.
    </h1>
    <h3>
      THE IRISH DRAGOON.
    </h3>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      DALY'S CLUB-HOUSE.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rain was dashing in torrents against the window-panes, and the wind
      sweeping in heavy and fitful gusts along the dreary and deserted streets,
      as a party of three persons sat over their wine, in that stately old pile
      which once formed the resort of the Irish Members, in College Green,
      Dublin, and went by the name of Daly's Club-House. The clatter of falling
      tiles and chimney-pots, the jarring of the window-frames, and howling of
      the storm without seemed little to affect the spirits of those within as
      they drew closer to a blazing fire before which stood a small table
      covered with the remains of a dessert, and an abundant supply of bottles,
      whose characteristic length of neck indicated the rarest wines of France
      and Germany; while the portly magnum of claret&mdash;the wine <i>par
      excellence</i> of every Irish gentleman of the day&mdash;passed rapidly
      from hand to hand, the conversation did not languish, and many a deep and
      hearty laugh followed the stories which every now and then were told, as
      some reminiscence of 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
      those of the mirth and merriment around; for in the midst of all he would
      turn suddenly from the others, and devote himself to a number of scattered
      sheets of paper, upon which he had written some lines, but whose crossed
      and blotted sentences attested how little success had waited upon his
      literary labors. This individual was a short, plethoric-looking,
      white-haired man of about fifty, with a deep, round voice, and a
      chuckling, smothering laugh, which, whenever he indulged not only shook
      his own ample person, but generally created a petty earthquake on every
      side of him. For the present, I shall not stop to particularize him more
      closely; but when I add that the person in question was a well-known
      member of the Irish House of Commons, whose acute understanding and
      practical good sense were veiled under an affected and well-dissembled
      habit of blundering that did far more for his party than the most violent
      and pointed attacks of his more accurate associates, some of my readers
      may anticipate me in pronouncing him to be Sir Harry Boyle. Upon his left
      sat a figure the most unlike him possible. He was a tall, thin, bony man,
      with a bolt-upright air and a most saturnine expression; his eyes were
      covered by a deep green shade, which fell far over his face, but failed to
      conceal a blue scar that crossing his cheek ended in the angle of his
      mouth, and imparted to that feature, when he spoke, an apparently abortive
      attempt to extend towards his eyebrow; his upper lip was covered with a
      grizzly and ill-trimmed mustache, which added much to the ferocity of his
      look, while a thin and pointed beard on his chin gave an apparent length
      to the whole face that completed its rueful character. His dress was a
      single-breasted, tightly buttoned frock, in one button-hole of which a
      yellow ribbon was fastened, the decoration of a foreign service, which
      conferred upon its wearer the title of count; and though Billy Considine,
      as he was familiarly called by his friends, was a thorough Irishman in all
      his feelings and affections, yet he had no objection to the designation he
      had gained in the Austrian army. The Count was certainly no beauty, but
      somehow, very few men of his day had a fancy for telling him so. A
      deadlier hand and a steadier eye never covered his man in the Phoenix; and
      though he never had a seat in the House, he was always regarded as one of
      the government party, who more than once had damped the ardor of an
      opposition member by the very significant threat of "setting Billy at
      him." The third figure of the group was a large, powerfully built, and
      handsome man, older than either of the others, but not betraying in his
      voice or carriage any touch of time. He was attired in the green coat and
      buff vest which formed the livery of the club; and in his tall, ample
      forehead, clear, well-set eye, and still handsome mouth, bore evidence
      that no great flattery was necessary at the time which called Godfrey
      O'Malley the handsomest man in Ireland.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my conscience," said Sir Harry, throwing down his pen with an air of
      ill-temper, "I can make nothing of it! I have got into such an infernal
      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
      succeed, I'm sure Billy and I have no chance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What have you written? Let us see," said Considine, drawing the paper
      towards him, and holding it to the light. "Why, what the devil is all
      this? You have made him 'drop down dead after dinner of a lingering
      illness 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
      credible, you talk of his 'Bill for the Better Recovery of Small Debts.'
      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.
      'Any one who questions the above statement is politely requested to call
      on Mr. Considine, 16 Kildare Street, who will feel happy to afford him
      every 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
      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
      defamation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see I'll never get down to Galway at this rate," said O'Malley; "and as
      the new election takes place on Tuesday week, time presses. There are more
      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
      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
      say, 'You are anxious to close accounts, as your death has just taken
      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,
      straightforward paragraph about my death; we'll have it in Falkner's paper
      to-morrow. On Friday the funeral can take place, and, with the blessing o'
      God, I'll come to life on Saturday at Athlone, in time to canvass the
      market."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think it wouldn't be bad if your ghost were to appear to old Timins the
      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
      the paper."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stay a little," said Sir Harry, musing; "it just strikes me that if ever
      the matter gets out I may be in some confounded scrape. Who knows if it is
      not a breach of privilege to report the death of a member? And to tell you
      truth, I dread the Sergeant and the Speaker's warrant with a very lively
      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
      surely must have been abroad at the time. But it's not too late to tell it
      yet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, it's about two years since old Townsend brought in his Enlistment
      Bill, and the whole country was scoured for all our voters, who were
      scattered here and there, never anticipating another call of the House,
      and supposing that the session was just over. Among others, up came our
      friend Harry, here, and the night he arrived they made him a 'Monk of the
      Screw,' and very soon made him forget his senatorial dignities. On the
      evening after his reaching town, the bill was brought in, and at two in
      the morning the division took place,&mdash;a vote was of too much
      consequence not to look after it closely,&mdash;and a Castle messenger was
      in waiting in Exchequer Street, who, when the debate was closing, put
      Harry, with three others, into a coach, and brought them down to the
      House. Unfortunately, however, they mistook their friends, voted against
      the bill, and amidst the loudest cheering of the opposition, the
      government party were defeated. The rage of the ministers knew no bounds,
      and looks of defiance and even threats were exchanged between the
      ministers and the deserters. Amidst all this poor Harry fell fast asleep
      and dreamed that he was once more in Exchequer Street, presiding among the
      monks, and mixing another tumbler. At length he awoke and looked about
      him. The clerk was just at the instant reading out, in his usual routine
      manner, a clause of the new bill, and the remainder of the House was in
      dead silence. Harry looked again around on every side, wondering where was
      the hot water, and what had become of the whiskey bottle, and above all,
      why the company were so extremely dull and ungenial. At length, with a
      half-shake, he roused up a little, and giving a look of unequivocal
      contempt on every side, called out, 'Upon my soul, you're pleasant
      companions; but I'll give you a chant to enliven you!' So saying, he
      cleared his throat with a couple of short coughs, and struck up, with the
      voice of a Stentor, the following verse of a popular ballad:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    'And they nibbled away, both night and day,
      Like mice in a round of Glo'ster;
    Great rogues they were all, both great and small,
      From Flood to Leslie Foster.
           Great rogues all.
</pre>
    <p>
      Chorus, boys!' If he was not joined by the voices of his friends in the
      song, it was probably because such a roar of laughing never was heard
      since the walls were roofed over. The whole House rose in a mass, and my
      friend Harry was hurried over the benches by the sergeant-at-arms, and
      left for three weeks in Newgate to practise his melody."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All true," said Sir Harry; "and worse luck to them for not liking music.
      But come, now, will this do? 'It is our melancholy duty to announce the
      death of Godfrey O'Malley, Esq., late member for the county of Galway,
      which took place on Friday evening, at Daly's Club-House. This esteemed
      gentleman's family&mdash;one of the oldest in Ireland, and among whom it
      was hereditary not to have any children&mdash;'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a burst of laughter from Considine and O'Malley interrupted the
      reader, who with the greatest difficulty could be persuaded that he was
      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
      now turn our attention to other matters."
    </p>
    <p>
      A fresh magnum was called for, and over its inspiring contents all the
      details of the funeral were planned; and as the clock struck four the
      party separated for the <i>night</i>, well satisfied with the result of
      their labors.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ESCAPE.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the dissolution of Parliament was announced the following morning in
      Dublin, its interest in certain circles was manifestly increased by the
      fact that Godfrey O'Malley was at last open to arrest; for as in olden
      times certain gifted individuals possessed some happy immunity against
      death by fire or sword, so the worthy O'Malley seemed to enjoy a no less
      valuable privilege, and for many a year had passed among the myrmidons of
      the law as writ-proof. Now, however, the charm seemed to have yielded; and
      pretty much with the same feeling as a storming party may be supposed to
      experience on the day that a breach is reported as practicable, did the
      honest attorneys retained in the various suits against him rally round
      each other that morning in the Four Courts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bonds, mortgages, post-obits, promissory notes&mdash;in fact, every
      imaginable species of invention for raising the O'Malley exchequer for the
      preceding thirty years&mdash;were handed about on all sides, suggesting to
      the mind of an uninterested observer the notion that had the aforesaid
      O'Malley been an independent and absolute monarch, instead of merely being
      the member for Galway, the kingdom over whose destinies he had been called
      to preside would have suffered not a little from a depreciated currency
      and an extravagant issue of paper. Be that as it might, one thing was
      clear,&mdash;the whole estates of the family could not possibly pay one
      fourth of the debt; and the only question was one which occasionally
      arises at a scanty dinner on a mail-coach road,&mdash;who was to be the
      lucky individual to carve the 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
      gentlemen who should first pounce upon the victim; and when the skill of
      their caste is taken into consideration, who will doubt that every
      feasible expedient for securing him was resorted to? While writs were
      struck against him in Dublin, emissaries were despatched to the various
      surrounding counties to procure others in the event of his escape. <i>Ne
      exeats</i> were sworn, and water-bailiffs engaged to follow him on the
      high seas; and as the great Nassau balloon did not exist in those days, no
      imaginable mode of escape appeared possible, and bets were offered at long
      odds that within twenty-four hours the late member would be enjoying his
      <i>otium cum dignitate</i> in his Majesty's jail of Newgate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Expectation was at the highest, confidence hourly increasing, success all
      but certain, when in the midst of all this high-bounding hope the dreadful
      rumor spread that O'Malley was no more. One had seen it just five minutes
      before in the evening edition of Falkner's paper; another heard it in the
      courts; a third overheard the Chief-Justice stating it to the Master of
      the Rolls; and lastly, a breathless witness arrived from College Green
      with the news that Daly's Club-House was shut up, and the shutters closed.
      To describe the consternation the intelligence caused on every side is
      impossible; nothing in history equals it,&mdash;except, perhaps, the
      entrance of the French army into Moscow, deserted and forsaken by its
      former inhabitants. While terror and dismay, therefore, spread amidst that
      wide and respectable body who formed O'Malley's creditors, the
      preparations for his funeral were going on with every rapidity. Relays of
      horses were ordered at every stage of the journey, and it was announced
      that, in testimony of his worth, a large party of his friends were to
      accompany his remains to Portumna Abbey,&mdash;a test much more indicative
      of resistance in the event of any attempt to arrest the body, than of
      anything like reverence for their departed friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the state of matters in Dublin when a letter reached me one
      morning at O'Malley Castle, whose contents will at once explain the
      writer's intention, and also serve to introduce my unworthy self to my
      reader. It ran thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                  DALY'S, about eight in the evening.
    Dear Charley,&mdash;Your uncle Godfrey, whose debts (God pardon
    him!) are more numerous than the hairs of his wig, was obliged to
    die here last night. We did the thing for him completely; and all
    doubts as to the reality of the event are silenced by the
    circumstantial detail of the newspaper, "that he was confined six
    weeks to his bed from a cold he caught, ten days ago, while on guard."
    Repeat this; for it is better we had all the same story till he
    comes to life again, which, may be, will not take place before
    Tuesday or Wednesday. At the same time, canvass the county for him,
    and say he'll be with his friends next week, and up in Woodford and
    the Scariff barony. Say he died a true Catholic; it will serve him on
    the hustings. Meet us in Athlone on Saturday, and bring your uncle's
    mare with you. He says he'd rather ride home. And tell Father Mac
    Shane, to have a bit of dinner ready about four o'clock, for the corpse
    can get nothing after he leaves Mountmellick. No more now, from
    Yours ever,
    HARRY BOYLE

    To CHARLES O'MALLEY, Esq.,
    O'Malley Castle, Galway.
</pre>
    <p>
      When this not over-clear document reached me I was the sole inhabitant of
      O'Malley Castle,&mdash;a very ruinous pile of incongruous masonry, that
      stood in a wild and dreary part of the county of Galway, bordering on the
      Shannon. On every side stretched the property of my uncle, or at least
      what had once been so; and indeed, so numerous were its present claimants
      that he would have been a subtle lawyer who could have pronounced upon the
      rightful owner. The demesne around the castle contained some well-grown
      and handsome timber, and as the soil was undulating and fertile, presented
      many features of beauty; beyond it, all was sterile, bleak, and barren.
      Long tracts of brown heath-clad mountain or not less unprofitable valleys
      of tall and waving fern were all that the eye could discern, except where
      the broad Shannon, expanding into a tranquil and glassy lake, lay still
      and motionless beneath the dark mountains, a few islands, with some ruined
      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,
      at the age of seventeen, quite unconscious that the world contained aught
      fairer and brighter than that gloomy valley with its rugged frame of
      mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      When a mere child, I was left an orphan to the care of my worthy uncle. My
      father, whose extravagance had well sustained the family reputation, had
      squandered a large and handsome property in contesting elections for his
      native county, and in keeping up that system of unlimited hospitality for
      which Ireland in general, and Galway more especially, was renowned. The
      result was, as might be expected, ruin and beggary. He died, leaving every
      one of his estates encumbered with heavy debts, and the only legacy he
      left to his brother was a boy four years of age, entreating him with his
      last breath, "Be anything you like to him, Godfrey, but a father, or at
      least such a one as I have proved."
    </p>
    <p>
      Godfrey O'Malley some short time previous had lost his wife, and when this
      new trust was committed to him he resolved never to remarry, but to rear
      me up as his own child and the inheritor of his estates. How weighty and
      onerous an obligation this latter might prove, the reader can form some
      idea. The intention was, however, a kind one; and to do my uncle justice,
      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
      country gentleman, as he regarded that character,&mdash;namely, I rode
      boldly with fox-hounds; I was about the best shot within twenty miles of
      us; I could swim the Shannon at Holy Island; I drove four-in-hand better
      than the coachman himself; and from finding a hare to hooking a salmon, my
      equal could not be found from Killaloe to Banagher. These were the staple
      of my endowments. Besides which, the parish priest had taught me a little
      Latin, a little French, a little geometry, and a great deal of the life
      and opinions of Saint Jago, who presided over a holy well in the
      neighborhood, and was held in very considerable repute.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I add to this portraiture of my accomplishments that I was nearly six
      feet high, with more than a common share of activity and strength for my
      years, and no inconsiderable portion of good looks, I have finished my
      sketch, and stand before my reader.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is now time I should return to Sir Harry's letter, which so completely
      bewildered me that, but for the assistance of Father Roach, I should have
      been totally unable to make out the writer's intentions. By his advice, I
      immediately set out for Athlone, where, when I arrived, I found my uncle
      addressing the mob from the top of the hearse, and recounting his
      miraculous escapes as a new claim upon their gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There was nothing else for it, boys; the Dublin people insisted on my
      being their member, and besieged the club-house. I refused; they
      threatened. I grew obstinate; they furious. 'I'll die first,' said I.
      '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 quarter past eight. There, read it for yourselves; there's the paper.
      Was waked and carried out, and here I am after all, ready to die in
      earnest for you, but never to desert you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The cheers here were deafening, and my uncle was carried through the
      market down to the mayor's house, who, being a friend of the opposite
      party, was complimented with three groans; then up the Mall to the chapel,
      beside which father Mac Shane resided. He was then suffered to touch the
      earth once more; when, having shaken hands with all of his constituency
      within reach, he entered the house, to partake of the kindest welcome and
      best reception the good priest could afford him.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle's progress homeward was a triumph. The real secret of his escape
      had somehow come out, and his popularity rose to a white heat. "An' it's
      little O'Malley cares for the law,&mdash;bad luck to it; it's himself can
      laugh at judge and jury. Arrest him? Nabocklish! Catch a weasel asleep!"
      etc. Such were the encomiums that greeted him as he passed on towards
      home; while shouts of joy and blazing bonfires attested that his success
      was regarded as a national triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The west has certainly its strong features of identity. Had my uncle
      possessed the claims of the immortal Howard; had he united in his person
      all the attributes which confer a lasting and an ennobling fame upon
      humanity,&mdash;he might have passed on unnoticed and unobserved; but for
      the man that had duped a judge and escaped the sheriff, nothing was
      sufficiently flattering to mark their approbation. The success of the
      exploit was twofold; the news spread far and near, and the very story
      canvassed the county better than Billy Davern himself, the Athlone
      attorney.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the prospect now before us; and however little my readers may
      sympathize with my taste, I must honestly avow that I looked forward to it
      with a most delighted feeling. O'Malley Castle was to be the centre of
      operations, and filled with my uncle's supporters; while I, a mere
      stripling, and usually treated as a boy, was to be intrusted with an
      important mission, and sent off to canvass a distant relation, with whom
      my uncle was not upon terms, and who might possibly be approachable by a
      younger branch of the family, with whom he had never any collision.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. BLAKE.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing but the exigency of the case could ever have persuaded my uncle to
      stoop to the humiliation of canvassing the individual to whom I was now
      about to proceed as envoy-extraordinary, with full powers to make any or
      every <i>amende</i>, provided only his interest and that of his followers
      should be thereby secured to the O'Malley cause. The evening before I set
      out was devoted to giving me all the necessary instructions how I was to
      proceed, and what difficulties I was to avoid.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say your uncle's in high feather with the government party," said Sir
      Harry, "and that he only votes against them as a <i>ruse de guerre</i>, as
      the French call it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Insist upon it that I am sure of the election without him; but that for
      family reasons he should not stand aloof from me; that people are talking
      of it in the country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And drop a hint," said Considine, "that O'Malley is greatly improved in
      his shooting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And don't get drunk too early in the evening, for Phil Blake has
      beautiful claret," said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And be sure you don't make love to the red-headed girls," added a third;
      "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
      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 us have in the supper."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only on the following morning, as the tandem came round to the
      door, that I began to feel the importance of my mission, and certain
      misgivings came over me as to my ability to fulfil it. Mr. Blake and his
      family, though estranged from my uncle for several years past, had been
      always most kind and good-natured to me; and although I could not, with
      propriety, have cultivated any close intimacy with them, I had every
      reason to suppose that they entertained towards me nothing but sentiments
      of good-will. The head of the family was a Galway squire of the oldest and
      most genuine stock, a great sportsman, a negligent farmer, and most
      careless father; he looked upon a fox as an infinitely more precious part
      of the creation than a French governess, and thought that riding well with
      hounds was a far better gift than all the learning of a Parson. His
      daughters were after his own heart,&mdash;the best-tempered,
      least-educated, most high-spirited, gay, dashing, ugly girls in the
      county, ready to ride over a four-foot paling without a saddle, and to
      dance the "Wind that shakes the barley" for four consecutive hours,
      against all the officers that their hard fate, and the Horse Guards, ever
      condemned to Galway.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mamma was only remarkable for her liking for whist, and her invariable
      good fortune thereat,&mdash;a circumstance the world were agreed in
      ascribing 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
      accomplishments were limited to selling spavined and broken-winded horses
      to the infantry officers, playing a safe game at billiards, and acting as
      jackal-general to his sisters at balls, providing them with a sufficiency
      of partners, and making a strong fight for a place at the supper-table for
      his mother. These fraternal and filial traits, more honored at home than
      abroad, had made Mr. Matthew Blake a rather well-known individual in the
      neighborhood where he lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though Mr. Blake's property was ample, and strange to say for his county,
      unencumbered, the whole air and appearance of his house and grounds
      betrayed anything rather than a sufficiency of means. The gate lodge was a
      miserable mud-hovel with a thatched and falling roof; the gate itself, a
      wooden contrivance, one half of which was boarded and the other railed;
      the avenue was covered with weeds, and deep with ruts; and the clumps of
      young plantation, which had been planted and fenced with care, were now
      open to the cattle, and either totally uprooted or denuded of their bark
      and dying. The lawn, a handsome one of some forty acres, had been devoted
      to an exercise-ground for training horses, and was cut up by their feet
      beyond all semblance of its original destination; and the house itself, a
      large and venerable structure of above a century old, displayed every
      variety of contrivance, as well as the usual one of glass, to exclude the
      weather. The hall-door hung by a single hinge, and required three persons
      each morning and evening to open and shut it; the remainder of the day it
      lay pensively open; the steps which led to it were broken and falling; and
      the whole aspect of things without was ruinous in the extreme. Within,
      matters were somewhat better, for though the furniture was old, and none
      of it clean, yet an appearance of comfort was evident; and the large
      grate, blazing with its pile of red-hot turf, the deep-cushioned chairs,
      the old black mahogany dinner-table, and the soft carpet, albeit deep with
      dust, were not to be despised on a winter's evening, after a hard day's
      run with the "Blazers." Here it was, however, that Mr. Philip Blake had
      dispensed his hospitalities for above fifty years, and his father before
      him; and here, with a retinue of servants as <i>gauches</i> and
      ill-ordered as all about them, was he accustomed to invite all that the
      county possessed of rank and wealth, among which the officers quartered in
      his neighborhood were never neglected, the Miss Blakes having as decided a
      taste for the army as any young ladies of the west of Ireland; and while
      the Galway squire, with his cords and tops, was detailing the latest news
      from Ballinasloe in one corner, the dandy from St. James's Street might be
      seen displaying more arts of seductive flattery in another than his most
      accurate <i>insouciane</i> would permit him to practise in the elegant
      salons of London or Paris, and the same man who would have "cut his
      brother," for a solecism of dress or equipage, in Bond Street, was now to
      be seen quietly domesticated, eating family dinners, rolling silk for the
      young ladies, going down the middle in a country dance, and even
      descending to the indignity of long whist at "tenpenny" points, with only
      the miserable consolation that the company were not honest.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was upon a clear frosty morning, when a bright blue sky and a sharp but
      bracing air seem to exercise upon the feelings a sense no less pleasurable
      than the balmiest breeze and warmest sun of summer, that I whipped my
      leader short round, and entered the precincts of "Gurt-na-Morra." As I
      proceeded along the avenue, I was struck by the slight traces of repairs
      here and there evident,&mdash;a gate or two that formerly had been
      parallel to the horizon had been raised to the perpendicular; some
      ineffectual efforts at paint were also perceptible upon the palings; and,
      in short, everything 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 of menials frieze-coated, bare-headed, and bare-legged, my presence
      was announced by a tremendous ringing of bells from the hands of an old
      functionary in a very formidable livery, who peeped at me through the
      hall-window, and whom, with the greatest difficulty, I recognized as my
      quondam acquaintance, the butler. His wig alone would have graced a king's
      counsel; and the high collar of his coat, and the stiff pillory of his
      cravat denoted an eternal adieu to so humble a vocation as drawing a cork.
      Before I had time for any conjecture as to the altered circumstances
      about, the activity of my friend at the bell had surrounded me with "four
      others worse than himself," at least they were exactly similarly attired;
      and probably from the novelty of their costume, and the restraints of so
      unusual a thing as dress, were as perfectly unable to assist themselves or
      others as the Court of Aldermen would be were they to rig out in plate
      armor of the fourteenth century. How much longer I might have gone on
      conjecturing the reasons for the masquerade around, I cannot say; but my
      servant, an Irish disciple of my uncle's, whispered in my ear, "It's a
      red-breeches day, Master Charles,&mdash;they'll have the hoith of company
      in the house." From the phrase, it needed little explanation to inform me
      that it was one of those occasions on which Mr. Blake attired all the
      hangers-on of his house in livery, and that great preparations were in
      progress for a more than usually splendid reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the next moment I was ushered into the breakfast-room, where a party of
      above a dozen persons were most gayly enjoying all the good cheer for
      which the house had a well-deserved repute. After the usual shaking of
      hands and hearty greetings were over, I was introduced in all form to Sir
      George Dashwood, a tall and singularly handsome man of about fifty, with
      an undress military frock and ribbon. His reception of me was somewhat
      strange; for as they mentioned my relationship to Godfrey O'Malley, he
      smiled slightly, and whispered something to Mr. Blake, who replied, "Oh,
      no, no; not the least. A mere boy; and besides&mdash;" What he added I
      lost, for 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
      whiteness, over which dark brown and waving hair fell less in curls than
      masses of locky richness, could only have known what wild work they were
      making of my poor heart, Miss Dashwood, I trust, would have looked at her
      teacup or her muffin rather than at me, as she actually did on that fatal
      morning. If I were to judge from her costume, she had only just arrived,
      and the morning air had left upon her cheek a bloom that contributed
      greatly to the effect of her lovely countenance. Although very young, her
      form had all the roundness of womanhood; while her gay and sprightly
      manner indicated all the <i>sans gêne</i> which only very young girls
      possess, and which, when tempered with perfect good taste, and accompanied
      by beauty and 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
      forty years of age, with a most soldierly air, who as I was presented to
      him scarcely turned his head, and gave me a half-nod of very unequivocal
      coldness. There are moments in life in which the heart is, as it were,
      laid bare to any chance or casual impression with a wondrous sensibility
      of pleasure or its opposite. This to me was one of those; and as I turned
      from the lovely girl, who had received me with a marked courtesy, to the
      cold air and repelling <i>hauteur</i> of the dark-browed captain, the
      blood rushed throbbing to my forehead; and as I walked to my place at the
      table, I eagerly sought his eye, to return him a look of defiance and
      disdain, proud and contemptuous as his own. Captain Hammersley, however,
      never took further notice of me, but continued to recount, for the
      amusement of those about him, several excellent stories of his military
      career, which, I confess, were heard with every test of delight by all
      save me. One thing galled me particularly,&mdash;and how easy is it, when
      you have begun by disliking a person, to supply food for your antipathy,&mdash;all
      his allusions to his military life were coupled with half-hinted and
      ill-concealed sneers at civilians of every kind, as though every man not a
      soldier were absolutely unfit for common intercourse with the world, still
      more for any favorable reception in ladies' society.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young ladies of the family were a well-chosen auditory, for their
      admiration of the army extended from the Life Guards to the Veteran
      Battalion, the Sappers and Miners included; and as Miss Dashwood was the
      daughter of a soldier, she of course coincided in many of, if not all, his
      opinions. I turned towards my neighbor, a Clare gentleman, and tried to
      engage him in conversation, but he was breathlessly attending to the
      captain. On my left sat Matthew Blake, whose eyes were firmly riveted upon
      the same person, and who heard his marvels with an interest scarcely
      inferior to that of his sisters. Annoyed and in ill-temper, I ate my
      breakfast in silence, and resolved that the first moment I could obtain a
      hearing from Mr. Blake I would open my negotiation, and take my leave at
      once of Gurt-na-Morra.
    </p>
    <p>
      We all assembled in a large room, called by courtesy the library, when
      breakfast was over; and then it was that Mr. Blake, taking me aside,
      whispered, "Charley, it's right I should inform you that Sir George
      Dashwood there is the Commander of the Forces, and is come down here at
      this moment to&mdash;" What for, or how it should concern me, I was not to
      learn; for at that critical instant my informant's attention was called
      off 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.
      Blake, turning towards me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are to try the Priest's meadows," said I, with an air of some
      importance; "but if your guests desire a day's sport, I'll send word over
      to Brackely to bring the dogs over here, and we are sure to find a fox in
      your cover."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, then, by all means," said the captain, turning towards Mr. Blake, and
      addressing himself to him,&mdash;"by all means; and Miss Dashwood, I'm
      sure, would like to see the hounds throw off."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever chagrin the first part of his speech caused me, the latter set my
      heart a-throbbing; and I hastened from the room to despatch a messenger to
      the huntsman to come over to Gurt-na-Morra, and also another to O'Malley
      Castle to bring my best horse and my riding equipments as quickly as
      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
      impertinent, impudent, supercilious&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of my civil speech was cut short by the appearance of the very
      individual in question, who, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in
      his mouth, sauntered forth down the steps, taking no more notice of
      Matthew 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
      mission, for the present the thing was impossible; for I found that Sir
      George Dashwood was closeted closely with Mr. Blake, and resolved to wait
      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
      desire to ally myself with the unsocial captain, I accompanied Matthew to
      the stable to look after the cattle, and make preparations for the coming
      sport.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's Captain Hammersley's mare," said Matthew, as he pointed out a
      highly bred but powerful English hunter. "She came last night; for as he
      expected some sport, he sent his horses from Dublin on purpose. The others
      will be here to-day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is his regiment?" said I, with an appearance of carelessness, but in
      reality feeling curious to know if the captain was a cavalry or infantry
      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
      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
      instruction as ever schoolmaster did to whip Latin grammar into one of the
      great unbreeched.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I had better send the horses down to the Mill," said Matthew; "we'll
      draw that cover first."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he turned towards the stable, while I sauntered alone towards
      the road by which I expected the huntsman. I had not walked half a mile
      before I heard the yelping of the dogs, and a little farther on I saw old
      Brackely coming along at a brisk trot, cutting the hounds on each side,
      and 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
      knows better than to take out the Badger, the best steeple-chaser in
      Ireland, in such a country as this,&mdash;nothing but awkward
      stone-fences, and 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
      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
      deer-park wall on the hill, we'll try it this morning with the blessing.
      I'll take him down by Woodford, over the Devil's Mouth,&mdash;it's
      eighteen foot wide this minute with the late rains,&mdash;into the four
      callows; then over the stone-walls, down to Dangan; then take a short cast
      up the hill, blow him a bit, and give him the park wall at the top. You
      must come in then fresh, and give him the whole run home over Sleibhmich.
      The Badger knows it all, and takes the road always in a fly,&mdash;a
      mighty distressing thing for the horse that follows, more particularly if
      he does not understand a stony country. Well, if he lives through this,
      give him the sunk fence and the stone wall at Mr. Blake's clover-field,
      for the hounds will run into the fox about there; and though we never ride
      that leap since Mr. Malone broke his neck at it, last October, yet upon an
      occasion like this, and for the honor of Galway&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure, Brackely; and here's a guinea for you, and now trot on
      towards the house. They must not see us together, or they might suspect
      something. But, Brackely," said I, calling out after him, "if he rides at
      all fair, what's to be done?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Troth, then, myself doesn't know. There is nothing so bad west of
      Athlone. 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
      strode along a very different man from what I had left the house half an
      hour previously.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE HUNT.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although we had not the advantages of a southerly wind and cloudy sky, the
      day towards noon became strongly over-cast, and promised to afford us good
      scenting weather; and as we assembled at the meet, mutual congratulations
      were exchanged upon the improved appearance of the day. Young Blake had
      provided Miss Dashwood with a quiet and well-trained horse, and his
      sisters were all mounted as usual upon their own animals, giving to our
      turnout quite a gay and lively aspect. I myself came to cover upon a
      hackney, having sent Badger with a groom, and longed ardently for the
      moment when, casting the skin of my great-coat and overalls, I should
      appear before the world in my well-appointed "cords and tops." Captain
      Hammersley had not as yet made his appearance, and many conjectures were
      afloat as to whether "he might have missed the road, or changed his mind,"
      or "forgot all about it," as Miss Dashwood hinted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who, pray, pitched upon this cover?" said Caroline Blake, as she looked
      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
      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 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
      question; the fences are too large for any one, and if I am not mistaken,
      these gentlemen will not ride far over this. There, look yonder, where the
      river is rushing down the hill: that stream, widening as it advances,
      crosses the cover nearly midway,&mdash;well, they must clear that; and
      then you may see these walls of large loose stones nearly five feet in
      height. That is the usual course the fox takes, unless he heads towards
      the hills and goes towards Dangan, and then there's an end of it; for the
      deer-park wall is usually a pull up to every one except, perhaps, to our
      friend Charley 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
      little too much in flesh perhaps, if anything."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Hammersley!" said the four Miss Blakes, in a breath. "Where is
      he?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No; it's the Badger I'm speaking of," said Matthew, laughing, and
      pointing with his finger towards a corner of the field where my servant
      was 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.
      The word "dragoon" was a thorn in my tenderest part that rankled and
      lacerated at every stir. In a moment I was in the saddle, and scarcely
      seated when at once all the <i>mauvais honte</i> of boyhood left me, and I
      felt every inch a man. I often look back to that moment of my life, and
      comparing it with similar ones, cannot help acknowledging how purely is
      the self-possession which so often wins success the result of some slight
      and trivial association. My confidence in my horsemanship suggested moral
      courage of a very different kind; and I felt that Charles O'Malley
      curvetting upon a thorough-bred, and the same man ambling upon a shelty,
      were two and very dissimilar individuals.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No chance of the captain," said Matthew, who had returned from a <i>reconnaissance</i>
      upon the road; "and after all it's a pity, for the day is getting quite
      favorable."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the young ladies formed pickets to look out for the gallant <i>militaire</i>,
      I seized the opportunity of prosecuting my acquaintance with Miss
      Dashwood, and even in the few and passing observations that fell from her,
      learned how very different an order of being she was from all I had
      hitherto seen of country belles. A mixture of courtesy with <i>naïveté;</i>
      a wish to please, with a certain feminine gentleness, that always flatters
      a man, and still more a boy that fain would be one,&mdash;gained
      momentarily more and more upon me, and put me also on my mettle to prove
      to my fair companion that I was not altogether a mere uncultivated and
      unthinking creature, like the remainder of those about me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here he is at last," said Helen Blake, as she cantered across a field
      waving her handkerchief as a signal to the captain, who was now seen
      approaching at a brisk trot.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he came along, a small fence intervened; he pressed his horse a little,
      and as he kissed hands to the fair Helen, cleared it in a bound, and was
      in an instant in the midst of us.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He sits his horse like a man, Misther Charles," said the old huntsman;
      "troth, we must give him the worst bit of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Hammersley was, despite all the critical acumen with which I
      canvassed him, the very beau-ideal of a gentleman rider; indeed, although
      a very heavy man, his powerful English thorough-bred, showing not less
      bone than blood, took away all semblance of overweight; his saddle was
      well fitting and well placed, as also was his large and broad-reined
      snaffle; his own costume of black coat, leathers, and tops was in perfect
      keeping, and even to his heavy-handled hunting-whip I could find nothing
      to cavil at. As he rode up he paid his respects to the ladies in his usual
      free and easy manner, expressed some surprise, but no regret, at hearing
      that he was late, and never deigning any notice of Matthew or myself, took
      his place 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,
      ran yelping along a furrow, then stopped, howled again, and once more set
      off together. In an instant all was commotion in the little valley below
      us. The huntsman, with his hand to his mouth, was calling off the
      stragglers, and the whipper-in followed up the leading dogs with the rest
      of the pack. "They've found! They're away!" said Matthew; and as he spoke
      a yell burst from the valley, and in an instant the whole pack were off at
      full speed. Rather more intent that moment upon showing off my
      horsemanship than anything else, I dashed spurs into Badger's sides, and
      turned him towards a rasping ditch before me; over we went, hurling down
      behind us a rotten bank of clay and small stones, showing how little
      safety there had been in topping instead of clearing it at a bound. Before
      I was well-seated again the captain was beside me. "Now for it, then,"
      said I; and away we went. What might be the nature of his feelings I
      cannot pretend to state, but my own were a strange <i>mélange</i> of wild,
      boyish enthusiasm, revenge, and recklessness. For my own neck I cared
      little,&mdash;nothing; and as I led the way by half a length, I muttered
      to myself, "Let him follow me fairly 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,
      and going fast, we were a little behind. A thought therefore struck me
      that, by appearing to take a short cut upon the hounds, I should come down
      upon the river where its breadth was greatest, and thus, at one coup,
      might try my friend's mettle and his horse's performance at the same time.
      On we went, our speed increasing, till the roar of the river we were now
      approaching was plainly audible. I looked half around, and now perceived
      the captain was standing in his stirrups, as if to obtain a view of what
      was before him; otherwise his countenance was calm and unmoved, and not a
      muscle betrayed that he was not cantering on a parade. I fixed myself
      firmly in my seat, shook my horse a little together, and with a shout
      whose import every Galway hunter well knows rushed him at the river. I saw
      the water dashing among the large stones; I heard it splash; I felt a
      bound like the <i>ricochet</i> of a shot; and we were over, but so
      narrowly that the bank had yielded beneath his hind legs, and it needed a
      bold effort of the noble animal to regain his footing. Scarcely was he
      once more firm, when Hammersley flew by me, taking the lead, and sitting
      quietly in his saddle, as if racing. I know of little in my after-life
      like the agony of that moment; for although I was far, very far, from
      wishing real ill to him, yet I would gladly have broken my leg or my arm
      if he could not have been able to follow me. And now, there he was,
      actually a length and a half in advance! and worse than all, Miss Dashwood
      must have witnessed the whole, and doubtless his leap over the river was
      better and bolder than mine. One consolation yet remained, and while I
      whispered it to myself I felt comforted again. "His is an English mare.
      They understand these leaps; but what can he make of a Galway wall?" The
      question was soon to be solved. Before us, about three fields, were the
      hounds still in full cry; a large stone-wall lay between, and to it we
      both directed our course together. "Ha!" thought I, "he is floored at
      last," as I perceived that the captain held his course rather more in
      hand, and suffered me to lead. "Now, then, for it!" So saying, I rode at
      the largest part I could find, well knowing that Badger's powers were here
      in their element. One spring, one plunge, and away we were, galloping
      along at the other side. Not so the captain; his horse had refused the
      fence, and he was now taking a circuit of the field for another trial of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pounded, by Jove!" said I, as I turned round in my saddle to observe him.
      Once more she came at it, and once more balked, rearing up, at the same
      time, almost so as to fall backward.
    </p>
    <p>
      My triumph was complete; and I again was about to follow the hounds, when,
      throwing a look back, I saw Hammersley clearing the wall in a most
      splendid manner, and taking a stretch of at least thirteen feet beyond it.
      Once more he was on my flanks, and the contest renewed. Whatever might be
      the sentiments of the riders (mine I confess to), between the horses it
      now became a tremendous struggle. The English mare, though evidently
      superior in stride and strength, was slightly overweighted, and had not,
      besides, that cat-like activity an Irish horse possesses; so that the
      advantages and disadvantages on either side were about equalized. For
      about half an hour now the pace was awful. We rode side by side, taking
      our leaps at exactly the same instant, and not four feet apart. The hounds
      were still considerably in advance, and were heading towards the Shannon,
      when suddenly the fox doubled, took the hillside, and made for Dangan.
      "Now, then, comes the trial of strength," I said, half aloud, as I threw
      my eye up a steep and rugged mountain, covered with wild furze and tall
      heath, around the crest of which ran, in a zigzag direction, a broken and
      dilapidated wall, once the enclosure of a deer park. This wall, which
      varied from four to six feet in height, was of solid masonry, and would,
      in the most favorable ground, have been a bold leap. Here, at the summit
      of a 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 by the hounds, had passed through a breach in the wall; while
      Matthew Blake, with the huntsmen and whipper-in, was riding along in
      search of a gap to lead the horses through. Before I put spurs to Badger
      to face the hill, I turned one look towards Hammersley. There was a slight
      curl, half-smile, half-sneer, upon his lip that actually maddened me, and
      had a precipice yawned beneath my feet, I should have dashed at it after
      that. The ascent was so steep that I was obliged to take the hill in a
      slanting direction; and even thus, the loose footing rendered it dangerous
      in the extreme.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length I reached the crest, where the wall, more than five feet in
      height, stood frowning above and seeming to defy me. I turned my horse
      full round, so that his very chest almost touched the stones, and with a
      bold cut of the whip and a loud halloo, the gallant animal rose, as if
      rearing, pawed for an instant to regain his balance, and then, with a
      frightful struggle, fell backwards, and rolled from top to bottom of the
      hill, carrying me along with him; the last object that crossed my sight,
      as I lay bruised and motionless, being the captain as he took the wall in
      a flying leap, and disappeared at the other side. After a few scrambling
      efforts to rise, Badger regained his legs and stood beside me; but such
      was the shock and concussion of my fall that all the objects around seemed
      wavering and floating before me, while showers of bright sparks fell in
      myriads before my eyes. I tried to rise, but fell back helpless. Cold
      perspiration broke over my forehead, and I fainted. From that moment I can
      remember nothing, till I felt myself galloping along at full speed upon a
      level table-land, with the hounds about three fields in advance,
      Hammersley riding foremost, and taking all his leaps coolly as ever. As I
      swayed to either side upon my saddle, from weakness, I was lost to all
      thought or recollection, save a flickering memory of some plan of
      vengeance, which still urged me forward. The chase had now lasted above an
      hour, and both hounds and horses began to feel the pace at which they were
      going. As for me, I rode mechanically; I neither knew nor cared for the
      dangers before me. My eye rested on but one object; my whole being was
      concentrated upon one vague and undefined sense 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,
      and your coat is torn in two; and, Mother o' God! his boot is ground to
      powder; he does not hear me! Oh, pull up! pull up, for the love of the
      Virgin! There's the clover-field and the sunk fence before you, and you'll
      be killed on the spot!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where?" cried I, with the cry of a madman. "Where's the clover-field;
      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
      was beyond the reach of the poor fellow's remonstances. Another moment I
      was beside the captain. He turned round as I came up; the same smile was
      upon his mouth; I could have struck him. About three hundred yards before
      us lay the sunk fence; its breadth was about twenty feet, and a wall of
      close brickwork formed its face. Over this the hounds were now clambering;
      some succeeded in crossing, but by far the greater number fell back,
      howling, into the ditch.
    </p>
    <p>
      I turned towards Hammersley. He was standing high in his stirrups, and as
      he looked towards the yawning fence, down which the dogs were tumbling in
      masses, I thought (perhaps it was but a thought) that his cheek was paler.
      I looked again; he was pulling at his horse. Ha! it was true then; he
      would not face it. I turned round in my saddle, looked him full in the
      face, and as I pointed with my whip to the leap, called out in a voice
      hoarse with passion, "Come on!" I saw no more. All objects were lost to me
      from that moment. When next my senses cleared, I was standing amidst the
      dogs, where they had just killed. Badger stood blown and trembling beside
      me, his head drooping and his flanks gored with spur-marks. I looked
      about, but all consciousness of the past had fled; the concussion of my
      fall had shaken my intellect, and I was like one but half-awake. One
      glimpse, short and fleeting, of what was taking place shot through my
      brain, as old Brackely whispered to me, "By my soul, ye did for the
      captain there." I turned a vague look upon him, and my eyes fell upon the
      figure of a man that lay stretched and bleeding upon a door before me. His
      pale face was crossed with a purple stream of blood that trickled from a
      wound beside his eyebrow; his arms lay motionless and heavily at either
      side. I knew him not. A loud report of a pistol aroused me from my stupor;
      I looked back. I saw a crowd that broke suddenly asunder and fled right
      and left. I heard a heavy crash upon the ground; I pointed with my finger,
      for I could not utter a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is the English mare, yer honor; she was a beauty this morning, but
      she's broke her shoulder-bone and both her legs, and it was best to put
      her out of pain."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DRAWING-ROOM.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the fourth day following the adventure detailed in the last chapter, I
      made my appearance in the drawing-room, my cheek well blanched by copious
      bleeding, and my step tottering and uncertain. On entering the room, I
      looked about in vain for some one who might give me an insight into the
      occurrences of the four preceding days; but no one was to be met with. The
      ladies, I learned, were out riding; Matthew was buying a new setter, Mr.
      Blake was canvassing, and Captain Hammersley was in bed. Where was Miss
      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
      butler, at which I could not help smiling. I sat down, therefore, in the
      easiest chair I could find, and unfolding the county paper, resolved upon
      learning how matters were going on in the political world. But somehow,
      whether the editor was not brilliant or the fire was hot or that my own
      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
      and action when awakened from sleep by any sudden and rude summons to
      arise and be stirring, and when called into existence by the sweet and
      silvery notes of softest music stealing over the senses, and while they
      impart awakening thoughts of bliss and beauty, scarcely dissipating the
      dreamy influence of slumber! Such was my first thought, as, with closed
      lids, the thrilling chords of a harp broke upon my sleep and aroused me to
      a feeling of unutterable pleasure. I turned gently round in my chair and
      beheld Miss Dashwood. She was seated in a recess of an old-fashioned
      window; the pale yellow glow of a wintry sun at evening fell upon her
      beautiful hair, and tinged it with such a light as I have often since then
      seen in Rembrandt's pictures; her head leaned upon the harp, and as she
      struck its chords at random, I saw that her mind was far away from all
      around her. As I looked, she suddenly started from her leaning attitude,
      and parting back her curls from her brow, she preluded a few chords, and
      then sighed forth, rather than sang, that most beautiful of Moore's
      melodies,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps."
</pre>
    <p>
      Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling, met my
      astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell one by one
      down my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and when she ceased, I hid my
      head between my hands and sobbed aloud. In an instant, she was beside me,
      and 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
      sung that mournful air."
    </p>
    <p>
      I started and looked up; and from what I know not, but she suddenly
      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
      imprudence in your being here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the latter, I shall not answer," said I, with a sickly smile; "but
      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 to me. My illness and the doctor together have made wild work of my
      poor 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 aid of Thor and Woden."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, shall we chat of every-day matters? Should you like to hear how the
      election and the canvass go on?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes; of all things."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, most favorably. Two baronies, with most unspeakable names,
      have declared for us, and confidence is rapidly increasing among our
      party. This I learned, by chance, yesterday; for papa never permits us to
      know 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
      about to send down some one just as I left home, and I am most anxious to
      learn who it is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then am I utterly valueless; for I really can't say what party the
      government espouses, and only know of our own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite enough for me that you wish it success," said I, gallantly.
      "Perhaps 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
      Mr. Considine, I think; a very strange person he seemed. He demanded to
      see papa, and it seems, asked him if your misfortune had been a thing of
      his contrivance, and whether he was ready to explain his conduct about it;
      and, 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,
      he is too ill; but as the doctor hoped he might be down-stairs in a week,
      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
      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
      something like rivalry among you gentlemen <i>chasseurs</i> on that
      luckless morning, and that while you paid the penalty of a broken head, he
      was 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 in the catastrophe; and my greatest regret, I confess, arises
      from the fact 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
      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
      not guess; for though I certainly was the senior of my fair companion in
      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
      beside the blazing wood embers,&mdash;she evidently amusing herself with
      the original notions of an untutored, unlettered boy, and I drinking deep
      those draughts of love that nerved my heart through many a breach and
      battlefield.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our colloquy was at length interrupted by the entrance of Sir George, who
      shook me most cordially by the hand, and made the kindest inquiries about
      my health.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They tell me you are to be a lawyer. Mr. O'Malley," said he; "and if so,
      I 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
      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
      around his manly figure, and looked up in his face with an expression of
      mingled pride and affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      That word sealed my destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DINNER.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I retired to my room to dress for dinner, I found my servant waiting
      with a note from my uncle, to which, he informed me, the messenger
      expected an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      I broke the seal and read:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    DEAR CHARLEY,&mdash;Do not lose a moment in securing old Blake,&mdash;if
    you have not already done so,&mdash;as information has just reached
    me that the government party has promised a cornetcy to young
    Matthew if he can bring over his father. And these are the people
    I have been voting with&mdash;a few private cases excepted&mdash;for thirty
    odd years!

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

    Your affectionate uncle,
    GODFREY O'MALLEY.

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

    P.S. No. 2. Bear the mortgage in mind, for old Mallock is a
    spiteful fellow, and has a grudge against me, since I horsewhipped
    his son in Banagher. Oh, the world, the world! G. O'M.
</pre>
    <p>
      Until I read this very clear epistle to the end, I had no very precise
      conception how completely I had forgotten all my uncle's interests, and
      neglected all his injunctions. Already five days had elapsed, and I had
      not as much as mooted the question to Mr. Blake, and probably all this
      time my uncle was calculating on the thing as concluded; but, with one
      hole in my 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
      proceeded at once to Mr. Blake's room, expecting that I should, as the
      event proved, find him engaged in the very laborious duty of making his
      toilet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0055.jpg" alt="Mr. Blake's Dressing Room. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Come in, Charley," said he, as I tapped gently at the door. "It's only
      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
      pair of her husband's corduroys tippet fashion across her ample shoulders,
      which before were displayed in the plenitude and breadth of coloring we
      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
      simplicity in which the private economy of Mr. Blake's household was
      conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a mutual
      territory of dressing-room had not Mr. Blake's injunctions been issued
      somewhat like an order to remain.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's only a letter, sir," said I, stuttering, "from my uncle about the
      election. He says that as his majority is now certain, he should feel
      better pleased in going to the poll with all the family, you know, sir,
      along with him. He wishes me just to sound your intentions,&mdash;to make
      out how you feel disposed towards him; and&mdash;and, faith, as I am but a
      poor diplomatist, I thought the best way was to come straight to the point
      and tell you so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I perceive," said Mr. Blake, giving his chin at the moment an awful gash
      with the razor,&mdash;"I perceive; go on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, sir, I have little more to say. My uncle knows what influence you
      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
      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
      dinner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, Charley dear, go down, for I'm going to draw on my stockings," said
      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
      success of a mission I more than once feared for, and hastened to despatch
      a note to my uncle, assuring him of the Blake interest, and adding that
      for 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
      cleverness, I descended to the drawing-room. Here a very large party were
      already assembled, and at every opening of the door a new relay of Blakes,
      Burkes, and Bodkins was introduced. In the absence of the host, Sir George
      Dashwood was "making the agreeable" to the guests, and shook hands with
      every new arrival with all the warmth and cordiality of old friendship.
      While thus he inquired for various absent individuals, and asked most
      affectionately for sundry aunts and uncles not forthcoming, a slight
      incident occurred which by its ludicrous turn served to shorten the long
      half-hour before dinner. An individual of the party, a Mr. Blake, had,
      from certain peculiarities of face, obtained in his boyhood the sobriquet
      of "Shave-the-wind." This hatchet-like conformation had grown with his
      growth, and perpetuated upon him a nickname by which alone was he ever
      spoken of among his friends and acquaintances; the only difference being
      that as he came to man's estate, brevity, that soul of wit, had curtailed
      the epithet to mere "Shave." Now, Sir George had been hearing frequent
      reference made to him always by this name, heard him ever so addressed,
      and perceived him to reply to it; so that when he was himself asked by
      some one what sport he had found that day among the woodcocks, he answered
      at once, with a bow of very grateful acknowledgment, "Excellent, indeed;
      but entirely owing to 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,
      became one universal shout of laughter, in which, to do him justice, the
      excellent Shave himself heartily joined. Scarcely were the sounds of mirth
      lulled into an apparent calm, when the door opened and the host and
      hostess appeared. Mrs. Blake advanced in all the plenitude of her charms,
      arrayed in crimson satin, sorely injured in its freshness by a patch of
      grease upon the front about the same size and shape as the continent of
      Europe in Arrowsmith's Atlas. A swan's-down tippet covered her shoulders;
      massive bracelets ornamented her wrists; while from her ears descended two
      Irish diamond ear-rings, rivalling in magnitude and value the glass
      pendants of a lustre. Her reception of her guests made ample amends, in
      warmth and cordiality, for any deficiency of elegance; and as she disposed
      her ample proportions upon the sofa, and looked around upon the company,
      she appeared the very impersonation of hospitality.
    </p>
    <p>
      After several openings and shuttings of the drawing-room door, accompanied
      by the appearance of old Simon the butler, who counted the party at least
      five times before he was certain that the score was correct, dinner was at
      length announced. Now came a moment of difficulty, and one which, as
      testing Mr. Blake's tact, he would gladly have seen devolve upon some
      other shoulders; for he well knew that the marshalling a room full of
      mandarins, blue, green, and yellow, was "cakes and gingerbread" to
      ushering a Galway party in to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, then, was Mr. Miles Bodkin, whose grandfather would have been a
      lord if Cromwell had not hanged him one fine morning. Then Mrs. Mosey
      Blake's first husband was promised the title of Kilmacud if it was ever
      restored; whereas Mrs. French of Knocktunmor's mother was then at law for
      a title. And lastly, Mrs. Joe Burke was fourth cousin to Lord Clanricarde,
      as is or will be every Burke from this to the day of judgment. Now,
      luckily for her prospects, the lord was alive; and Mr. Blake, remembering
      a very sage adage about "dead lions," etc., solved the difficulty at once
      by gracefully tucking the lady under his arm and leading the way. The
      others soon 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, with
      its pitiful portion of pickled cork-tree yclept mess-beef, and that
      pyroligneous aquafortis they call corn-brandy have been my hard fare, I
      often looked back to that day's dinner with a most heart-yearning
      sensation,&mdash;a turbot as big as the Waterloo shield, a sirloin that
      seemed cut from the sides of a rhinoceros, a sauce-boat that contained an
      oyster-bed. There was a turkey, which singly would have formed the main
      army of a French dinner, doing mere outpost duty, flanked by a picket of
      ham and a detached squadron of chickens carefully ambushed in a forest of
      greens; potatoes, not disguised <i>à la maître d'hôtel</i> and tortured to
      resemble bad macaroni, but piled like shot in an ordnance-yard, were
      posted at different quarters; while massive decanters of port and sherry
      stood proudly up like standard bearers amidst the goodly array. This was
      none of your austere "great dinners," where a cold and chilling <i>plateau</i>
      of artificial nonsense cuts off one-half of the table from intercourse
      with the other; when whispered sentences constitute the conversation, and
      all the friendly recognition of wine-drinking, which renews acquaintance
      and cements an intimacy, is replaced by the ceremonious filling of your
      glass by a lackey; where smiles go current in lieu of kind speeches, and
      epigram and smartness form the substitute for the broad jest and merry
      story. Far from it. Here the company ate, drank, talked, laughed,&mdash;did
      all but sing, and certainly enjoyed themselves heartily. As for me, I was
      little more than a listener; and such was the crash of plates, the jingle
      of glasses, and the clatter of voices, that fragments only of what was
      passing around reached me, giving to the conversation of the party a
      character occasionally somewhat incongruous. Thus such sentences as the
      following ran foul of each other every instant:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "No better land in Galway"&mdash;"where could you find such facilities"&mdash;"for
      shooting Mr. Jones on his way home"&mdash;"the truth, the whole truth, and
      nothing but the truth"&mdash;"kiss"&mdash;"Miss Blake, she's the girl with
      a foot and ankle"&mdash;"Daly has never had wool on his sheep"&mdash;"how
      could he"&mdash;"what does he pay for the mountain"&mdash;"four and
      tenpence a yard"&mdash;"not a penny less"&mdash;"all the cabbage-stalks
      and potato-skins"&mdash;"with some bog stuff through it"&mdash;"that's the
      thing to"&mdash;"make soup, with a red herring in it instead of salt"&mdash;"and
      when he proposed for my niece, ma'am, says he"&mdash;"mix a strong
      tumbler, and I'll make a shake-down for you on the floor"&mdash;"and may
      the Lord have mercy on your soul"&mdash;"and now, down the middle and up
      again"&mdash;"Captain Magan, my dear, he is the man"&mdash;"to shave a pig
      properly"&mdash;"it's not money I'm looking for, says he, the girl of my
      heart"&mdash;"if she had not a wind-gall and two spavins"&mdash;"I'd have
      given her the rights of the church, of coorse," said Father Roach,
      bringing up the rear of this ill-assorted jargon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the scattered links of conversation I was condemned to listen
      to, till a general rise on the part of the ladies left us alone to discuss
      our 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
      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 stomach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's nothing like the groceries, after all,&mdash;eh, Sir George?"
      said an old Galway squire to the English general, who acceded to the fact,
      which he understood in a very different sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, punch, you are my darlin'," hummed another, as a large, square,
      half-gallon decanter of whiskey was placed on the table, the various
      decanters of wine being now ignominiously sent down to the end of the
      board without any evidence of regret on any face save Sir George
      Dashwood's, who mixed his tumbler with a very rebellious conscience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever were the noise and clamor of the company before, they were
      nothing to what now ensued. As one party were discussing the approaching
      contest, another was planning a steeple-chase, while two individuals,
      unhappily removed from each other the entire length of the table, were
      what is called "challenging each other's effects" in a very remarkable
      manner,&mdash;the process so styled being an exchange of property, when
      each party, setting an imaginary value upon some article, barters it for
      another, the amount of boot paid and received being determined by a third
      person, who is the umpire. Thus a gold breast-pin was swopped, as the
      phrase is, against a horse; then a pair of boots, then a Kerry bull, etc.,&mdash;every
      imaginable species of property coming into the market. Sometimes, as
      matters of very dubious value turned up, great laughter was the result. In
      this very national pastime, a Mr. Miles Bodkin, a noted fire-eater of the
      west, was a great proficient; and it is said he once so completely
      succeeded in despoiling an uninitiated hand, that after winning in
      succession his horse, gig, harness, etc., he proceeded <i>seriatim</i> to
      his watch, ring, clothes, and portmanteau, and actually concluded by
      winning all he possessed, and kindly lent him a card-cloth to cover him on
      his way to the hotel. His success on the present occasion was
      considerable, and his spirits proportionate. The decanter had thrice been
      replenished, and the flushed faces and thickened utterance of the guests
      evinced that from the cold properties of the claret there was but little
      to dread. As for Mr. Bodkin, his manner was incapable of any higher
      flight, when under the influence of whiskey, than what it evinced on
      common occasions; and as he sat at the end of the table fronting Mr.
      Blake, he assumed all the dignity of the ruler of the feast, with an
      energy no one seemed disposed to question. In answer to some observations
      of Sir George, he was led into something like an oration upon the peculiar
      excellences of his native country, which ended in a 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
      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 the 'Man for Galway'!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir George having joined most warmly in the request, Mr. Bodkin filled up
      his glass to the brim, bespoke a chorus to his chant, and clearing his
      voice with a deep hem, began the following ditty, to the air which Moore
      has since rendered immortal by the beautiful song, "Wreath the Bowl," etc.
      And, although the words are well known in the west, for the information of
      less-favored regions, I here transcribe&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                 THE MAN FOR GALWAY.

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

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

              Ye think the Blakes
              Are no "great shakes;"
                They're all his blood relations.
              And the Bodkins sneeze
              At the grim Chinese,
                For they come from the <i>Phenaycians</i>.
              So fill the brim, and here's to him
                Who'd drink in punch the Solway,
              With debts galore, but fun far more,&mdash;
                Oh, that's "the man for Galway."
                          CHORUS: With debts, etc.
</pre>
    <p>
      I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would not be as
      favorable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first heard it;
      for certainly the applause was almost deafening, and even Sir George, the
      defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out of his
      reach, was highly amused, and laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation once more reverted to the election; and although I was
      too far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear much, I
      could catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one. This
      was gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long neglecting
      my 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
      freehold registered on the estate, that they'll vote, every mother's son
      of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they'll leave standing on
      another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And may the Lord look to the returning officer!" said a third, throwing
      up his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mosey's tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token,
      they never pay any rent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what for shouldn't they vote?" said a dry-looking little old fellow
      in 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
      forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had
      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
      profound ignorance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is the dead agent," says Mr. Blake, "who always provides substitutes
      for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very
      important fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of
      this county, which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,&mdash;a
      freeholder has not 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
      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 wreck the town for fifty shillings' worth of spirits. Besides, if they
      don't vote for the county, they will for the borough."
    </p>
    <p>
      This declaration seemed to restore these interesting individuals to favor;
      and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was detailing the
      plan of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by himself.
      By this time, all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given way;
      whiskey was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy,
      every cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and applauded
      in a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable gift of
      "mountain dew."
    </p>
    <p>
      The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles Bodkin, who
      had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a telegraphic
      signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing should
      prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his hand,
      delivered himself as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, no, Phil Blake, ye needn't be winkin' at me that way; it's little I
      care for the spawn of the ould serpent. [Here great cheers greeted the
      speaker, in which, without well knowing why, I heartily joined.] I'm going
      to give a toast, boys,&mdash;a real good toast, none of your sentimental
      things about wall-flowers or the vernal equinox, or that kind of thing,
      but a sensible, patriotic, manly, intrepid toast,&mdash;toast you must
      drink in the most universal, laborious, and awful manner: do ye see now?
      [Loud cheers.] If any man of you here present doesn't drain this toast to
      the bottom [here the speaker looked fixedly at me, as did the rest of the
      company]&mdash;then, by the great-gun of Athlone, I'll make him eat the
      decanter, glass-stopper and all, for the good of his digestion: d'ye see
      now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The cheering at this mild determination prevented my hearing what
      followed; but the peroration consisted in a very glowing eulogy upon some
      person unknown, and a speedy return to him as member for Galway. Amidst
      all the noise and tumult at this critical moment, nearly every eye at the
      table was turned upon me; and as I concluded that they had been drinking
      my uncle's health, I thundered away at the mahogany with all my energy. At
      length the hip-hipping over, and comparative quiet restored, I rose from
      my seat to return thanks; but, strange enough, Sir George Dashwood did so
      likewise. And there we both stood, amidst an uproar that might well have
      shaken the courage of more practised orators; while from every side came
      cries of "Hear, hear!"&mdash;"Go on, Sir George!"&mdash;"Speak out,
      General!"&mdash;"Sit down, Charley!"&mdash;"Confound the boy!"&mdash;"Knock
      the legs from under him!" etc. Not understanding why Sir George should
      interfere with what I regarded as my peculiar duty, I resolved not to give
      way, and avowed this determination in no very equivocal terms. "In that
      case," said the general, "I am to suppose that the young gentleman moves
      an amendment to your proposition; and as the etiquette is in his favor, I
      yield." Here he resumed his place amidst a most terrific scene of noise
      and tumult, while several humane proposals as to my treatment were made
      around me, and a kind suggestion thrown out to break my neck by a near
      neighbor. Mr. Blake at length prevailed upon the party to hear what I had
      to say,&mdash;for he was certain I should not detain them above a minute.
      The commotion having in some measure subsided, I began: "Gentlemen, as the
      adopted son of the worthy man whose health you have just drunk&mdash;"
      Heaven knows how I should have continued; but here my eloquence was met by
      such a roar of laughing as I never before listened to. From one end of the
      board to the other it was one continued shout, and went on, too, as if all
      the spare lungs of the party had been kept in reserve for the occasion. I
      turned from one to the other; I tried to smile, and seemed to participate
      in the joke, but failed; I frowned; I looked savagely about where I could
      see enough to turn my wrath thitherward,&mdash;and, as it chanced, not in
      vain; for Mr. Miles Bodkin, with an intuitive perception of my wishes,
      most suddenly ceased his mirth, and assuming a look of frowning defiance
      that had done him good service upon many former occasions, rose and said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, sir, I hope you're proud of yourself. You've made a nice beginning
      of it, and a pretty story you'll have for your uncle. But if you'd like to
      break the news by a letter the general will have great pleasure in
      franking it for you; for, by the rock of Cashel, we'll carry him in
      against all the O'Malley's that ever cheated the sheriff."
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely were the words uttered, when I seized my wineglass, and hurled it
      with all my force at his head; so sudden was the act, and so true the aim,
      that Mr. Bodkin measured his length upon the floor ere his friends could
      appreciate his late eloquent effusion. The scene now became terrific; for
      though the redoubted Miles was <i>hors-de-combat</i>, his friends made a
      tremendous rush at, and would infallibly have succeeded in capturing me,
      had not Blake and four or five others interposed. Amidst a desperate
      struggle, which lasted for some minutes, I was torn from the spot, carried
      bodily up-stairs, and pitched headlong into my own room; where, having
      doubly locked the door on the outside, they left me to my own cool and not
      over-agreeable reflections.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE FLIGHT FROM GURT-NA-MORRA.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by one of those sudden and inexplicable revulsions which
      occasionally restore to sense and intellect the maniac of years standing,
      that I was no sooner left alone in my chamber than I became perfectly
      sober. The fumes of the wine&mdash;and I had drunk deeply&mdash;were
      dissipated at once; my head, which but a moment before was half wild with
      excitement, was now cool, calm, and collected; and stranger than all, I,
      who had only an hour since entered the dining-room with all the
      unsuspecting freshness of boyhood, became, by a mighty bound, a man,&mdash;a
      man in all my feelings of responsibility, a man who, repelling an insult
      by an outrage, had resolved to stake his life upon the chance. In an
      instant a new era in life had opened before me; the light-headed gayety
      which fearlessness and youth impart was replaced by one absorbing thought,&mdash;one
      all-engrossing, all-pervading impression, that if I did not follow up my
      quarrel with Bodkin, I was dishonored and disgraced, my little knowledge
      of such matters not being sufficient to assure me that I was now the
      aggressor, and that 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
      disappointment my poor uncle was destined to meet with in hearing that the
      Blake interest was lost to him, and the former breach between the families
      irreparably widened by the events of the evening. Escape was my first
      thought; but how to accomplish it? The door, a solid one of Irish oak,
      doubly locked and bolted, defied all my efforts to break it open; the
      window was at least five-and-twenty feet from the ground, and not a tree
      near to swing into. I shouted, I called aloud, I opened the sash, and
      tried if any one outside were within hearing; but in vain. Weary and
      exhausted, I sat down upon my bed and ruminated over my fortunes.
      Vengeance&mdash;quick, entire, decisive vengeance&mdash;I thirsted and
      panted for; and every moment I lived under the insult inflicted on me
      seemed an age of torturing and maddening agony. I rose with a leap; a
      thought had just occurred to me. I drew the bed towards the window, and
      fastening the sheet to one of the posts with a firm knot, I twisted it
      into a rope, and let myself down to within about twelve feet of the
      ground, when I let go my hold, and dropped upon the grass beneath safe and
      uninjured. A thin, misty rain was falling, and I now perceived, for the
      first time, that in my haste I had forgotten my hat; this thought,
      however, gave me little uneasiness, and I took my way towards the stable,
      resolving, if I could, to saddle my horse and get off before any
      intimation of my escape reached the family.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I gained the yard, all was quiet and deserted; the servants were
      doubtless enjoying themselves below stairs, and I met no one on the way. I
      entered the stable, threw the saddle upon "Badger," and before five
      minutes from my descent from the window, was galloping towards O'Malley
      Castle at a 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
      through the well-known defiles of out-houses and stables which formed the
      long line of offices to my uncle's house. As yet no one was stirring; and
      as I wished to have my arrival a secret from the family, after providing
      for the wants of my gallant gray, I lifted the latch of the kitchen-door&mdash;no
      other fastening being ever thought necessary, even at night&mdash;and
      gently groped my way towards the stairs; all was perfectly still, and the
      silence now recalled me to reflection as to what course I should pursue.
      It was all-important that my uncle should know nothing of my quarrel,
      otherwise he would inevitably make it his own, and by treating me like a
      boy in the matter, give the whole affair the very turn I most dreaded.
      Then, as to Sir Harry Boyle, he would most certainly turn the whole thing
      into ridicule, make a good story, perhaps a song out of it, and laugh at
      my notions of demanding satisfaction. Considine, I knew, was my man; but
      then he was at Athlone,&mdash;at least so my uncle's letter mentioned.
      Perhaps he might have returned; if not, to Athlone I should set off at
      once. So resolving, I stole noiselessly up-stairs, and reached the door of
      the count's chamber; I opened it gently and entered; and though my step
      was almost imperceptible to myself, it was quite sufficient to alarm the
      watchful occupant of the room, who, springing up in his bed, demanded
      gruffly, "Who's there?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charles, sir," said I, shutting the door carefully, and approaching his
      bedside. "Charles O'Malley, sir. I'm come to have a bit of your advice;
      and 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 near the bed,&mdash;have you found it? There! Well now, what is
      it? What news of Blake?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very bad; no worse. But it is not exactly <i>that</i> I came about; I've
      got into a scrape, sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Run off with one of the daughters," said Considine. "By jingo, I knew
      what those artful devils would be after."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so bad as that," said I, laughing. "It's just a row, a kind of
      squabble; something that must come&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, ay," said the count, brightening up; "say you so, Charley? Begad, the
      young ones will beat us all out of the field. Who is it with,&mdash;not
      old Blake himself; how was it? Tell me all."
    </p>
    <p>
      I immediately detailed the whole events of the preceding chapter, as well
      as his frequent interruptions would permit, and concluded by asking what
      farther step was now to be taken, as I was resolved the matter should be
      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
      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 to commence a kind of defence, when he added,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because, you see," said he, assuming an oracular tone of voice, "throwing
      a wine-glass, with or without wine, in a man's face is merely, as you may
      observe, a mark of denial and displeasure at some observation he may have
      made,&mdash;not in any wise intended to injure him, further than in the
      wound to his honor at being so insulted, for which, of course, he must
      subsequently call you out. Whereas, Charley, in the present case, the view
      I take is different; the expression of Mr. Bodkin, as regards your uncle,
      was insulting to a degree,&mdash;gratuitously offensive,&mdash;and
      warranting a blow. Therefore, my boy, you should, under such
      circumstances, have preferred aiming at him with a decanter: a cut-glass
      decanter, well aimed and low, I have seen do effective service. However,
      as you remark it was your first thing of the kind, I am pleased with you&mdash;very
      much pleased with you. Now, then, for the next step." So saying, he arose
      from his bed, and striking a light with a tinder-box, proceeded to dress
      himself as leisurely as if for 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
      them up at the little inn,&mdash;it is not above a mile from Bodkin's; and
      I'll go over and settle the thing for you. You must stay quiet till I come
      back, and not leave the house on any account. I've got a case of old broad
      barrels there that will answer you beautifully; if you were anything of a
      shot, I'd give you my own cross handles, but they'd only spoil your
      shooting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can hit a wine-glass in the stem at fifteen paces," said I, rather
      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.
      Take the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus,&mdash;no finger
      on the guard there, these two on the trigger. They are not hair-triggers;
      drop the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man
      outside your arm,&mdash;outside, mind,&mdash;and take him in the hip, and
      if anywhere higher, no matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the count had completed his toilet, and taking the small
      mahogany box which contained his peace-makers under his arm, led the way
      towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person stirring
      there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house, was
      employed to run of messages from the servants, walk a stranger's horse, or
      to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics contrive
      always to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a
      stone step formerly used for mounting, and though the day was scarcely
      breaking, and the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing
      an Irish song, in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between
      his hands with some sand. As we came near he started up, and as he pulled
      off his cap to salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the count,
      then at me, then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were
      turned to the brass-bound box beneath his arm,&mdash;when, as if seized
      with a sudden impulse, he started on his feet, and set off towards the
      house with the speed of a greyhound, not, however, before Considine's
      practised eye had anticipated his plan; for throwing down the pistol-case,
      he dashed after him, and in an 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
      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
      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?
      Oh, wirra, wirra!" Here he wrung his hands, and swayed himself backwards
      and forwards, a true picture of Irish grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll stop his blubbering," said Considine, opening the box and taking out
      a pistol, which he cocked leisurely, and pointed at the poor fellow's
      head; "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 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
      this way, we'll have the whole house about us. Come, then, harness the
      roan 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
      it's blood-money, no less."
    </p>
    <p>
      The words were scarcely spoken, when Considine seized him by the collar
      with one hand, and by the wrist with the other, and carried him over the
      yard to the stable, where, kicking open the door, he threw him on a heap
      of stones, adding, "If you stir now, I'll break every bone in your body;"
      a threat that seemed certainly considerably increased in its terrors, from
      the rough gripe he had already experienced, for the lad rolled himself up
      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
      when all was ready, Considine seized the whip, and locking the stable-door
      upon Patsey, was about to get up, when a sudden thought struck him.
      "Charley," said he, "that fellow will find some means to give the alarm;
      we must take him with us." So saying, he opened the door, and taking the
      poor 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
      speed to make up for it. Our pace became, accordingly, a sharp one; and as
      the road was bad, and the tax-cart no "patent inaudible," neither of us
      spoke. To me this was a great relief. The events of the last few days had
      given them the semblance of years, and all the reflection I could muster
      was little enough to make anything out of the chaotic mass,&mdash;love,
      mischief, and misfortune,&mdash;in which I had been involved since my
      leaving O'Malley Castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here we are, Charley," said Considine, drawing up short at the door of a
      little country ale-house, or, in Irish parlance, <i>shebeen</i>, which
      stood at the meeting of four bleak roads, in a wild and barren mountain
      tract beside 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
      doubly knotted figure at our feet; "lend a hand, Patsey." Much to my
      astonishment, he obeyed the summons with alacrity, and proceeded to
      unharness the mare with the greatest despatch. My attention was, however,
      soon turned from him to my own more immediate concerns, and I followed my
      companion into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Joe," said the count to the host, "is Mr. Bodkin up at the house this
      morning?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He's just passed this way, sir, with Mr. Malowney of Tillnamuck, in the
      gig, on their way from Mr. Blake's. They stopped here to order horses to
      go 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,
      Charley, to be beforehand, or the governor would have found it all out and
      taken the affair into his own hands. Now all you have to do is to stay
      quietly here till I come back, which will not be above an hour at
      farthest. Joe, send me the pony; keep an eye on Patsey, that he doesn't
      play us a trick. The short way to Mr. Bodkin's is through Scariff. Ay, I
      know it 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
      him, and left me to my own not very agreeable reflections. Independently
      of my youth and perfect ignorance of the world, which left me unable to
      form any correct judgment on my conduct, I knew that I had taken a great
      deal of wine, and was highly excited when my unhappy collision with Mr.
      Bodkin occurred. Whether, then, I had been betrayed into anything which
      could fairly have provoked his insulting retort or not, I could not
      remember; and now my most afflicting thought was, what opinion might be
      entertained of me by those at Blake's table; and above all, what Miss
      Dashwood herself would think, and what narrative of the occurrence would
      reach her. The great effort of my last few days had been to stand well in
      her estimation, to appear something better in feeling, something higher in
      principle, than the rude and unpolished squirearchy about me; and now here
      was the end of it! What would she, what could she, think, but that I was
      the same punch-drinking, rowing, quarrelling bumpkin as those whom I had
      so lately been carefully endeavoring to separate myself from? How I hated
      myself for the excess to which passion had betrayed me, and how I detested
      my opponent as the cause of all my present misery. "How very differently,"
      thought I, "her friend the captain would have conducted himself. His quiet
      and gentlemanly manner would have done fully as much to wipe out any
      insult on his honor as I could do, and after all, would neither have
      disturbed the harmony of a dinner-table, nor made himself, as I shuddered
      to think I had, a subject of rebuke, if not of ridicule." These harassing,
      torturing reflections continued to press on me, and I paced the room with
      my hands clasped and the perspiration upon my brow. "One thing is certain,&mdash;I
      can never see her again," thought I; "this disgraceful business must, in
      some shape or other, become known to her, and all I have been saying these
      last three days rise up in judgment against this one act, and stamp me an
      impostor! I that decried&mdash;nay, derided&mdash;our false notion of
      honor. Would that Considine were come! What can keep him now?" I walked to
      the door; a boy belonging to the house was walking the roan before the
      door. "What had, then, become of Pat?" I inquired; but no one could tell.
      He had disappeared shortly after our arrival, and had not been seen
      afterwards. My own thoughts were, however, too engrossing to permit me to
      think more of this circumstance, and I turned again to enter the house,
      when I saw Considine 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, he sprang from the pony and proceeded to harness the roan with the
      greatest haste, informing me in broken sentences, as he went on with all
      the arrangements.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We are to cross the bridge of Portumna. They won the ground, and it seems
      Bodkin likes the spot; he shot Peyton there three years ago. Worse luck
      now, Charley, you know; by all the rule of chance, he can't expect the
      same thing twice,&mdash;never four by honors in two deals. Didn't say
      that, though. A sweet meadow, I know it well; small hillocks, like
      molehills; all over it. Caught him at breakfast; I don't think he expected
      the message to come from 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 and set out for the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you thinking of, Charley?" said the count, as I kept silent for
      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
      conscience, if it wasn't for the chance of his getting into another
      quarrel and spoiling the election, I'd go back for Godfrey; he'd like to
      see you 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,
      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
      on the ground,&mdash;follow him everywhere. Poor Callaghan, that's gone,
      shot his man always that way. He had a way of looking without winking that
      was very fatal at a short distance; a very good thing to learn, Charley,
      when you have a little spare time."
    </p>
    <p>
      Half-an-hour's sharp driving brought us to the river side, where a boat
      had been provided by Considine to ferry us over. It was now about eight
      o'clock, and a heavy, gloomy morning. Much rain had fallen overnight, and
      the dark and lowering atmosphere seemed charged with more. The mountains
      looked twice their real size, and all the shadows were increased to an
      enormous extent. A very killing kind of light it was, as the count
      remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DUEL.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the boatmen pulled in towards the shore we perceived, a few hundred
      yards off, a group of persons standing, whom we soon recognized as our
      opponents. "Charley," said the count, grasping my arm tightly, as I stood
      up to spring on the land,&mdash;"Charley, although you are only a boy, as
      I may say, I have no fear for your courage; but still more than that is
      needful here. This Bodkin is a noted duellist, and will try to shake your
      nerve. Now, mind that you take everything that happens quite with an air
      of indifference; don't let him think that he has any advantage over you,
      and 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
      a slight twitch about the corners of his grim mouth, as if some sudden and
      painful thought had shot across his mind; but in a moment he was calm, and
      stern-looking as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Twenty minutes late, Mr. Considine," said a short, red-faced little man,
      with a military frock and foraging cap, as he held out his watch in
      evidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can only say, Captain Malowney, that we lost no time since we parted.
      We had some difficulty in finding a boat; but in any case, we are here <i>now</i>,
      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. Very proud to make your acquaintance, sir; your uncle and I met
      more than once in this kind of way. I was out with him in '92,&mdash;was
      it? no, I think it was '93,&mdash;when he shot Harry Burgoyne, who,
      by-the-bye, was called the crack shot of our mess; but, begad, your uncle
      knocked his pistol hand to shivers, saying, in his dry way, 'He must try
      the left hand this morning.' Count, a little this side, if you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      While Considine and the captain walked a few paces apart from where I
      stood, I had leisure to observe my antagonist, who stood among a group of
      his friends, talking and laughing away in great spirits. As the tone they
      spoke in was not of the lowest, I could catch much of their conversation
      at the distance I was from them. They were discussing the last occasion
      that Bodkin had visited this spot, and talking of the fatal event which
      happened then.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poor devil," said Bodkin, "it wasn't his fault; but you see some of the
      &mdash;th had been showing white feathers before that, and he was obliged
      to go out. In fact, the colonel himself said, 'Fight, or leave the corps.'
      Well, out he came; it was a cold morning in February, with a frost the
      night before going off in a thin rain. Well, it seems he had the
      consumption or something of that sort, with a great cough and spitting of
      blood, and this weather made him worse; and he was very weak when he came
      to the ground. Now, the moment I got a glimpse of him, I said to myself,
      'He's pluck enough, but as nervous as a lady;' for his eye wandered all
      about, and his mouth was constantly twitching. 'Take off your great-coat,
      Ned,' said one of his people, when they were going to put him up; 'take it
      off, man.' He seemed to hesitate for an instant, when Michael Blake
      remarked, 'Arrah, let him alone; it's his mother makes him wear it, for
      the cold he has.' They all began to laugh at this; but I kept my eye upon
      him, and I saw that his cheek grew quite livid and a kind of gray color,
      and his eyes filled up. 'I 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."
      I walked from the spot to avoid hearing further, and felt, as I did so,
      something like a spirit of vengeance rising within me, for the fate of one
      so untimely cut off.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here we are, all ready," said Malowney, springing over a small fence into
      the adjoining field. "Take your ground, gentlemen."
    </p>
    <p>
      Considine took my arm and walked forward. "Charley," said he, "I am to
      give the signal; I'll drop my glove when you are to fire, but don't look
      at me at all. I'll manage to catch Bodkin's eye; and do you watch him
      steadily, and fire when he does."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think that the ground we are leaving behind us is rather better," said
      some one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it is," said Bodkin; "but it might be troublesome to carry the young
      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 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
      glove; at which signal you fire, and <i>together</i> mind. The man who
      reserves his shot falls by my hand." This very summary denunciation seemed
      to meet general approbation, and the count strutted forth. Notwithstanding
      the advice of my friend, I could not help turning my eyes from Bodkin to
      watch the retiring figure of the count. At length he stopped; a second or
      two elapsed; he wheeled rapidly round, and let fall the glove. My eye
      glanced towards my opponent; I raised my pistol and fired. My hat turned
      half round upon my head, and Bodkin fell motionless to the earth. I saw
      the people around me rush forward; I caught two or three glances thrown at
      me with an expression of revengeful passion; I felt some one grasp me
      round the waist, and hurry me from the spot; and it was at least ten
      minutes after, as we were skimming the surface of the broad Shannon,
      before I could well collect my scattered faculties to remember all that
      was passing, as Considine, pointing to the two bullet-holes in my hat,
      remarked, "Sharp practice, 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
      vainly endeavored to conceal from my companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not if the doctor can help it," said Considine; "for the fool keeps
      poking about for the ball. But now let's think of the next step,&mdash;you'll
      have to leave this, and at once, too."
    </p>
    <p>
      Little more passed between us. As we rowed towards the shore, Considine
      was following up his reflections, and I had mine,&mdash;alas! too many and
      too bitter to escape from.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we neared the land a strange spectacle caught our eye. For a
      considerable distance along the coast crowds of country people were
      assembled, who, forming in groups and breaking into parties of two and
      three, were evidently watching with great anxiety what was taking place at
      the opposite side. Now, the distance was at least a mile, and therefore
      any part of the transaction which had been enacting there must have been
      quite beyond their view. While I was wondering at this, Considine cried
      out 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
      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 killed,&mdash;that's
      all. Every man here's his tenant; and look&mdash;there! They're 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, which rising to a terrific cry sunk gradually down to a low
      wailing, then rose and fell again several times as the Irish death-cry
      filled the air and 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 to me from my infancy; but it needed the awful situation I was
      placed in to consummate its horrors. It was at once my accusation and my
      doom. I knew well&mdash;none better&mdash;the vengeful character of the
      Irish peasant of the west, and that my death was certain I had no doubt.
      The very crime that sat upon my heart quailed its courage and unnerved my
      arm. As the boatmen looked from us towards the shore and again at our
      faces, they, as if instinctively, lay upon their oars, and waited for our
      decision as to what course to pursue.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rig the spritsail, my boys," said Considine, "and let her head lie up the
      river; and be alive, for I see they're bailing a boat below the little
      reef there, and will be after us in no time."
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor fellows, who, although strangers to us, sympathizing in what they
      perceived to be our imminent danger, stepped the light spar which acted as
      mast, and shook out their scanty rag of canvas in a minute. Considine
      meanwhile went aft, and steadying her head with an oar, held the small
      craft up to the wind till she lay completely over, and as she rushed
      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
      the Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Put an oar to leeward," said Considine, "and keep her up more to the
      wind, and I promise you, my lads, you will not go home fresh and fasting
      if you land us where you say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here they come," said the other boatman, as he pointed back with his
      finger towards a large yawl which shot suddenly from the shore, with six
      sturdy fellows pulling at their oars, while three or four others were
      endeavoring to get up their rigging, which appeared tangled and confused
      at the bottom of the boat; the white splash of water which fell each
      moment 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 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,
      except when it rained, these four years, and is sun-cracked from stem to
      stern."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She can sail, however," said Considine, who watched with a painful
      anxiety the rapidity of her course through the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nabocklish, she was a smuggler's jolly-boat, and well used to it. Look
      how they're pulling. God pardon them, but they're in no blessed humor this
      morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lay out upon your oars, boys; the wind's failing us," cried the count, as
      the sail flapped lazily against the mast.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's no use, yer honor," said the elder. "We'll be only breaking our
      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
      all aboard, four years last winter. There's no channel between it and the
      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
      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 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 other, springing up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sit down there, and be still," roared Considine, as he drew a pistol from
      the case at his feet, "if you don't want some leaden ballast to keep you
      so! Here, Charley, take this, and if that fellow stirs hand or foot&mdash;you
      understand me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men sat sulkily in the bottom of the boat, which now was actually
      flying through the water. Considine's object was a clear one. He saw that
      in sailing we were greatly overmatched, and that our only chance lay in
      reaching the narrow and dangerous channel between Oat Rock and the shore,
      by which we should distance the pursuit, the long reef of rocks that ran
      out beyond requiring a wide berth to escape from. Nothing but the danger
      behind us could warrant so rash a daring. The whole channel was dotted
      with patches of white and breaking foam,&mdash;the sure evidence of the
      mischief beneath,&mdash;while here and there a dash of spurting spray flew
      up from the dark water, where some cleft rock lay hid below the flood.
      Escape seemed impossible; but who would not have preferred even so slender
      a chance with so frightful an alternative behind him? As if to add terror
      to the scene, Considine had scarcely turned the boat ahead of the channel
      when a tremendous blackness spread over all around, the thunder pealed
      forth, and amidst the crashing of the hail and the bright glare of
      lightning a squall struck us and laid us nearly keel uppermost for several
      minutes. I well remember we rushed through the dark and blackened water,
      our little craft more than half filled, the oars floating off to leeward,
      and we ourselves kneeling on the bottom planks for safety. Roll after roll
      of loud thunder broke, as it were, just above our heads; while in the
      swift dashing rain that seemed to hiss around us every object was hidden,
      and even the other boat was lost to our view. The two poor fellows&mdash;I
      shall never forget their expression. One, a devout Catholic, had placed a
      little leaden image of a saint before him in the bow, and implored its
      intercession with a torturing agony of suspense that wrung my very heart.
      The other, apparently less alive to such consolations as his Church
      afforded, remained with his hands clasped, his mouth compressed, his brows
      knitted, and his dark eyes bent upon me with the fierce hatred of a deadly
      enemy; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and all told of some dreadful
      conflict within. The wild ferocity of his look fascinated my gaze, and
      amidst all the terrors of the scene I could not look from him. As I gazed,
      a second and more awful squall struck the boat; the mast went over, and
      with a loud report like a pistol-shot smashed at the thwart and fell over,
      trailing the sail along the milky sea behind us. Meanwhile the water
      rushed clean over us, and the boat seemed settling. At this dreadful
      moment the sailor's eye was bent upon me, his lips parted, and he
      muttered, as if to himself, "This it is to go to sea with a murderer." Oh,
      God! the agony of that moment! the heartfelt and accusing conscience that
      I was judged and doomed! that the brand of Cain was upon my brow! that my
      fellow-men had ceased forever to regard me as a brother! that I was an
      outcast and a wanderer forever! I bent forward till my forehead fell upon
      my knees, and I wept. Meanwhile the boat flew through the water, and
      Considine, who alone among us seemed not to lose his presence of mind, cut
      away the mast and sent it overboard. The storm began now to abate; and as
      the black mass of cloud broke from around us we beheld the other boat,
      also dismasted, far behind us, while all on board of her were employed in
      bailing out the water with which she seemed almost sinking. The curtain of
      mist that had hidden us from each other no sooner broke than they ceased
      their labors for a moment, and looking towards us, burst forth into a yell
      so wild, so savage, so dreadful, my very heart quailed as its cadence fell
      upon my ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Safe, my boy," said Considine, clapping me on the shoulder, as he steered
      the boat forth from its narrow path of danger, and once more reached the
      broad Shannon,&mdash;"safe, Charley; though we've had a brush for it." In
      a minute more we reached the land, and drawing our gallant little craft on
      shore, set out for O'Malley Castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE RETURN.
    </p>
    <p>
      O'Malley Castle lay about four miles from the spot we landed at, and
      thither accordingly we bent our steps without loss of time. We had not,
      however, proceeded far, when, before us on the road, we perceived a mixed
      assemblage of horse and foot, hurrying along at a tremendous rate. The
      mob, which consisted of some hundred country people, were armed with
      sticks, scythes, and pitchforks, and although not preserving any very
      military aspect in their order of march, were still a force quite
      formidable enough 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
      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
      mud on every side, and huzzaing like so many Indians. In the front ran a
      bare-legged boy, waving his cap to encourage the rest, who followed him at
      about fifty yards behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave that fellow for me," said the count, coolly examining the lock of
      his pistol; "I'll pick him out, and load again in time for his friends'
      arrival. Charley, is that a gentleman I see far back in the crowd? Yes, to
      be sure it is? He's on a large horse&mdash;now he's pressing forward; so
      let&mdash;no&mdash;oh&mdash;ay, it's Godfrey O'Malley himself, and these
      are our own people." Scarcely were the words out when a tremendous cheer
      arose from the multitude, who, recognizing us at the same instant, sprang
      from their horses and ran forward to welcome us. Among the foremost was
      the scarecrow leader, whom I at once perceived as poor Patsey, who,
      escaping in the morning, had returned at full speed to O'Malley Castle,
      and raised the whole country to my rescue. Before I could address one word
      to my faithful 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 my headpiece.
    </p>
    <p>
      His lip quivered as he turned and whispered something into Considine's
      ear, which I heard not; but the count's reply was, "Devil a bit, as cool
      as you 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
      come along, Godfrey; Charley's new at this kind of thing, and we had
      better discuss matters in the house."
    </p>
    <p>
      Half-an-hour's brisk trot&mdash;for we were soon supplied with horses&mdash;brought
      us back to the Castle, much to the disappointment of our cortege, who had
      been promised a <i>scrimmage</i>, and went back in very ill-humor at the
      breach of contract.
    </p>
    <p>
      The breakfast-room, as we entered, was filled with my uncle's supporters,
      all busily engaged over poll-books and booth tallies, in preparation for
      the eventful day of battle. These, however, were immediately thrown aside
      to hasten round me and inquire all the details of my duel. Considine,
      happily for me, however, assumed all the dignity of an historian, and
      recounted the events of the morning so much to my honor and glory, that I,
      who only a little before felt crushed and bowed down by the misery of my
      late duel, began, amidst the warm congratulations and eulogiums about me,
      to think I was no small hero, and in fact, something very much resembling
      "the man for Galway." To this feeling a circumstance that followed
      assisted in contributing. While we were eagerly discussing the various
      results likely to arise from the meeting, a horse galloped rapidly to the
      door and a loud voice called out, "I can't get off, but tell him to come
      here." We rushed out and beheld Captain Malowney, Mr. Bodkin's second,
      covered with mud from head to foot, and his horse reeking with foam and
      sweat. "I am hurrying on to Athlone for another doctor; but I've called to
      tell you that the wound is not supposed to be mortal,&mdash;he may recover
      yet." Without waiting for another word, he dashed spurs into his nag and
      rattled down the avenue at full gallop. Mr. Bodkin's dearest friend on
      earth could not have received the intelligence with more delight; and I
      now began to listen to the congratulations of my friends with a more
      tranquil spirit. My uncle, too, seemed much relieved by the information,
      and heard with great good temper my narrative of the few days at
      Gurt-na-Morra. "So then," said he, 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
      person, and I am certain you will meet with only the fair and legitimate
      opposition of an opposing candidate in him,&mdash;no mean or unmanly
      subterfuge."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All right, Charley. Well, now, your affair of this morning must keep you
      quiet for a few days, come what will; by Monday next, when the election
      takes place, Bodkin's fate will be pretty clear, one way or the other, and
      if matters go well, you can come into town; otherwise, I have arranged
      with Considine to take you over to the Continent for a year or so; but
      we'll discuss all this in the evening. Now I must start on a canvass.
      Boyle expects to meet you at dinner to-day; he is coming from Athlone on
      purpose. Now, good-by!"
    </p>
    <p>
      When my uncle had gone, I sank into a chair and fell into a musing fit
      over all the changes a few hours had wrought in me. From a mere boy whose
      most serious employment was stocking the house with game or inspecting the
      kennel, I had sprung at once into man's estate, was complimented for my
      coolness, praised for my prowess, lauded for my discretion, by those who
      were my seniors by nearly half a century; talked to in a tone of
      confidential intimacy by my uncle, and, in a word, treated in all respects
      as an equal,&mdash;and such was all the work of a few hours. But so it is;
      the eras in life are separated by a narrow boundary,&mdash;some trifling
      accident, some casual <i>rencontre</i> impels us across the Rubicon, and
      we pass from infancy to youth, from youth to manhood, from manhood to age,
      less by the slow and imperceptible step of time than by some one decisive
      act or passion which, occurring at a critical moment, elicits a long
      latent feeling, and impresses our existence with a color that tinges us
      for many a long year. As for me, I had cut the tie which bound me to the
      careless gayety of boyhood with a rude gash. In three short days I had
      fallen deeply, desperately in love, and had wounded, if not killed, an
      antagonist in a duel. As I meditated on these things, I was aroused by the
      noise of horses' feet in the yard beneath. I opened the window and beheld
      no less a person than Captain Hammersley. He was handing a card to a
      servant, which he was accompanying by a verbal message; the impression of
      something like hostility on the part of the captain had never left my
      mind, and I hastened 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
      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
      have just received an order to join my regiment; we have been ordered for
      service, and Sir George has most kindly permitted my giving up my staff
      appointment. I could not, however, leave the country without shaking hands
      with you. I owe you a lesson in horsemanship, and I'm only sorry that we
      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
      cavalry, and we scarcely less in want of something to do. I'm sorry you
      are not coming with us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would to Heaven I were!" said I, with an earnestness that almost made my
      brain start.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, why not?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Unfortunately, I am peculiarly situated. My worthy uncle, who is all to
      me in this world, would be quite alone if I were to leave him; and
      although he has never said so, I know he dreads the possibility of my
      suggesting such a thing to him: so that, between his fears and mine, the
      matter is never 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 up yet to alter his mind, and if so, and if you do take to
      dragooning, don't forget George Hammersley will be always most delighted
      to meet you; 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 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
      affair at Blake's table, and only one opinion on the matter among all
      parties,&mdash;that you acted perfectly right. Sir George Dashwood,&mdash;no
      mean judge of such things,&mdash;quite approves of your conduct, and, I
      believe, wishes you to know as much; and now, once more, good-by."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ELECTION.
    </p>
    <p>
      The important morning at length arrived, and as I looked from my bed-room
      window at daybreak, the crowd of carriages of all sorts and shapes
      decorated with banners and placards; the incessant bustle; the hurrying
      hither and thither; the cheering as each new detachment of voters came up,
      mounted on jaunting-cars, or on horses whose whole caparison consisted in
      a straw rope for a bridle, and a saddle of the same frail material,&mdash;all
      informed me that the election day was come. I lost no further time, but
      proceeded to dress with all possible despatch. When I appeared in the
      breakfast-room, it was already filled with some seventy or eighty persons
      of all ranks and ages, mingled confusedly together, and enjoying the
      hospitable fare of my uncle's house, while they discussed all the details
      and prospects of the election. In the hall, the library, the large
      drawing-room, too, similar parties were also assembled, and as newcomers
      arrived, the servants were busy in preparing tables before the door and up
      the large terrace that ran the entire length of the building. Nothing
      could be more amusing than the incongruous mixture of the guests, who,
      with every variety of eatable that chance or inclination provided, were
      thus thrown into close contact, having only this in common,&mdash;the
      success of the cause they were engaged in. Here was the old Galway squire,
      with an ancestry that reached to Noah, sitting side by side with the poor
      cotter, whose whole earthly possession was what, in Irish phrase, is
      called a "potato garden,"&mdash;meaning the exactly smallest possible
      patch of ground out of which a very Indian-rubber conscience could presume
      to vote. Here sat the old simple-minded, farmer-like man, in close
      conversation with a little white-foreheaded, keen-eyed personage, in a
      black coat and eye-glass,&mdash;a flash attorney from Dublin, learned in
      flaws of the registry, and deep in the subtleties of election law. There
      was an Athlone horse-dealer, whose habitual daily practices in imposing
      the halt, the lame, and the blind upon the unsuspecting, for beasts of
      blood and mettle, well qualified him for the trickery of a county contest.
      Then there were scores of squireen gentry, easily recognized on common
      occasions by a green coat, brass buttons, dirty cords, and dirtier
      top-boots, a lash-whip, and a half-bred fox-hound; but now, fresh-washed
      for the day, they presented something the appearance of a swell mob,
      adjusted to the meridian of Galway. A mass of frieze-coated, brow-faced,
      bullet-headed peasantry filled up the large spaces, dotted here and there
      with a sleek, roguish-eyed priest, or some low electioneering agent
      detailing, for the amusement of the company, some of those cunning
      practices of former times which if known to the proper authorities would
      in all likelihood cause the talented narrator to be improving the soil of
      Sidney, or fishing on the banks of the Swan river; while at the head and
      foot of each table sat some personal friend of my uncle, whose ready
      tongue, and still readier pistol, made him a personage of some
      consequence, not more to his own people than to the enemy. While of such
      material were the company, the fare before them was no less varied: here
      some rubicund squire was deep in amalgamating the contents of a venison
      pasty with some of Sneyd's oldest claret; his neighbor, less ambitious,
      and less erudite in such matters, was devouring rashers of bacon, with
      liberal potations of potteen; some pale-cheeked scion of the law, with all
      the dust of the Four Courts in his throat, was sipping his humble beverage
      of black tea beside four sturdy cattle-dealers from Ballinasloe, who were
      discussing hot whiskey punch and <i>spoleaion</i> (boiled beef) at the
      very primitive hour of eight in the morning. Amidst the clank of
      decanters, the crash of knives and plates, and the jingling of glasses,
      the laughter and voices of the guests were audibly increasing; and the
      various modes of "running a buck" (<i>Anglicé</i>, substituting a vote),
      or hunting a badger, were talked over on all sides, while the price of a
      <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
      search of Considine, to whom circumstances of late had somehow greatly
      attached me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, Charley," cried a voice I was very familiar with,&mdash;"here's a
      place 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. I
      have been shouting for claret this half-hour in vain,&mdash;do get us some
      nutriment down here, and the Lord will reward you. What a pity it is," he
      added, in a lower tone, to his neighbor&mdash;"what a pity a quart-bottle
      won't hold a quart; but I'll bring it before the House one of these days."
      That he kept his word in this respect, a motion on the books of the
      Honorable House will bear me witness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is this it?" said he, turning towards a farmer-like old man, who had put
      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 apple-plexy, and I'm afeerd of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      I at length found Considine, and learned that, as a very good account of
      Bodkin had arrived, there was no reason why I should not proceed to the
      hustings; but I was secretly charged not to take any prominent part in the
      day's proceedings. My uncle I only saw for an instant,&mdash;he begged me
      to be careful, avoid all scrapes, and not to quit Considine. It was past
      ten o'clock when our formidable procession got under way, and headed
      towards the town of Galway. The road was, for miles, crowded with our
      followers; banners flying and music playing, we presented something of the
      spectacle of a very ragged army on its march. At every cross-road a
      mountain-path reinforcement awaited us, and as we wended along, our
      numbers were momentarily increasing; here and there along the line, some
      energetic and not over-sober adherent was regaling his auditory with a
      speech in laudation of the O'Malleys since the days of Moses, and more
      than one priest was heard threatening the terrors of his Church in aid of
      a cause to whose success he was pledged and bound. I rode beside the
      count, who, surrounded by a group of choice spirits, recounted the various
      happy inventions by which he had, on divers occasions, substituted a
      personal quarrel for a contest. Boyle also contributed his share of
      election anecdote, and one incident he related, which, I remember, amused
      me much at the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0091.jpg" alt="The Election. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Do you remember Billy Calvert, that came down to contest Kilkenny?"
      inquired Sir Harry.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What, ever forget him!" said Considine, "with his well-powdered wig and
      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
      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
      finished my own business, and just carried the day, not without a push for
      it. When we reached,&mdash;Lady Mary was with me,&mdash;when we reached
      Kilkenny, the night before the election, I was not ten minutes in town
      till Butler heard of it, and sent off express to see me; I was at my
      dinner when the messenger came, and promised to go over when I'd done. But
      faith, Tom didn't wait, but came rushing up-stairs himself, and dashed
      into the room in the greatest hurry.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Harry,' says he, 'I'm done for; the corporation of free smiths, that
      were always above bribery, having voted for myself and my father before,
      for four pounds ten a man, won't come forward under six guineas and
      whiskey. Calvert has the money; they know it. The devil a farthing we
      have; and we've been paying all our fellows that can't read in Hennesy's
      notes, and you know the bank's broke this three weeks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "On he went, giving me a most disastrous picture of his cause, and
      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
      himself. Will he go out?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Lord knows! They say he's so afraid of that, that it has prevented him
      coming down till the very day. But he is arrived now; he came in the
      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
      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
      to-morrow?' said she, again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "''Twould gain us the day. Half the voters don't believe he's here at all,
      and his chief agent cheated all the people on the last election; and if
      Calvert didn't appear, he wouldn't have ten votes to register. But why do
      you ask?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, that, if you like, I'll bet you a pair of diamond ear-rings he
      sha'n't show.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Done!' said Butler. 'And I promise a necklace into the bargain, if you
      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
      able to perform whatever she undertook, you may be sure I gave myself very
      little trouble about the whole affair; and when they came, I went off to
      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
      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
      the clothes; for he was the most bashful creature ever was seen,&mdash;'come
      in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The door opened, and what was his horror to find that a lady entered in
      her dressing-gown, her hair on her shoulders, very much tossed and
      dishevelled. The moment she came in, she closed the door and locked it,
      and then sat leisurely down upon a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Billy's teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled; for this was an adventure
      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,
      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 the lady would proceed to some explanation, he said no more. She,
      however, seemed to think that nothing further was necessary, and sat still
      and 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 strangeness of the circumstance altogether must plead for me, if I
      appear 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 comes it that you have so far outstepped the propriety of which your
      whole life is an example, that alone, at such a time, you appear in the
      chamber 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
      associated is the retiring modesty which decries, with the pleasing powers
      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
      not be the clearer by your hurrying me. You know, perhaps,' continued she,
      'that my maiden name was Rogers?' He of the blankets bowed, and she
      resumed, 'It is now eighteen years since, that a young, unsuspecting, fond
      creature, reared in all the care and fondness of doting parents, tempted
      her first step in life, and trusted her fate to another's keeping. I am
      that unhappy person; the other, that monster in human guise that smiled
      but to betray, that won but to ruin and destroy, is he whom you know as
      Sir Harry Boyle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here she sobbed for some minutes, wiped her eyes, and resumed her
      narrative. Beginning at the period of her marriage, she detailed a number
      of circumstances in which poor Calvert, in all his anxiety to come <i>au
      fond</i> at matters, could never perceive bore upon the question in any
      way; but as she recounted them all with great force and precision,
      entreating him to bear in mind certain circumstances to which she should
      recur by and by, his attention was kept on the stretch, and it was only
      when the clock struck ten that he was fully aware how his morning was
      passing, and what surmises his absence might originate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'May I interrupt you for a moment, dear madam? Was it nine or ten o'clock
      which struck last?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'How should I know?' said she, frantically. 'What are hours and minutes
      to her who has passed long years of misery?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Very true, very true,' replied he, timidly, and rather fearing for the
      intellect of his fair companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      She continued. The narrative, however, so far from becoming clearer, grew
      gradually more confused and intricate; and as frequent references were
      made by the lady to some previous statement, Calvert was more than once
      rebuked for forgetfulness and inattention, where in reality nothing less
      than 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
      depository of my woes! Cruel, cruel man!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here she sobbed considerably for several minutes, and spoke not. A loud
      cheer of 'Butler forever!' from the mob without now burst upon their
      hearing, and recalled poor Calvert at once to the thought that the hours
      were speeding fast and no prospect of the everlasting tale coming to an
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I am deeply, most deeply grieved, my dear madam,' said the little man,
      sitting up in a pyramid of blankets; 'but hours, minutes, are most
      precious 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
      either side, and burst into a fit of laughter which poor Calvert knew at
      once to be hysterics. Here was a pretty situation! The bell-rope lay
      against the opposite wall; and even if it did not, would he be exactly
      warranted in pulling it?
    </p>
    <p>
      "'May the devil and all his angels take Sir Harry Boyle and his whole
      connection to the fifth generation!' was his sincere prayer as he sat like
      a Chinese juggler under his canopy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At length the violence of the paroxysm seemed to subside; the sobs became
      less frequent, the kicking less forcible, and the lady's eyes closed, and
      she appeared to have fallen asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Now is the moment,' said Billy. 'If I could only get as far as my
      dressing-gown.' So saying, he worked himself down noiselessly to the foot
      of his bed, looked fixedly at the fallen lids of the sleeping lady, and
      essayed one leg from the blanket. 'Now or never,' said he, pushing aside
      the curtain and preparing for a spring. One more look he cast at his
      companion, and then leaped forth; but just as he lit upon the floor she
      again roused herself, screaming with horror. Billy fell upon the bed, and
      rolling himself in the bedclothes, vowed never to rise again till she was
      out of the visible horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'What is all this? What do you mean, sir?' said the lady, reddening with
      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
      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
      profound sigh, and sunk down as if all hope had left him. 'Butler
      forever!' roared the mob. 'Calvert forever!' cried a boy's voice from
      without. 'Three groans for the runaway!' answered this announcement; and a
      very tender 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 dress! I beg of you to permit me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I have nothing to refuse, sir. Alas, disdain has long been my only
      portion! Get up, if you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'But,' said the astonished man, who was well-nigh deranged at the
      coolness 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
      the hotel I hope you see the impropriety of my walking about the passages
      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 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
      mercy! is the election over?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The lady stepped to the window, drew aside the curtain, and said,
      'Indeed, it would appear so. The mob are cheering Mr. Butler.' A deafening
      shout burst from the street. 'Perhaps you'd like to see the fun, so I'll
      not detain you any longer. So, good-by, Mr. Calvert; and as your breakfast
      will be cold, in all likelihood, come down to No. 4, for Sir Harry's a
      late man, and will be glad to see you.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      AN ADVENTURE.
    </p>
    <p>
      As thus we lightened the road with chatting, the increasing concourse of
      people, and the greater throng of carriages that filled the road,
      announced that we had nearly reached our destination.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Considine," said my uncle, riding up to where we were, "I have just got a
      few lines from Davern. It seems Bodkin's people are afraid to come in;
      they know what they must expect, and if so, more than half of that barony
      is 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
      possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find that
      defeat never entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very different thing
      indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that name:
      where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as assessor; a
      few drunken voters, a radical O'Connellite grocer, a demagogue priest, a
      deputy grand-purple-something from the Trinity College lodge, with some
      half-dozen followers, shouting, "To the Devil with Peel!" or "Down with
      Dens!" form the whole <i>corp-de-ballet</i>. No, no; in the times I refer
      to the voters were some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took
      the field, far less dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise
      made them than upon the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth, like
      a general to battle, surrounded by a numerous and well-chosen staff,&mdash;one
      party of friends, acting as commissariat, attended to the victualling of
      the voters, that they obtained a due, or rather undue allowance of liquor,
      and came properly drunk to the poll; others, again, broke into skirmishing
      parties, and scattered over the country, cut off the enemy's supplies,
      breaking down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting-cars, stealing
      their poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were
      secret-service people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and
      lastly, there was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false
      documents, denied the identity of the opposite party's people, and when
      hard pushed, provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave
      evidence afterwards on a petition. Amidst all these encounters of wit and
      ingenuity, the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle
      brigade, picking out the enemy's officers, and doing sore damage to their
      tactics by shooting a proposer or wounding a seconder,&mdash;a
      considerable portion of every leading agent's fee being intended as
      compensation for the duels he might, could, would, should, or ought to
      fight during the election. Such, in brief, was a contest in the olden
      time. And when it is taken into consideration that it usually lasted a
      fortnight or three weeks; that a considerable military force was always
      engaged (for our Irish law permits this), and which, when nothing pressing
      was doing, was regularly assailed by both parties; that far more
      dependence was placed in a bludgeon than a pistol; and that the man who
      registered a vote without a cracked pate was regarded as a kind of natural
      phenomenon,&mdash;some faint idea may be formed how much such a scene must
      have contributed to the peace of the county, and 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
      were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the cortége
      of the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could
      distinguish the Blake girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in
      undress, and saw something like a bonnet in the carriage-and-four which
      headed the procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George
      Dashwood. My heart beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss
      Dashwood was there; but I could not discern her, and it was with a sense
      of relief that I reflected on the possibility of our not meeting under
      circumstances wherein our feelings and interests were so completely
      opposed. While I was engaged in making this survey, I had accidentally
      dropped behind my companions; my eyes were firmly fixed upon that
      carriage, and in the faint hope that it contained the object of all my
      wishes, I forgot everything else. At length the cortége entered the town,
      and passing beneath a heavy stone gateway, was lost to my view. I was
      still lost in revery, when an under-agent of my uncle's rode up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, Master Charles!" said he, "what's to be done? They've forgotten Mr.
      Holmes at Woodford, and we haven't a carriage, chaise, or even a car left
      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.
      It's small comfort he'd give me if I went to tell him. If it was a case of
      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
      loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my eyes in that
      direction; it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving Sir George
      at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was now
      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
      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
      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
      stout country fellows, well mounted, were beside him. Away they went, at a
      hunting pace, taking every leap before them, and heading towards the road
      before us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without thinking further of the matter, I was laughing at the droll effect
      the line of frieze coats presented as they rode side by side over the
      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
      peaceably; it's little he'd think of taking the coach from under the judge
      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 the fence in one bound. My horse, a strong-knit half-breed, was as
      fast as a racer for a short distance; so that when the agent and his party
      had come up with the carriage, I was only a few hundred yards behind. I
      shouted out with all my might, but they either heard not or heeded not,
      for scarcely was the first man over the fence into the road when the
      postilion on the leader was felled to the ground, and his place supplied
      by his slayer; the boy on the wheeler shared the same fate, and in an
      instant, so well managed was the attack, the carriage was in possession of
      the assailants. Four stout fellows had climbed into the box and the
      rumble, and six others were climbing to the interior, regardless of the
      aid of steps. By this time the Dashwood party had got the alarm, and
      returned in full force, not, however, before the other had laid whip to
      the horses and set out in full gallop; and now commenced the most terrific
      race I ever witnessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The four carriage-horses, which were the property of Sir George, were
      English thorough-breds of great value, and, totally unaccustomed to the
      treatment they experienced, dashed forward at a pace that threatened
      annihilation to the carriage at every bound. The pursuers, though well
      mounted, were speedily distanced, but followed at a pace that in the end
      was certain to overtake the carriage. As for myself, I rode on beside the
      road at the full speed of my horse, shouting, cursing, imploring,
      execrating, and beseeching at turns, but all in vain; the yells and shouts
      of the pursuers and pursued drowned all other sounds, except when the
      thundering crash of the horses' feet rose above all. The road, like most
      western Irish roads until the present century, lay straight as an arrow
      for miles, regardless of every opposing barrier, and in the instance in
      question, crossed a mountain at its very highest point. Towards this
      pinnacle the pace had been tremendous; but owing to the higher breeding of
      the cattle, the carriage party had still the advance, and when they
      reached the top they proclaimed the victory by a cheer of triumph and
      derision. The carriage disappeared beneath the crest of the mountain, and
      the pursuers halted as if disposed to relinquish the chase.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come on, boys; never give up," cried I, springing over into the road, and
      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
      that convinced me I was unknown. The next instant we were on the mountain
      top, and beheld the carriage half way down beneath us, still galloping at
      full stretch.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have them now," said a voice behind me; "they'll never turn Lurra
      Bridge, if we only press on."
    </p>
    <p>
      The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect
      right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a mountain
      torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath. On we went, gaining at
      every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what was before
      them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell of victory
      arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of
      defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when
      the head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once
      recognized as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most
      reckless fellows in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding,&mdash;gracious
      Heavens! it was true,&mdash;holding in his arms the apparently lifeless
      figure of Miss Dashwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold in!" shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the
      other sounds. "Hold in! or by the Eternal, I'll throw her, body and bones,
      into the Lurra Gash!" for such was the torrent called that boiled and
      foamed a few yards before us.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0103.jpg" alt="The Rescue. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the
      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
      certainty if you press on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And we know you, too," said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker
      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.
      The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out of sight,
      another moment I was behind it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop!" I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened
      and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to turn them
      the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and hanging for a
      second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath.
      By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now clambered to the
      box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his murderous
      object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent
      backwards as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my
      lash around my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his
      head. The weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he
      staggered, his hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same
      instant I was felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MICKEY FREE.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere I again was
      restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled&mdash;from what
      hand coming it was never after discovered&mdash;had brought on concussion
      of the brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow
      steps I advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss
      Dashwood, whose life was saved by my interference, had testified, in the
      warmest manner, her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period
      of his leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and
      inquire for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know, of course," said the count, supposing such news was the most
      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
      o'clock, when our fellows lost all patience and beat their tallies out of
      the town. The police came up, but they beat the police; then they got
      soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them, too. Sir George
      witnessed it all, and knowing besides how little chance he had of success,
      deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o'clock he
      resigned. I must say no man could behave better. He came across the
      hustings and shook hands with Godfrey; and as the news of the <i>scrimmage</i>
      with his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his prospect of
      success had not been greater, that in resigning he might testify how
      deeply 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 think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he
      took a mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old general's.
      Faith, Charley, if he was some twenty years younger, I would not say but&mdash;Come,
      come, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been staying here
      too long. I'll send up Mickey to sit with you. Mind and don't be talking
      too much to him."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the worthy count left the room fully impressed that in hinting
      at the possibility of my uncle's marrying again, he had said something to
      ruffle my temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most tiresome
      monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to avoid
      exciting me; and consequently, every one that came in walked on tiptoe,
      spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was absolutely
      forbidden; and with a sombre half-light to sit in, and chicken broth to
      support nature, I dragged out as dreary an existence as any gentleman west
      of Athlone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my
      own servant, Michael, or as he was better known, "Mickey Free." Now, had
      Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would
      not have hung so heavily; for among Mike's manifold gifts he was possessed
      of a very great flow of gossiping conversation. He knew all that was doing
      in the county, and never was barren in his information wherever his
      imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the
      barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero
      of "Tatter Jack Walsh" in a way that charmed more than one soft heart
      beneath a red woolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy
      devil-may-care kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the
      midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and
      cunning fellow 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
      daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honors of
      the kitchen and the prerogatives of cast clothes, without ever having been
      actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer, as, in
      fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among
      the ship's company, though no one could say at what precise period he
      changed his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords
      and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked about
      the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had made his
      fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he
      made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered
      it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me. Mike
      informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn't go out,
      and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of
      partridge quicker than the "Morning Post" does of a noble family from the
      Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But his
      talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the
      faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for
      miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national
      pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this brief
      sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was
      enthusiastic about anything,&mdash;that is, he believed and obeyed exactly
      as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyond
      <i>that</i>, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience;
      and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a
      rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such,
      in short, was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions
      been laid on 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
      long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence,&mdash;"ah,
      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
      hard to tell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the
      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
      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
      with all the powther and shot, wouldn't he tell you he's shooting the
      rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells
      it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach
      may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time
      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
      anything about it afther, for I don't like to talk about these kind of
      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,
      came to his end. Well, I needn't mind particulars, but, in short, he was
      murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin' the whole town with
      a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was stuck at
      the end of it,&mdash;a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to; but
      those murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for
      diversion of 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,
      and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though I paid
      Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he always gave
      me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat, he'd turn
      away his head displeased like.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Murder and ages,' says I, 'what's this for?' But as I've a light heart,
      I bore up, and didn't think more about it. One day, however, I was coming
      home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach
      overtook me. 'Devil a one a me 'ill take any notice of you now,' says I,
      'and we'll see what'll come out of it.' So the priest rid up and looked me
      straight in 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
      your head?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Faix,' says I, 'it's little ye mind whether it's an or aff; for you
      never take the trouble to say, "By your leave," or "Damn your soul!" or
      any other politeness when we meet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You're an ungrateful creature,' says he; 'and if you only knew, you'd be
      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
      telling you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Telling me what?' says I; for I was getting curious to make out what he
      meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mickey,' says he, changing his voice, and putting his head down close to
      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
      corduroys he bought in the fair?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Oh, then, you are a could-hearted creature!' says he, 'and I'll not lose
      time with you.' With that he was going to ride away, when I took hold of
      the bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Father, darling,' says I, 'God pardon me, but them breeches is goin'
      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
      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 trotted along beside the priest's horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Father,' says I, 'how long will it be before they send him where you
      know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'It will not be long now,' says he, 'for they're tired entirely with him;
      they've no peace night or day,' says he. 'Mickey, your father is a mighty
      hard man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'True for you, Father Roach,' says I to myself; 'av he had only the ould
      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 great disgrace to a decent family.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Troth, it is,' says I; 'but my father always liked low company. Could
      nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?' says I, looking up in the
      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
      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
      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
      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;
      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
      him out?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Now you talk like a sensible man,' says he. 'Now, Mickey, I've hopes for
      you. Let me see,' here he went countin' upon his fingers, and numberin' to
      himself for five minutes. 'Mickey,' says he, 'I've a batch coming out on
      Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father
      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,
      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
      bringing things to a focus.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Two Masses in the morning, fastin',' says Father Roach, half aloud, 'is
      two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,' says
      he; 'six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses,&mdash;say
      sixty,' says he; 'and they'll cost you&mdash;mind, Mickey, and don't be
      telling it again, for 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
      rock of Cashel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I'm sorry for ye, Mickey,' says he, gatherin' up the reins to ride off,&mdash;'I'm
      sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your 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 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 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
      give you the money, but I can't afford it all at onst; but I'll pay five
      shillings a week. Will that do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I'll do my endayvors,' says Father Roach; 'and I'll speak to them to
      treat him peaceably in the meantime.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Long life to yer reverence, and do. Well, here now, here's five hogs to
      begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I'd be spending my loose
      change that way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Father Roach put the six tinpinnies in the pocket of his black leather
      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
      shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular; then I brought
      four and fourpence; then it came down to one and tenpence halfpenny, then
      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
      mighty displeased at the way you've been doing of late; and av ye kept yer
      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.
      But, Mickey, my man, with a little exertion, your father's business is
      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
      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
      yesterday evening, getting out Luke Kennedy's mother. Decent people the
      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 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
      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
      treated down there; that they was always jibin' and jeerin' him about <i>drink</i>,
      and fightin', and the course he led up here, and that it was a queer
      thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he was to be kept there so long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well,' says I, taking out the ten shillings and counting it with one
      hand, 'we must do our best, anyhow; and ye think this'll get him out
      surely?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I know it will,' says he; 'for when Luke's mother was leaving the place,
      and yer father saw the door open, he made a rush at it, and, be-gorra,
      before it was shut he got his head and one shoulder outside av it,&mdash;so
      that, ye see, a thrifle more'll do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Faix, and yer reverence,' says I, 'you've lightened my heart this
      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
      you seen, and that he got his head and one shoulder outside the door, oh,
      then, by the powers!' says I, 'the devil a jail or jailer from hell to
      Connaught id hould him. So, Father Roach, I wish you the top of the
      morning.' And I went away laughing; and from that day to this I never
      heard 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
      Harry Boyle, without assuming any of his usual precautions respecting
      silence and quiet, rushed into the room, a broad grin upon his honest
      features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed me
      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
      to tell you. Do you remember that very essenced young gentleman who
      accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of electioneering
      friend?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in some
      government department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor
      savages as much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry,
      as though we had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble
      Galwayans with some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual
      resolved to record them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his
      appetite for wonders I know not; but he was peaceably taking his departure
      from the west on Saturday last, when Phil Macnamara met him, and pressed
      him to dine that day with a few friends at his house. You know Phil; so
      that when I tell you Sam Burke, of Greenmount, and Roger Doolan were of
      the party, I need not say that the English traveller was not left to his
      own unassisted imagination for his facts. Such anecdotes of our habits and
      customs as they crammed him with, it would appear, never were heard
      before; nothing was too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who,
      when not sipping his claret, was faithfully recording in his tablet the
      mems. for a very brilliant and very original work on Ireland.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fine country, splendid country; glorious people,&mdash;gifted, brave,
      intelligent, but not happy,&mdash;alas! Mr. Macnamara, not happy. But we
      don't know you, gentlemen,&mdash;we don't indeed,&mdash;at the other side
      of the Channel. 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
      understanding ere long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such, my dear sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The facts I have
      heard here this evening have made so profound an impression upon me that I
      burn for the moment when I can make them known to the world at large. To
      think&mdash;just to think that a portion of this beautiful island should
      be steeped in poverty; that the people not only live upon the mere
      potatoes, but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr.
      Doolan has just mentioned to me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,' added Mr. Doolan, 'they
      being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for wearing
      apparel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I should deem myself culpable&mdash;indeed I should&mdash;did I not
      inform my countrymen upon the real condition of this great country.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, after your great opportunities for judging,' said Phil, 'you ought
      to speak out. You've seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few Englishmen
      have, and heard more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'That's it,&mdash;that's the very thing, Mr. Macnamara. I've looked at
      you more closely; I've watched you more narrowly; I've witnessed what the
      French call your <i>vie intime</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Begad you have,' said old Burke, with a grin, 'and profited by it to the
      utmost.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I've been a spectator of your election contests; I've partaken of your
      hospitality; I've witnessed your popular and national sports; I've been
      present at your weddings, your fairs, your wakes; but no,&mdash;I was
      forgetting,&mdash;I never saw a wake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never saw a wake?' repeated each of the company in turn, as though the
      gentleman was uttering a sentiment of very dubious veracity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never,' said Mr. Prettyman, rather abashed at this proof of his
      incapacity to instruct his English friends upon <i>all</i> matters of
      Irish interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, then,' said Macnamara, 'with a blessing, we'll show you one. Lord
      forbid that we shouldn't do the honors of our poor country to an
      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
      hereabouts?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Sorra one, yer honor. Since the scrimmage at Portumna the place is
      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
      decent corpse for to show a stranger,' said Peter, in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the
      neighborhood, and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, then, Peter, tell Jimmy Divine to take the old musket in my
      bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh bog,&mdash;he can't go wrong. There's
      twelve families there that never pay a halfpenny rent; and <i>when it's
      done</i>, let 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 the cockney, with a face like a ghost.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I only mean to say,' said Phil, laughing, 'that you're keeping the
      decanter very long at your right hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask any
      explanation of what he had just heard,&mdash;and for some minutes he could
      only wait in impatient anxiety,&mdash;when a loud report of a gun close
      beside the house attracted the attention of the guests. The next moment
      old Peter 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
      of the neighbors; and he hadn't to go far, for Andy Moore was going home,
      and he brought him down at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Did he shoot him?' said Mr. Prettyman, while cold perspiration broke
      over his forehead. 'Did he murder the man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Sorra murder,' said Peter, disdainfully. 'But why shouldn't he shoot him
      when the master bid him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I needn't tell you more, Charley; but in ten minutes after, feigning some
      excuse to leave the room, the terrified cockney took flight, and offering
      twenty guineas for a horse to convey him to Athlone, he left Galway, fully
      convinced that they don't yet know us on the other side of the Channel."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE JOURNEY.
    </p>
    <p>
      The election concluded, the turmoil and excitement of the contest over,
      all was fast resuming its accustomed routine around us, when one morning
      my uncle informed me that I was at length to leave my native county and
      enter upon the great world as a student of Trinity College, Dublin.
      Although long since in expectation of this eventful change, it was with no
      slight feeling of emotion I contemplated the step which, removing me at
      once from all my early friends and associations, was to surround me with
      new companions and new influences, and place before me very different
      objects of ambition from those I had hitherto been regarding.
    </p>
    <p>
      My destiny had been long ago decided. The army had had its share of the
      family, who brought little more back with them from the wars than a short
      allowance of members and shattered constitutions; the navy had proved, on
      more than one occasion, that the fate of the O'Malleys did not incline to
      hanging; so that, in Irish estimation, but one alternative remained, and
      that was the bar. Besides, as my uncle remarked, with great truth and
      foresight, "Charley will be tolerably independent of the public, at all
      events; for even if they never send him a brief, there's law enough in the
      family to last <i>his</i> time,"&mdash;a rather novel reason, by-the-bye,
      for making a man a lawyer, and which induced Sir Harry, with his usual
      clearness, to observe to me:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my conscience, boy, you are in luck. If there had been a Bible in
      the 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
      determination respecting me. He set forth, with an eloquence that
      certainly converted <i>me</i>, that my head was better calculated for
      bearing hard knocks than unravelling knotty points, that a shako would
      become it infinitely better than a wig; and declared, roundly, that a boy
      who began so well and had such very pretty notions about shooting was
      positively thrown away in the Four Courts. My uncle, however, was firm,
      and as old Sir Harry supported him, the day was decided against us,
      Considine murmuring as he left the room something that did not seem quite
      a brilliant anticipation of the success awaiting me in my legal career. As
      for myself, though only a silent spectator of the debate, all my wishes
      were with the count. Prom my earliest boyhood a military life had been my
      strongest desire; the roll of the drum, and the shrill fife that played
      through the little village, with its ragged troop of recruits following,
      had charms for me I cannot describe; and had a choice been allowed me, I
      would infinitely rather have been a sergeant in the dragoons than one of
      his Majesty's learned in the law. If, then, such had been the cherished
      feeling of many a year, how much more strongly were my aspirations
      heightened by the events of the last few days. The tone of superiority I
      had witnessed in Hammersley, whose conduct to me at parting had placed him
      high in my esteem; the quiet contempt of civilians implied in a thousand
      sly ways; the exalted estimate of his own profession,&mdash;at once
      wounded my pride and stimulated my ambition; and lastly, more than all,
      the avowed preference that Lucy Dashwood evinced for a military life, were
      stronger allies than my own conviction needed to make me long for the
      army. So completely did the thought possess me that I felt, if I were not
      a soldier, I cared not what became of me. Life had no other object of
      ambition for me than military renown, no other success for which I cared
      to struggle, or would value when obtained. "<i>Aut Caesar aut nullus</i>,"
      thought I; and when my uncle determined I should be a lawyer, I neither
      murmured nor objected, but hugged myself in the prophecy of Considine that
      hinted pretty broadly, "the devil a stupider fellow ever 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
      be immediately despatched to Dublin to the care of Dr. Mooney, then a
      junior fellow in the University, who would take me into his especial
      charge; while Sir Harry was to furnish me with a letter to his old friend,
      Doctor Barret, whose advice and assistance he estimated at a very high
      price. Provided with such documents I was informed that the gates of
      knowledge were more than half ajar for me, without an effort upon my part.
      One only portion of all the arrangements I heard with anything like
      pleasure; it was decided that my man Mickey was to accompany me to Dublin,
      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 took my place upon the box-seat of the old Galway mail and set out on my
      journey. My heart was depressed, and my spirits were miserably low. I had
      all that feeling of sadness which leave-taking inspires, and no sustaining
      prospect to cheer me in the distance. For the first time in my life, I had
      seen a tear glisten in my poor uncle's eye, and heard his voice falter as
      he said, "Farewell!" Notwithstanding the difference of age, we had been
      perfectly companions together; and as I thought now over all the thousand
      kindnesses and affectionate instances of his love I had received, my heart
      gave way, and the tears coursed slowly down my cheeks. I turned to give
      one last look at the tall chimneys and the old woods, my earliest friends;
      but a turn of the road had shut out the prospect, and thus I took my leave
      of Galway.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friend Mickey, who sat behind with the guard, participated but little
      in my feelings of regret. The potatoes in the metropolis could scarcely be
      as wet as the lumpers in Scariff; he had heard that whiskey was not
      dearer, and looked forward to the other delights of the capital with a
      longing heart. Meanwhile, resolved that no portion of his career should be
      lost, he was lightening the road by anecdote and song, and held an
      audience of four people, a very crusty-looking old guard included, in
      roars of laughter. Mike had contrived, with his usual <i>savoir faire</i>,
      to make himself very agreeable to an extremely pretty-looking country
      girl, around whose waist he had most lovingly passed his arm under
      pretence of keeping her from falling, and to whom, in the midst of all his
      attentions to the party at large, he devoted himself considerably,
      pressing his suit with all the aid 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>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    'Oh, Mary Brady, you are my darlin',
    You are my looking-glass from night till morning;
    I'd rayther have ye without one farthen,
    Nor Shusey Gallagher and her house and garden.'
</pre>
    <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
      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
      intercourse with the Athlone attorney. The poor countryman accordingly
      hastened through the fence and pursued the coach with all speed for above
      a mile, Mike pretending all the time to be in the greatest anxiety for his
      overtaking them, until at last, as he stopped in despair, a hearty roar of
      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
      sixpence."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he filled a little horn vessel from a black bottle he carried,
      accompanying the action with a song, the air to which, if any of my
      readers feel disposed to sing it, I may observe, bore a resemblance to the
      well-known, "A Fig for Saint Denis of France."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.

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

    They talk of the Romans of ould,
      Whom they say in their own times was frisky;
    But trust me, to keep out the cowld,
      The Romans at home here like whiskey.
    Sure it warms both the head and the heart,
      It's the soul of all readin' and writin';
    It teaches both science and art,
      And disposes for love or for fightin'.
               Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.
</pre>
    <p>
      This very classic production, and the black bottle which accompanied it,
      completely established the singer's pre-eminence in the company; and I
      heard sundry sounds resembling drinking, with frequent good wishes to the
      provider of the feast,&mdash;"Long life to ye, Mr. Free," "Your health and
      inclinations, Mr. Free," etc.; to which Mr. Free responded by drinking
      those of the company, "av they were vartuous." The amicable relations thus
      happily established promised a very lasting reign, and would doubtless
      have enjoyed such, had not a slight incident occurred which for a brief
      season interrupted them. At the village where we stopped to breakfast,
      three very venerable figures presented themselves for places in the inside
      of the coach; they were habited in black coats, breeches, and gaiters,
      wore hats of a very ecclesiastic breadth in their brim, and had altogether
      the peculiar air and bearing which distinguishes their calling, being no
      less than three Roman Catholic prelates on their way to Dublin to attend a
      convocation. While Mickey and his friends, with the ready tact which every
      low Irishman possesses, immediately perceived who and what these
      worshipful individuals were, another traveller who had just assumed his
      place on the outside participated but little in the feelings of reverence
      so manifestly displayed, but gave a sneer of a very ominous kind as the
      skirt of the last black coat disappeared within the coach. This latter
      individual was a short, thick-set, bandy-legged man of about fifty, with
      an enormous nose, which, whatever its habitual coloring, on the morning in
      question was of a brilliant purple. He wore a blue coat with bright
      buttons, upon which some letters were inscribed; and around his neck was
      fastened a ribbon of the same color, to which a medal was attached. This
      he displayed with something of ostentation whenever an opportunity
      occurred, and seemed altogether a person who possessed a most satisfactory
      impression of his own importance. In fact, had not this feeling been
      participated in by others, Mr. Billy Crow would never have been deputed by
      No. 13,476 to carry their warrant down to the west country, and establish
      the nucleus of an Orange Lodge in the town of Foxleigh; such being, in
      brief, the reason why he, a very well known manufacturer of "leather
      continuations" in Dublin, had ventured upon the perilous journey from
      which he was now returning. Billy was going on his way to town rejoicing,
      for he had had most brilliant success: the brethren had feasted and fêted
      him; he had made several splendid orations, with the usual number of
      prophecies about the speedy downfall of Romanism, the inevitable return of
      Protestant ascendancy, the pleasing prospect that with increased effort
      and improved organization they should soon be able to have everything
      their own way, and clear the Green Isle of the horrible vermin Saint
      Patrick forgot when banishing the others; and that if Daniel O'Connell
      (whom might the Lord confound!) could only be hanged, and Sir Harcourt
      Lees made Primate of all Ireland, there were still some hopes of peace and
      prosperity to the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Crow had no sooner assumed his place upon the coach than he saw that
      he was in the camp of the enemy. Happily for all parties, indeed, in
      Ireland, political differences have so completely stamped the externals of
      each party that he must be a man of small penetration who cannot, in the
      first five minutes he is thrown among strangers, calculate with
      considerable certainty whether it will be more conducive to his happiness
      to sing, "Croppies Lie Down," or "The Battle of Ross." As for Billy Crow,
      long life to him! you might as well attempt to pass a turkey upon M.
      Audubon for a giraffe, as endeavor to impose a Papist upon him for a true
      follower of King William. He could have given you more generic
      distinctions to guide you in the decision than ever did Cuvier to
      designate an antediluvian mammoth; so that no sooner had he seated himself
      upon the coach than he buttoned up his great-coat, stuck his hands firmly
      in his side-pockets, pursed up his lips, and looked altogether like a man
      that, feeling himself out of his element, resolves to "bide his time" in
      patience until chance may throw him among more congenial associates.
      Mickey Free, who was himself no mean proficient in reading a character, at
      one glance saw his man, and began hammering his brains to see if he could
      not overreach him. The small portmanteau which contained Billy's wardrobe
      bore the conspicuous announcement of his name; and as Mickey could read,
      this was one important step already gained.
    </p>
    <p>
      He accordingly took the first opportunity of seating himself beside him,
      and opened the conversation by some very polite observation upon the
      other's wearing apparel, which is always in the west considered a piece of
      very courteous attention. By degrees the dialogue prospered, and Mickey
      began to make some very important revelations about himself and his
      master, intimating that the "state of the country" was such that a man of
      his way of thinking had no peace or quiet in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's him there, forenent ye," said Mickey, "and a better Protestant
      never hated Mass. Ye understand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Billy, unbuttoning the collar of his coat to get a fairer
      view 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
      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
      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 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
      would cast reflections upon such real out-and-outers as they are. And
      where are they going now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To Dublin straight; there's to be a grand lodge next week. But sure Mr.
      Crow knows better than me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Billy after this became silent. A moody revery seemed to steal over him;
      and he was evidently displeased with himself for his want of tact in not
      discovering the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash, though he only caught
      sight of their backs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mickey Free interrupted not the frame of mind in which he saw conviction
      was slowly working its way, but by gently humming in an undertone the
      loyal melody of "Croppies Lie Down," fanned the flame he had so
      dexterously kindled. At length they reached the small town of Kinnegad.
      While the coach changed horses, Mr. Crow lost not a moment in descending
      from the top, and rushing into the little inn, disappeared for a few
      moments. When he again issued forth, he carried a smoking tumbler of
      whiskey punch, which he continued to stir with a spoon. As he approached
      the coach-door he tapped gently with his knuckles; upon which the reverend
      prelate of Maronia, or 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 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
      within.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand," said Billy, with a sly wink; "but there are circumstances
      now and then,&mdash;and one might for the honor of the cause, you know.
      Just put it to your lips, won't you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Excuse me," said a very rosy-cheeked little prelate, "but nothing
      stronger than water&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Botheration," thought Billy, as he regarded the speaker's nose. "But I
      thought," said he, aloud, "that you would not refuse this."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he made a peculiar manifestation in the air, which, whatever respect
      and reverence it might carry to the honest brethren of 13,476, seemed only
      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
      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; here's 'No surrender,' your souls! whoop&mdash;" a loud yell
      accompanying the 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
      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,
      who, supposing that the three Mr. Trenches were skulking the avowal of
      their principles, resolved to assert the pre-eminence of the great cause
      single-handed and alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0126.jpg" alt="Mr. Crow Well Plucked. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <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
      ragged auditory, who for some time past had not well understood the gist
      of his eloquence, had at length comprehended enough to be angry. <i>Ce
      n'est que le premier pas qui coûte</i>, certainly, in an Irish row. "The
      merest urchin may light the train; one handful of mud often ignites a
      shindy that ends in a most bloody battle."
    </p>
    <p>
      And here, no sooner did the <i>vis-a-tergo</i> impel Billy forward than a
      severe rap of a closed fist in the eye drove him back, and in one instant
      he became the centre to a periphery of kicks, cuffs, pullings, and
      haulings 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
      off, which it did at last without him, the last thing visible to the
      outsides was the figure of Mr. Crow,&mdash;whose hat, minus the crown, had
      been driven over his head down upon his neck, where it remained like a
      dress cravat,&mdash;buffeting a mob of ragged vagabonds who had so
      completely metamorphosed the unfortunate man with mud and bruises that a
      committee of 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
      except the respectable insides, there was not an individual about the
      coach who ceased to think of and laugh at the incident till we arrived in
      Dublin and drew up at the Hibernian in Dawson Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      DUBLIN.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had I arrived in Dublin than my first care was to present myself
      to Dr. Mooney, by whom I was received in the most cordial manner. In fact,
      in my utter ignorance of such persons, I had imagined a college fellow to
      be a character necessarily severe and unbending; and as the only two very
      great people I had ever seen in my life were the Archbishop of Tuam and
      the chief-baron when on circuit, I pictured to myself that a university
      fellow was, in all probability, a cross between the two, and feared him
      accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor read over my uncle's letter attentively, invited me to partake
      of his breakfast, and then entered upon something like an account of the
      life before me; for which Sir Harry Boyle had, however, in some degree
      prepared me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your uncle, I find, wishes you to live in college,&mdash;perhaps it is
      better, too,&mdash;so that I must look out for chambers for you. Let me
      see: it will be rather difficult, just now, to find them." Here he fell
      for some moments into a musing fit, and merely muttered a few broken
      sentences, as: "To be sure, if other chambers could be had&mdash;but then&mdash;and
      after all, perhaps, as he is young&mdash;besides, Frank will certainly be
      expelled before long, and then he will have them all to himself. I say,
      O'Malley, I believe I must quarter you for the present with a rather wild
      companion; but as your uncle says you're a prudent fellow,"&mdash;here he
      smiled very much, as if my uncle had not said any such thing,&mdash;"why,
      you must only take the better care of yourself until we can make some
      better arrangement. My pupil, Frank Webber, is at this moment in want of a
      'chum,' as the phrase is,&mdash;his last three having only been
      domesticated with him for as many weeks; so that until we 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
      companion was a young man of excellent family and good fortune who, with
      very considerable talents and acquirements, preferred a life of rackety
      and careless dissipation to prospects of great success in public life,
      which his connection and family might have secured for him. That he had
      been originally entered at Oxford, which he was obliged to leave; then
      tried Cambridge, from which he escaped expulsion by being rusticated,&mdash;that
      is, having incurred a sentence of temporary banishment; and lastly, was
      endeavoring, with what he himself believed to be a total reformation, to
      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,
      having lost every examination, with abilities enough to sweep the
      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
      where, up the first floor left, to use the college direction, stood the
      name of Mr. Webber, a large No. 2 being conspicuously painted in the
      middle of the door and not over it, as is usually the custom. As we
      reached the spot, the observations of my companion were lost to me in the
      tremendous noise and uproar that resounded from within. It seemed as if a
      number of people were fighting pretty much as a banditti in a melodrama
      do, with considerable more of confusion than requisite; a fiddle and a
      French horn also lent their assistance to shouts and cries which, to say
      the best, were 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,
      when at last, as the jingle of it rose above all other noises, suddenly
      all became hushed and still; a momentary pause succeeded, and the door was
      opened by a very respectable looking servant who, recognizing the doctor,
      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 softly cushioned sofas contrasted strangely with the meagre and
      comfortless chambers of the doctor, sat a young man at a small
      breakfast-table beside the fire. He was attired in a silk dressing-gown
      and black velvet slippers, and supported his forehead upon a hand of most
      lady-like whiteness, whose fingers were absolutely covered with rings of
      great beauty and price. His long silky brown hair fell in rich profusion
      upon the back of his neck and over his arm, and the whole air and attitude
      was one which a painter might have copied. So intent was he upon the
      volume before him that he never raised his head at our approach, but
      continued to read aloud, totally unaware of our presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dr. Mooney, sir," said the servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>"Ton dapamey bominos, prosephe, crione Agamemnon"</i> repeated the
      student, 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 looked around on every side for an explanation of the late uproar,
      with a face of the most puzzled astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>"Be dakiown para thina dolekoskion enkos"</i> said Mr. Webber,
      finishing a 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 insinuating voice, while the speaker passed his taper fingers across
      his 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
      the restless and searching look he threw around, that the fracas he had so
      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
      air of almost timid bashfulness. "The doctor, I know, breakfasts at a very
      early hour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Webber," said the doctor, who could no longer restrain his
      curiosity, "what an awful row I heard here as I came up to the door. I
      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 with the uproar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, indeed, it is very provoking; but then, what's to be done? One can't
      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,
      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,
      gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perfectly," said the doctor, now wound up to the greatest anxiety to
      learn 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
      dean?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Too true," said Mr. Webber, making a sign of drinking,&mdash;"too true,
      Doctor. And then, the moment he is so, he begins smashing the furniture.
      Never was anything heard like it. As for me, as I am now become a reading
      man, I must go elsewhere."
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, it so chanced that the worthy dean, who albeit a man of most
      abstemious habits, possessed a nose which, in color and development, was a
      most unfortunate witness to call to character, and as Mooney heard Webber
      narrate circumstantially the frightful excesses of the great functionary,
      I saw that something like conviction was stealing over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You'll, of course, never speak of this except to your most intimate
      friends," said Webber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course not," said the doctor, as he shook his hand warmly, and
      prepared to leave the room. "O'Malley, I leave you here," said he; "Webber
      and you can talk over your arrangements."
    </p>
    <p>
      Webber followed the doctor to the door, whispered something in his ear, to
      which the other replied, "Very well, I will write; but if your father
      sends the money, I must insist&mdash;" The rest was lost in protestations
      and professions of the most fervent kind, amidst which the door was shut,
      and Mr. Webber returned to the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Short as was the interspace from the door without to the room within, it
      was still ample enough to effect a very thorough and remarkable change in
      the whole external appearance of Mr. Frank Webber; for scarcely had the
      oaken panel shut out the doctor, when he appeared no longer the shy,
      timid, and silvery-toned gentleman of five minutes before, but dashing
      boldly forward, he seized a key-bugle that lay hid beneath a sofa-cushion
      and blew a tremendous blast.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0132.jpg" alt="Frank Webber at his Studies. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Come forth, ye demons of the lower world," said he, drawing a cloth from
      a large table, and discovering the figures of three young men coiled up
      beneath. "Come forth, and fear not, most timorous freshmen that ye are,"
      said he, unlocking a pantry, and liberating two others. "Gentlemen, let me
      introduce to your acquaintance Mr. O'Malley. My chum, gentlemen. Mr.
      O'Malley, that is Harry Nesbitt, who has been in college since the days of
      old Perpendicular, and numbers more cautions than any man who ever had his
      name on the books. Here is my particular friend, Cecil Cavendish, the only
      man who could ever devil kidneys. Captain Power, Mr. O'Malley, a dashing
      dragoon, as you see; aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant,
      and love-maker-general to Merrion Square West. These," said he, pointing
      to the late denizens of the pantry, "are jibs whose names are neither
      known to the proctor nor the police-office; but with due regard to their
      education and morals, we don't despair."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By no means," said Power; "but come, let us resume our game." At these
      words he took a folio atlas of maps from a small table, and displayed
      beneath a pack of cards, dealt as if for whist. The two gentlemen to whom
      I was introduced by name returned to their places; the unknown two put on
      their boxing gloves, and all resumed the hilarity which Dr. Mooney's
      advent had so suddenly interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where's Moore?" said Webber, as he once more seated himself at his
      breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Making a spatch-cock, sir," said the servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same instant, a little, dapper, jovial-looking personage appeared
      with the dish in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. O'Malley, Mr. Moore, the gentleman who, by repeated remonstrances to
      the board, has succeeded in getting eatable food for the inhabitants of
      this penitentiary, and has the honored reputation of reforming the commons
      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
      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
      he pinked Bodkin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, indeed," said Power, not turning his head from his game, "a pretty
      shot, I heard,&mdash;two by honors,&mdash;and hit him fairly,&mdash;the
      odd trick. 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 say, Webber, you've lost the rubber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Double or quit, and a dinner at Dunleary," said Webber. "We must show
      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
      spatch-cock, returned to their gloves; Mr. Moore took up his violin; Mr.
      Webber his French horn; and I was left the only unemployed man in the
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Power, you'd better bring the drag over here for us; we can all go
      down together."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must inform you," said Cavendish, "that, thanks to your philanthropic
      efforts of last night, the passage from Grafton Street to Stephen's Green
      is impracticable." A tremendous roar of laughter followed this
      announcement; and though at the time the cause was unknown to me, I may as
      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
      an extraordinary fancy for street-begging. He had, over and over, won
      large sums upon his success in that difficult walk; and so perfect were
      his disguises,&mdash;both of dress, voice, and manner,&mdash;that he
      actually at one time succeeded in obtaining charity from his very opponent
      in the wager. He wrote ballads with the greatest facility, and sang them
      with infinite pathos and humor; and the old woman at the corner of College
      Green was certain of an audience when the severity of the night would
      leave all other minstrelsy deserted. As these feats of <i>jonglerie</i>
      usually terminated in a row, it was a most amusing part of the transaction
      to see the singer's part taken by the mob against the college men, who,
      growing impatient to carry him off to supper somewhere, would invariably
      be obliged to have a fight for the booty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now it chanced that a few evenings before, Mr. Webber was returning with a
      pocket well lined with copper from a musical <i>reunion</i> he had held at
      the corner of York Street, when the idea struck him to stop at the end of
      Grafton Street, where a huge stone grating at that time exhibited&mdash;perhaps
      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
      large bars of stone between which the muddy water was rushing rapidly down
      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
      invitation to others to do likewise which is rarely unaccepted; but when
      in addition to this you stand fixedly in one spot and regard with stern
      intensity any object near you, the chances are ten to one that you have
      several companions in your curiosity before a minute expires.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Webber, who had at first stood still without any peculiar thought in
      view, no sooner perceived that he was joined by others than the idea of
      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
      dress, pulling at the hood of his cloak. "And can't you see for yourself,
      darling?" replied he, sharply, as he knelt down and looked most intensely
      at the sewer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are ye long there, avick?" inquired he of an imaginary individual below,
      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
      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
      questions on every side; and various surmises were afloat till Webber,
      rising from his knees, said, in a mysterious whisper, to those nearest
      him, "He's made his escape to-night out o' Newgate by the big drain, and
      lost 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
      his claim upon their sympathy; but let him be caught in the very act of
      cheating the authorities and evading the law, and his popularity knows no
      bounds. Webber knew this well, and as the mob thickened around him
      sustained an imaginary conversation that Savage Landor might have envied,
      imparting now and then such hints concerning the runaway as raised their
      interest to the highest pitch, and fifty different versions were related
      on all sides,&mdash;of the crime he was guilty of, the sentence that was
      passed on him, and the day he was to suffer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you see the light, dear?" said Webber, as some ingeniously benevolent
      individual had lowered down a candle with a string,&mdash;"do ye see the
      light? Oh, he's fainted, the creature!" A cry of horror burst forth from
      the crowd at these words, followed by a universal shout of, "Break open
      the street."
    </p>
    <p>
      Pickaxes, shovels, spades, and crowbars seemed absolutely the walking
      accompaniments of the crowd, so suddenly did they appear upon the field of
      action; and the work of exhumation was begun with a vigor that speedily
      covered nearly half of the street with mud and paving-stones. Parties
      relieved each other at the task, and ere half an hour a hole capable of
      containing a mail-coach was yawning in one of the most frequented
      thoroughfares of Dublin. Meanwhile, as no appearance of the culprit could
      be had, dreadful conjectures as to his fate began to gain ground. By this
      time the authorities had received intimation of what was going forward,
      and attempted to disperse the crowd; but Webber, who still continued to
      conduct the prosecution, called on them to resist the police and save the
      poor creature. And now began a most terrific fray: the stones, forming a
      ready weapon, were hurled at the unprepared constables, who on their side
      fought manfully, but against superior numbers; so that at last it was only
      by the aid of a military force the mob could be dispersed, and a riot
      which had assumed a very serious character got under. Meanwhile Webber had
      reached his chambers, changed his costume, and was relating over a
      supper-table the 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
      heard of him, I relate it here that my readers may be in possession of the
      grounds upon which my opinion of that celebrated character was founded,
      while yet our acquaintance was in its infancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      CAPTAIN POWER.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within a few weeks after my arrival in town I had become a matriculated
      student of the university, and the possessor of chambers within its walls
      in conjunction with the sage and prudent gentleman I have introduced to my
      readers in the last chapter. Had my intentions on entering college been of
      the most studious and regular kind, the companion into whose society I was
      then immediately thrown would have quickly dissipated them. He voted
      morning chapels a bore, Greek lectures a humbug, examinations a farce, and
      pronounced the statute-book, with its attendant train of fines and
      punishment, an "unclean thing." With all my country habits and
      predilections fresh upon me, that I was an easily-won disciple to his code
      need not be wondered at; and indeed ere many days had passed over, my
      thorough indifference to all college rules and regulations had given me a
      high place in the esteem of Webber and his friends. As for myself, I was
      most agreeably surprised to find that what I had looked forward to as a
      very melancholy banishment, was likely to prove a most agreeable sojourn.
      Under Webber's directions there was no hour of the day that hung heavily
      upon our hands. We rose about eleven and breakfasted, after which
      succeeded fencing, sparring, billiards, or tennis in the park; about
      three, got on horseback, and either cantered in the Phoenix or about the
      squares till visiting time; after which, made our calls, and then dressed
      for dinner, which we never thought of taking at commons, but had it from
      Morrison's,&mdash;we both being reported sick in the dean's list, and
      thereby exempt from the routine fare of the fellows' table. In the evening
      our occupations became still more pressing; there were balls, suppers,
      whist parties, rows at the theatre, shindies in the street, devilled
      drumsticks at Hayes's, select oyster parties at the Carlingford,&mdash;in
      fact, every known method of remaining up all night, and appearing both
      pale and penitent the following morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Webber had a large acquaintance in Dublin, and soon made me known to them
      all. Among others, the officers of the &mdash;th Light Dragoons, in which
      regiment Power was captain, were his particular friends; and we had
      frequent invitations to dine at their mess. There it was first that
      military life presented itself to me in its most attractive possible form,
      and heightened the passion I had already so strongly conceived for the
      army. Power, above all others, took my fancy. He was a gay,
      dashing-looking, handsome fellow of about eight-and-twenty, who had
      already seen some service, having joined while his regiment was in
      Portugal; was in heart and soul a soldier; and had that species of pride
      and enthusiasm in all that regarded a military career that forms no small
      part of the charm 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 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
      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
      another day; my companion has most urgent reasons for seeing you. I see
      you are puzzled," said he; "and although I promised to keep his secret, I
      must blab. It was Sir George Dashwood was with me; he told us of your most
      romantic adventure in the west,&mdash;and faith there is no doubt you
      saved the lady's life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was she worth the trouble of it?" said the old major, whose conjugal
      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
      man will follow my example."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the hip-hipping which followed the toast was over, I found myself
      enjoying no small share of the attention of the party as the deliverer of
      Lucy Dashwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir George is cudgelling his brain to show his gratitude to you," said
      Power.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a pity, for the sake of his peace of mind, that you're not in the
      army," said another; "it's so easy to show a man a delicate regard by a
      quick promotion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A devil of a pity for his own sake, too," said Power, again; "they're
      going to make a lawyer of as strapping a fellow as ever carried a
      sabretasche."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A lawyer!" cried out half a dozen together, pretty much with the same
      tone and emphasis as though he had said a twopenny postman; "the devil
      they are."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Cut the service at once; you'll get no promotion in it," said the
      colonel; "a fellow with a black eye like you would look much better at the
      head of a squadron than of a string of witnesses. Trust me, you'd shine
      more in 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
      it was only for O'Malley's use and benefit, as we say in the parchments, I
      must tell you the story."
    </p>
    <p>
      The claret was pushed briskly round, chairs drawn up to fill any vacant
      spaces, and Power began his story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As I am not over long-winded, don't be scared at my beginning my history
      somewhat far back. I began life that most unlucky of all earthly
      contrivances for supplying casualties in case anything may befall the heir
      of the house,&mdash;a species of domestic jury-mast, only lugged out in a
      gale of wind,&mdash;a younger son. My brother Tom, a thick-skulled,
      pudding-headed dog, that had no taste for anything save his dinner, took
      it into his wise head one morning that he would go into the army, and
      although I had been originally destined for a soldier, no sooner was his
      choice made than all regard for my taste and inclination was forgotten;
      and as the family interest was only enough for one, it was decided that I
      should be put in what is called a 'learned profession,' and let push my
      fortune. 'Take your choice, Dick,' said my father, with a most benign
      smile,&mdash;'take your 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
      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
      philanthropist, he might have scrupled at making me a physician; but as he
      had lost deeply by law-suits, there looked something very like a lurking
      malice in sending me to the bar. Now, so far, I concurred with him; for
      having no gift for enduring either sermons or senna, I thought I'd make a
      bad administrator of either, and as I was ever regarded in the family as
      rather of a shrewd and quick turn, with a very natural taste for roguery,
      I 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 that they could have got rid of me. A certain ambition to rise in
      my profession laid hold on me, and I meditated all day and night how I was
      to get on. Every trick, every subtle invention to cheat the enemy that I
      could read of, I treasured up carefully, being fully impressed with the
      notion 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
      laundresses, cross-examining the cook, charging the under-butler, and
      passing sentence of death upon the pantry boy, who, I may add, was
      invariably hanged when the court rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If the mutton were overdone, or the turkey burned, I drew up an
      indictment against old Margaret, and against the kitchen-maid as
      accomplice, and the family hungered while I harangued; and, in fact, into
      such disrepute did I bring the legal profession, by the score of annoyance
      of which I made it the vehicle, that my father got a kind of holy horror
      of law courts, judges, and crown solicitors, and absented himself from the
      assizes the same year, for which, being a high sheriff, he paid a penalty
      of five hundred pounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The next day I was sent off in disgrace to Dublin to begin my career in
      college, and eat the usual quartos and folios of beef and mutton which
      qualify a man for the woolsack.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Years rolled over, in which, after an ineffectual effort to get through
      college, the only examination I ever got being a jubilee for the king's
      birthday, I was at length called to the Irish bar, and saluted by my
      friends as Counsellor Power. The whole thing was so like a joke to me that
      it kept me in laughter for three terms; and in fact it was the best thing
      could happen me, for I had nothing else to do. The hall of the Four Courts
      was a very pleasant lounge; plenty of agreeable fellows that never earned
      sixpence or were likely to do so. Then the circuits were so many country
      excursions, that supplied fun of one kind or other, but no profit. As for
      me, I was what was called a good junior. I knew how to look after the
      waiters, to inspect the decanting of the wine and the airing of the
      claret, and was always attentive to the father of the circuit,&mdash;the
      crossest old villain that ever was a king's counsel. These eminent
      qualities, and my being able to sing a song in honor of our own bar, were
      recommendations 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
      to wonder that I never got a brief. Somehow, if it rained civil bills or
      declarations, devil a one would fall upon my head; and it seemed as if the
      only object I had in life was to accompany the circuit, a kind of
      deputy-assistant commissary-general, never expected to come into action.
      To be sure, I was not alone in misfortune; there were several promising
      youths, who cut great figures in Trinity, in the same predicament, the
      only difference being, that they attributed to jealousy what I suspected
      was forgetfulness, for I don't think a single attorney in Dublin knew one
      of us.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two years passed over, and then I walked the hall with a bag filled with
      newspapers to look like briefs, and was regularly called by two or three
      criers from one court to the other. It never took. Even when I used to
      seduce a country friend to visit the courts, and get him into an animated
      conversation in a corner between two pillars, devil a one would believe
      him 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
      eternal question to myself every morning, as I put on my wig. 'My face is
      as well known here as Lord Manners's.' Every one says, 'How are you,
      Dick?' 'How goes it, Power?' But except Holmes, that said one morning as
      he passed me, 'Eh, always busy?' no one alludes to the possibility of my
      having anything to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'If I could only get a footing,' thought I, 'Lord, how I'd astonish them!
      As the song says:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Perhaps a recruit
    Might chance to shoo
      Great General Buonaparté."
</pre>
    <p>
      So,' said I to myself, 'I'll make these halls ring for it some day or
      other, if the occasion ever present itself.' But, faith, it seemed as if
      some cunning solicitor overheard me and told his associates, for they
      avoided me like a leprosy. The home circuit I had adopted for some time
      past, for the very palpable reason that being near town it was least
      costly, and it had all the advantages of any other for me in getting me
      nothing to do. Well, one morning we were in Philipstown; I was lying awake
      in bed, thinking how long it would be before I'd sum up resolution to cut
      the bar, where certainly my prospects were not the most cheering, when
      some 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 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 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 as junior counsel in the important case of Monaghan <i>v</i>.
      M'Shean, to be tried in the Record Court at Ballinasloe. 'That will do,'
      said I, flinging it on the bed with a careless air, as if it were a very
      every-day matter with me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'But Counsellor, darlin', give us a thrifle to dhrink your health with
      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
      simplicity; 'I'm worn out with them. Do you know, Peter, I was thinking
      seriously of leaving the bar, when you came into the room? Upon my
      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
      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
      ecstasy; there it lay at last, the long looked-for, long wished-for object
      of all my happiness, and though I well knew that a junior counsel has
      about as much to do in the conducting of a case as a rusty handspike has
      in a naval engagement, yet I suffered not such thoughts to mar the current
      of my happiness. There was my name in conjunction with the two mighty
      leaders on the circuit; and though they each pocketed a hundred, I doubt
      very much if they received their briefs with one half the satisfaction. My
      joy at length a little subdued, I opened the roll of paper and began
      carefully to peruse about fifty pages of narrative regarding a watercourse
      that once had turned a mill; but, from some reasons doubtless known to
      itself or its friends, would do so no longer, and thus set two respectable
      neighbors at loggerheads, and involved them in a record that had been now
      heard three several times.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite forgetting the subordinate part I was destined to fill, I opened
      the case in a most flowery oration, in which I descanted upon the benefits
      accruing to mankind from water-communication since the days of Noah;
      remarking upon the antiquity of mills, and especially of millers, and
      consumed half an hour in a preamble of generalities that I hoped would
      make a very considerable impression upon the court. Just at the critical
      moment when I was about to enter more particularly into the case, three or
      four of the great unbriefed came rattling into my room, and broke in upon
      the oration.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I say, Power,' said one, 'come and have an hour's skating on the canal;
      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
      question; see, I am chained to a devilish knotty case with Kinshella and
      Mills.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Confound your humbugging,' said another, 'that may do very well in
      Dublin for the attorneys, but not with us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I don't well understand you,' I replied; 'there is the brief. Hennesy
      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
      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,
      and pronounced it a real brief, with a degree of surprise that certainly
      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
      document, spreading it out before me upon the table, and surveying it as a
      newly-anointed sovereign might be supposed to contemplate a map of his
      dominions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'At last,' said I to myself,&mdash;'at last, and here is the footstep to
      the woolsack.' For more than an hour I sat motionless, my eyes fixed upon
      the outspread paper, lost in a very maze of revery. The ambition which
      disappointments had crushed, and delay had chilled, came suddenly back,
      and all my day-dreams of legal success, my cherished aspirations after
      silk gowns and patents of precedence, rushed once more upon me, and I was
      resolved to do or die. Alas, a very little reflection showed me that the
      latter was perfectly practicable; but that, as a junior counsel, five
      minutes of very common-place recitation was all my province, and with the
      main business of the day I had about as much to do as the call-boy of a
      playhouse has with the success of a tragedy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'My Lord, this is an action brought by Timothy Higgin,' etc., and down I
      go, no more to be remembered and thought of than if I had never existed.
      How different it would be if I were the leader! Zounds, how I would worry
      the witnesses, browbeat the evidence, cajole the jury, and soften the
      judges! If the Lord were, in His mercy, to remove old Mills and Kinshella
      before Tuesday, who knows but my fortune might be made? This supposition
      once started, set me speculating upon all the possible chances that might
      cut off two king's counsel in three days, and left me fairly convinced
      that 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
      the second day, I sat moodily over my pint of port, in the Clonbrock Arms,
      with my friend Timothy Casey, Captain in the North Cork Militia, for my
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dick,' said Tim, 'take off your wine, man. When does this confounded
      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
      enough, never be afraid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Alas!' said I, 'you don't understand the cause of my depression.' I here
      entered upon an account of my sorrows, which lasted for above an hour, and
      only concluded just as a tremendous noise in the street without announced
      an arrival. For several minutes such was the excitement in the house, such
      running hither and thither, such confusion, and such hubbub, that we could
      not make out who had arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At last a door opened quite near us, and we saw the waiter assisting a
      very portly-looking gentleman off with his great-coat, assuring him the
      while that if he would only walk into the coffee-room for ten minutes, the
      fire in his apartment should be got ready. The stranger accordingly
      entered and seated himself at the fireplace, having never noticed that
      Casey and 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
      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
      suddenly changed his whispering tone for one in a louder key, and resumed:
      'I say, Power, it will make some work for you lawyers. But who can she be?
      that's the question.' Here he took a much crumpled letter from his pocket,
      and pretended to read: '"A great sensation was created in the neighborhood
      of Merrion Square, yesterday, by the sudden disappearance from her house
      of the handsome Mrs. &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;." Confound it!&mdash;what's the
      name? What a hand he writes! Hill, or Miles, or something like that,&mdash;"the
      lady of an eminent barrister, now on circuit. The gay Lothario is, they
      say, the Hon. George &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;."' I was so thunderstruck at
      the rashness of the stroke, I could say nothing; while the old gentleman
      started as if he had sat down on a pin. Casey, meanwhile, went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Hell and fury!' said the king's counsel, rushing over, 'what is it
      you're saying?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You appear warm, old gentleman,' said Casey, putting up the letter and
      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 good one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Do you know me, sir? Answer me that,' said the lawyer, bursting with
      passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Not at present,' said Tim, quietly; 'but I hope to do so in the morning
      in explanation of your language and conduct.' A tremendous ringing of the
      bell here summoned the waiter to the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Who is that&mdash;' inquired the lawyer. The epithet he judged it safe
      to 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 in the morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Then you refuse, sir, to explain the paragraph I have just heard you
      read?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well done, old gentleman; so you have been listening to a private
      conversation I held with my friend here. In that case we had better retire
      to our room.' So saying, he ordered the waiter to send a fresh bottle and
      glasses to No. 14, and taking my arm, very politely wished Mr. Mills
      good-night, and left the coffee-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Before we had reached the top of the stairs the house was once more in
      commotion. The new arrival had ordered out fresh horses, and was hurrying
      every one in his impatience to get away. In ten minutes the chaise rolled
      off from the door; and Casey, putting his head out of the window, wished
      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
      fight the other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The port was soon despatched, and with it went all the scruples of
      conscience I had at first felt for the cruel <i>ruse</i> we had just
      practised. Scarcely was the other bottle called for when we heard the
      landlord calling 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
      minutes,&mdash;d'ye hear? Power, my boy, I don't want you; stay here and
      study your brief. It's little trouble Counsellor Kinshella will give you
      in the morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "All he would tell me of his plans was that he didn't mean any serious
      bodily harm to the counsellor, but that certainly he was not likely to be
      heard of for twenty-four hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Meanwhile, Power, go in and win, my boy,' said he; 'such another walk
      over may never occur.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must not make my story longer. The next morning the great record of
      Monaghan <i>v</i>. M'Shean was called on; and as the senior counsel were
      not present, the attorney wished a postponement. I, however, was firm;
      told the court I was quite prepared, and with such an air of assurance
      that I actually puzzled the attorney. The case was accordingly opened by
      me in a very brilliant speech, and the witnesses called; but such was my
      unlucky ignorance of the whole matter that I actually broke down the
      testimony of our own, and fought like a Trojan, for the credit and
      character of the perjurers against us! The judge rubbed his eyes; the jury
      looked amazed; and the whole bar laughed outright. However, on I went,
      blundering, floundering, and foundering at every step; and at half-past
      four, amidst the greatest and most uproarious mirth of the whole court,
      heard the jury deliver a verdict against us, just as old Kinshella rushed
      into the court covered with mud and spattered with clay. He had been sent
      for twenty miles to make a will for Mr. Daly, of Daly's Mount, who was
      supposed to be at the point of death, but who, on his arrival, threatened
      to shoot him for 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
      profession. I cut the bar, for it cut me. I joined the gallant 14th as a
      volunteer; and here I am without a single regret, I must confess, that I
      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
      story, many an anecdote of military life was told, as every instant
      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
      behind him; "and now let's have a song."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, Power," said three or four together; "let us have 'The Irish
      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 chant to the air of "Love is the Soul of a gay Irishman":&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    THE IRISH DRAGOON.

    Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon
    In battle, in bivouac, or in saloon,
      From the tip of his spur to his bright sabretasche.
    With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,
    His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye,
    He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,
    He springs in his saddle and <i>chasses</i> the French,
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.

    His spirits are high, and he little knows care,
    Whether sipping his claret or charging a square,
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
    As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found,
    To take off his wine or to take up his ground;
    When the bugle may call him, how little he fears
    To charge forth in column and beat the Mounseers,
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.

    When the battle is over, he gayly rides back
    To cheer every soul in the night bivouac,
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
    Oh, there you may see him in full glory crowned,
    As he sits 'midst his friends on the hardly won ground,
    And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,
    As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live,
      With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was late when we broke up; but among all the recollections of that
      pleasant evening none clung to me so forcibly, none sank so deeply in my
      heart, as the gay and careless tone of Power's manly voice; and as I fell
      asleep towards morning, the words of "The Irish Dragoon" were floating
      through my mind and followed me in my dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE VICE-PROVOST.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had now been for some weeks a resident within the walls of the
      university, and yet had never presented my letter of introduction to Dr.
      Barret. Somehow, my thoughts and occupations had left me little leisure to
      reflect upon my college course, and I had not felt the necessity suggested
      by my friend Sir Harry, of having a supporter in the very learned and
      gifted individual to whom I was accredited. How long I might have
      continued in this state of indifference it is hard to say, when chance
      brought about my acquaintance with the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Were I not inditing a true history in this narrative of my life, to the
      events and characters of which so many are living witnesses, I should
      certainly fear to attempt anything like a description of this very
      remarkable man; so liable would any sketch, however faint and imperfect,
      be 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,
      scarcely five feet in height, and even that diminutive stature lessened by
      a stoop. His face was thin, pointed, and russet-colored; his nose so
      aquiline as nearly to meet his projecting chin, and his small gray eyes,
      red and bleary, peered beneath his well-worn cap with a glance of mingled
      fear and suspicion. His dress was a suit of the rustiest black,
      threadbare, and patched in several places, while a pair of large brown
      leather slippers, far too big for his feet, imparted a sliding motion to
      his walk that added an air of indescribable meanness to his appearance; a
      gown that had been worn for twenty years, browned and coated with the
      learned dust of the <i>Fagel</i>, covered his rusty habiliments, and
      completed the equipments of a figure that it was somewhat difficult for
      the young student to recognize as the vice-provost of the university. Such
      was he in externals. Within, a greater or more profound scholar never
      graced the walls of the college; a distinguished Grecian, learned in all
      the refinements of a hundred dialects; a deep Orientalist, cunning in all
      the varieties of Eastern languages, and able to reason with a Moonshee, or
      chat with a Persian ambassador. With a mind that never ceased acquiring,
      he possessed a memory ridiculous for its retentiveness, even of trifles;
      no character in history, no event in chronology was unknown to him, and he
      was referred to by his contemporaries for information in doubtful and
      disputed cases, as men consult a lexicon or dictionary. With an intellect
      thus stored with deep and far-sought knowledge, in the affairs of the
      world he was a child. Without the walls of the college, for above forty
      years, he had not ventured half as many times, and knew absolutely nothing
      of the busy, active world that fussed and fumed so near him; his farthest
      excursion was to the Bank of Ireland, to which he made occasional visits
      to fund the ample income of his office, and add to the wealth which
      already had 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
      manners, in every respect exactly as when he entered college nearly half a
      century before; and as he had literally risen from the ranks in the
      university, all the peculiarities of voice, accent, and pronunciation
      which distinguished him as a youth, adhered to him in old age. This was
      singular enough, and formed a very ludicrous contrast with the learned and
      deep-read tone of his conversation; but another peculiarity, still more
      striking, belonged to him. When he became a fellow, he was obliged, by the
      rules of the college, to take holy orders as a <i>sine qua non</i> to his
      holding his fellowship. This he did, as he would have assumed a red hood
      or blue one, as bachelor of laws or doctor of medicine, and thought no
      more of it; but frequently, in his moments of passionate excitement, the
      venerable character with which he was invested was quite forgotten, and he
      would utter some sudden and terrific oath, more productive of mirth to his
      auditors than was seemly, and for which, once spoken, the poor doctor felt
      the greatest shame and contrition. These oaths were no less singular than
      forcible; and many a trick was practised, and many a plan devised, that
      the learned vice-provost might be entrapped into his favorite exclamation
      of, "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
      all the originals about him, was the cause of my first meeting the doctor,
      before whom I received a summons to appear on the very serious charge of
      treating with disrespect the heads of the college.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circumstances were shortly these: Mike had, among the other gossip of
      the place, heard frequent tales of the immense wealth and great parsimony
      of the doctor, and of his anxiety to amass money on all occasions, and the
      avidity with which even the smallest trifle was added to his gains. He
      accordingly resolved to amuse himself at the expense of this trait, and
      proceeded thus. Boring a hole in a halfpenny, he attached a long string to
      it, and having dropped it on the doctor's step stationed himself on the
      opposite side of the court, concealed from view by the angle of the
      Commons' wall. He waited patiently for the chapel bell, at the first toll
      of which the door opened, and the doctor issued forth. Scarcely was his
      foot upon the step, when he saw the piece of money, and as quickly stooped
      to seize it; but just as his finger had nearly touched it, it evaded his
      grasp and slowly retreated. He tried again, but with the like success. At
      last, thinking he had miscalculated the distance, he knelt leisurely down,
      and put forth his hand, but lo! it again escaped him; on which, slowly
      rising from his posture, he shambled on towards the chapel, where, meeting
      the senior lecturer at the door, he cried out, "H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; to
      my soul, Wall, but I saw the halfpenny walk away!"
    </p>
    <p>
      For the sake of the grave character whom he addressed, I need not recount
      how such a speech was received; suffice it to say, that Mike had been seen
      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
      breakfast in my rooms, when a summons arrived, requiring my immediate
      attendance at the board, then sitting in solemn conclave at the
      examination hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      I accordingly assumed my academic costume as speedily as possible, and
      escorted by that most august functionary, Mr. M'Alister, presented myself
      before the seniors.
    </p>
    <p>
      The members of the board, with the provost at their head, were seated at a
      long oak table covered with books, papers, etc., and from the silence they
      maintained as I walked up the hall, I augured that a very solemn scene was
      before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. O'Malley," said the dean, reading my name from a paper he held in his
      hand, "you have been summoned here at the desire of the vice-provost,
      whose questions you will reply to."
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed. A silence of a few minutes followed, when, at length, the learned
      doctor, hitching up his nether garments with both hands, put his old and
      bleary eyes close to my face, while he croaked out, with an accent that no
      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
      books."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's thrue; but there were three O'Malleys before you. Godfrey
      O'Malley, that construed <i>Calve Neroni</i> to Nero the Calvinist,&mdash;ha!
      ha! ha!&mdash;was 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 every day on the punishment roll. Late hours, never at
      chapel, seldom at 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
      keep numerous beasts of prey, dangerous in their habits, and unseemly to
      behold."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A bull terrier, sir, and two game-cocks, are, I assure you, the only
      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 cannot impose a penalty in this matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, but I can. 'Singing-birds,' says the statute, 'are forbidden within
      the wall.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And then, ye dazzled my eyes at Commons with a bit of looking-glass, on
      Friday. I saw you. May the devil!&mdash;ahem! As I was saying, that's
      casting <i>reflections</i> on the heads of the college; and your servant
      it was, <i>Michaelis Liber</i>, Mickey Free,&mdash;may the flames of!&mdash;ahem!&mdash;an
      insolent 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,
      and there wasn't another sweep in the place but myself. Hell to!&mdash;I
      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,
      notwithstanding the august presence of the board, to try the efficacy of
      Sir Harry's letter of introduction, which I had taken in my pocket in the
      event of its being wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I beg your pardon, sir, if the time be an unsuitable one; but may I take
      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 friend; and assist him by your advice.' To be sure! Oh, of
      course. Eh, tell me, young man, did Boyle say nothing to you about the
      copy of Erasmus, 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; 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 money? Ay! half-a-crown. I haven't twopence&mdash;never mind. Go away,
      young man; the case is dismissed. <i>Vehementer miror quare hue venisti</i>.
      You're more fit for anything than a college life. Keep good hours; mind
      the terms; and dismiss <i>Michaelis Liber</i>. Ha, ha, ha! May the devil!&mdash;hem!&mdash;that
      is do&mdash;" So saying, the little doctor's hand pushed me from the hall,
      his mind evidently relieved of all the griefs from which he had been
      suffering, by 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
      impression upon me that all the intervening years have neither dimmed nor
      erased.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      TRINITY COLLEGE.&mdash;A LECTURE.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not been many weeks a resident of Old Trinity ere the flattering
      reputation my chum, Mr. Francis Webber, had acquired, extended also to
      myself; and by universal consent, we were acknowledged the most riotous,
      ill-conducted, disorderly men on the books of the university. Were the
      lamps of the squares extinguished, and the college left in total darkness,
      we were summoned before the dean; was the vice-provost serenaded with a
      chorus of trombones and French horns, to our taste in music was the
      attention ascribed; did a sudden alarm of fire disturb the congregation at
      morning chapel, Messrs. Webber and O'Malley were brought before the board,&mdash;and
      I must do them the justice to say that the most trifling circumstantial
      evidence was ever sufficient to bring a conviction. Reading men avoided
      the building where we resided as they would have done the plague. Our
      doors, like those of a certain classic precinct commemorated by a Latin
      writer, lay open night and day, while mustached dragoons, knowingly
      dressed four-in-hand men, fox-hunters in pink, issuing forth to the Dubber
      or returning splashed from a run with the Kildare hounds, were
      everlastingly seen passing and repassing. Within, the noise and confusion
      resembled rather the mess-room of a regiment towards eleven at night than
      the chambers of a college student; while, with the double object of
      affecting to be in ill-health, and to avoid the reflections that daylight
      occasionally inspires, the shutters were never opened, but lamps and
      candles kept always burning. Such was No. 2, Old Square, in the goodly
      days I write of. All the terrors of fines and punishments fell scathless
      on the head of my worthy chum. In fact, like a well-known political
      character, whose pleasure and amusement it has been for some years past to
      drive through acts of Parliament and deride the powers of the law, so did
      Mr. Webber tread his way, serpenting through the statute-book, ever
      grazing, but rarely trespassing upon some forbidden ground which might
      involve the great punishment of expulsion. So expert, too, had he become
      in his special pleadings, so dexterous in the law of the university, that
      it was no easy matter to bring crime home to him; and even when this was
      done, his pleas of mitigation rarely failed of success.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a sweetness of demeanor, a mild, subdued tone about him, that
      constantly puzzled the worthy heads of the college how the accusations
      ever brought against him could be founded on truth; that the pale,
      delicate-looking student, whose harsh, hacking cough terrified the
      hearers, could be the boisterous performer upon a key-bugle, or the
      terrific assailant of watchmen, was something too absurd for belief. And
      when Mr. Webber, with his hand upon his heart, and in his most dulcet
      accents, assured them that the hours he was not engaged in reading for the
      medal were passed in the soothing society of a few select and intimate
      friends of literary tastes and refined minds, who, knowing the delicacy of
      his health,&mdash;here he would cough,&mdash;were kind enough to sit up
      with him for an hour or so in the evening, the delusion was perfect; and
      the story of the 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
      was nothing he did not do; training a hack for a race in the Phoenix,
      arranging a rowing-match, getting up a mock duel between two white-feather
      acquaintances, were his almost daily avocations. Besides that, he was at
      the head of many organized societies, instituted for various benevolent
      purposes. One was called "The Association for Discountenancing Watchmen;"
      another, "The Board of Works," whose object was principally devoted to the
      embellishment of the university, in which, to do them justice, their
      labors were unceasing, and what with the assistance of some black paint, a
      ladder, and a few pounds of gunpowder, they certainly contrived to effect
      many important changes. Upon an examination morning, some hundred luckless
      "jibs" might be seen perambulating the courts, in the vain effort to
      discover their tutors' chambers, the names having undergone an alteration
      that left all trace of their original proprietors unattainable: Doctor
      Francis Mooney having become Doctor Full Moon; Doctor Hare being, by the
      change of two letters, Doctor Ape; Romney Robinson, Romulus and Remus,
      etc. While, upon occasions like these, there could be but little doubt of
      Master Frank's intentions, upon many others, so subtle were his
      inventions, so well-contrived his plots, it became a matter of
      considerable difficulty to say whether the mishap which befell some
      luckless acquaintance were the result of design or mere accident; and not
      unfrequently well-disposed individuals were found condoling with "Poor
      Frank" upon his ignorance of some college rule or etiquette, his breach of
      which had been long and deliberately planned. Of this latter description
      was a circumstance which occurred about this time, and which some who may
      throw an eye over these pages will perhaps remember.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dean, having heard (and, indeed, the preparations were not intended to
      secure secrecy) that Webber destined to entertain a party of his friends
      at dinner on a certain day, sent a peremptory order for his appearance at
      Commons, his name being erased from the sick list, and a pretty strong
      hint conveyed to him that any evasion upon his part would be certainly
      followed by an inquiry into the real reasons for his absence. What was to
      be done? That was the very day he had destined for his dinner. To be sure,
      the majority of his guests were college men, who would understand the
      difficulty at once; but still there were some others, officers of the
      14th, with whom he was constantly dining, and whom he could not so easily
      put off. The affair was difficult, but still Webber was the man for a
      difficulty; in fact, he rather liked one. A very brief consideration
      accordingly sufficed, and he sat down and wrote to his friends at the
      Royal Barracks thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                                               Saturday.
    DEAR POWER,&mdash;I have a better plan for Tuesday than that I
    had proposed. Lunch here at three (we'll call it dinner), in the hall
    with the great guns. I can't say much for the grub; but the
    company&mdash;glorious!
    After that we'll start for Lucan in the drag; take
    our coffee, strawberries, etc., and return to No. 2 for supper at ten.
    Advertise your fellows of this change, and believe me,

    Most unchangeably yours, FRANK WEBBER.
</pre>
    <p>
      Accordingly, as three o'clock struck, six dashing-looking light dragoons
      were seen slowly sauntering up the middle of the dining-hall, escorted by
      Webber, who, in full academic costume, was leisurely ciceroning his
      friends, and expatiating upon the excellences of the very remarkable
      portraits which graced the walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      The porters looked on with some surprise at the singular hour selected for
      sight-seeing; but what was their astonishment to find that the party,
      having arrived at the end of the hall, instead of turning back again, very
      composedly unbuckled their belts, and having disposed of their sabres in a
      corner, took their places at the Fellows' table, and sat down amidst the
      collective wisdom of Greek lecturers and Regius professors, as though they
      had been mere mortals like themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely was the long Latin grace concluded, when Webber, leaning forward,
      enjoined his friends, in a very audible whisper, that if they intended to
      dine no time was to be lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have but little ceremony here, gentlemen, and all we ask is a fair
      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
      usually teaches, made himself master of some neighboring dish, a very
      quick interchange of good things speedily following the appropriation. It
      was in vain that the senior lecturer looked aghast, that the professor of
      astronomy frowned. The whole table, indeed, were thunderstruck, even to
      the poor vice-provost himself, who, albeit given to the comforts of the
      table, could not lift a morsel to his mouth, but muttered between his
      teeth, "May the devil admire me, but they're dragoons!" The first shock of
      surprise over, the porters proceeded to inform them that except Fellows of
      the University or Fellow-commoners, none were admitted to the table.
      Webber however assured them that it was a mistake, there being nothing in
      the statute to exclude the 14th Light Dragoons, as he was prepared to
      prove. Meanwhile dinner proceeded, Power and his party performing with
      great self-satisfaction upon the sirloins and saddles about them,
      regretting only, from time to time, that there was a most unaccountable
      absence of wine, and suggesting the propriety of napkins whenever they
      should dine there again. Whatever chagrin these unexpected guests caused
      among their entertainers of the upper table, in the lower part of the hall
      the laughter was loud and unceasing; and long before the hour concluded,
      the Fellows took their departure, leaving to Master Frank Webber the task
      of doing the honors alone and unassisted. When summoned before the board
      for the offence on the following morning, Webber excused himself by
      throwing the blame upon his friends, with whom, he said, nothing short of
      a personal quarrel&mdash;a thing for a reading man not to be thought of&mdash;could
      have prevented intruding in the manner related. Nothing less than <i>his</i>
      tact could have saved him on this occasion, and at last he carried the
      day; while by an act of the board the 14th Light Dragoons were pronounced
      the most insolent corps in the service.
    </p>
    <p>
      An adventure of his, however, got wind about this time, and served to
      enlighten many persons as to his real character, who had hitherto been
      most lenient in their expressions about him. Our worthy tutor, with a zeal
      for our welfare far more praiseworthy than successful, was in the habit of
      summoning to his chambers, on certain mornings of the week, his various
      pupils, whom he lectured in the books for the approaching examinations.
      Now, as these séances were held at six o'clock in winter as well as
      summer, in a cold fireless chamber,&mdash;the lecturer lying snug amidst
      his blankets, while we stood shivering around the walls,&mdash;the ardor
      of learning must indeed have proved strong that prompted a regular
      attendance. As to Frank, he would have as soon thought of attending chapel
      as of presenting himself on such an occasion. Not so with me. I had not
      yet grown hackneyed enough to fly in the face of authority, and I
      frequently left the whist-table, or broke off in a song, to hurry over to
      the doctor's chambers and spout Homer and Hesiod. I suffered on in
      patience, till at last the bore became so insupportable that I told my
      sorrows to my friend, who listened to me out, and promised me succor.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so chanced that upon some evening in each week Dr. Mooney was in the
      habit of visiting some friends who resided a short distance from town, and
      spending the night at their house. He, of course, did not lecture the
      following morning,&mdash;a paper placard, announcing no lecture, being
      affixed to the door on such occasions. Frank waited patiently till he
      perceived the doctor affixing this announcement upon his door one evening;
      and no sooner 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, waited the arrival of the venerable damsel who acted as servant
      to the doctor. No sooner had she opened the door and groped her way into
      the sitting-room than Frank crept forward, and stealing gently into the
      bedroom, sprang into the bed and wrapped himself up in the blankets. The
      great bell boomed forth at six o'clock, and soon after the sounds of the
      feet were heard upon the stairs. One by one they came along, and gradually
      the room was filled with cold and shivering wretches, more than half
      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 or four times in succession and turned in the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Collisson, O'Malley, Nesbitt," etc., said a number of voices, anxious to
      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
      capacity; and were he only to apply, I am not certain to what eminence his
      abilities might raise him. Come, Collisson, any three angles of a triangle
      are equal to&mdash;are equal to&mdash;what are they equal to?" Here he
      yawned as though he would dislocate his jaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Any three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles," said
      Collisson, in the usual sing-song tone of a freshman.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he proceeded to prove the proposition, his monotonous tone seemed to
      have lulled the doctor into a doze, for in a few minutes a deep,
      long-drawn snore announced from the closed curtains that he listened no
      longer. After a little time, however, a short snort from the sleeper awoke
      him suddenly, and he called out, "Go on, I'm waiting. Do you think I can
      arouse at this hour of the morning for nothing but to listen to your
      bungling? Can no one give me a free translation of the passage?"
    </p>
    <p>
      This digression from mathematics to classics did not surprise the hearers,
      though it somewhat confused them, no one being precisely aware what the
      line in question might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Try it, Nesbitt,&mdash;you, O'Malley. Silent all? Really this is too
      bad!" An indistinct muttering here from the crowd was followed by an
      announcement from the doctor that the speaker was an ass, and his head a
      turnip! "Not one of you capable of translating a chorus from Euripides,&mdash;'Ou,
      ou, papai, papai,' etc.; which, after all, means no more than, 'Oh,
      whilleleu, murder, why did you die!' etc. What are you laughing at,
      gentlemen? May I ask, does it become a set of ignorant, ill-informed
      savages&mdash;yes, savages, I repeat the word&mdash;to behave in this
      manner? Webber is the only man I have with common intellect,&mdash;the
      only man among you capable of distinguishing himself. But as for you, I'll
      bring you before the board; I'll write to your friends; I'll stop your
      college indulgences; I'll confine you to the walls; I'll be damned, eh&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      This lapse confused him. He stammered, stuttered, endeavored to recover
      himself; but by this time we had approached the bed, just at the moment
      when Master Frank, well knowing what he might expect if detected, had
      bolted from the blankets and rushed from the room. In an instant we were
      in pursuit; but he regained his chambers, and double-locked the door
      before we could overtake him, leaving us to ponder over the insolent
      tirade we had so patiently submitted to.
    </p>
    <p>
      That morning the affair got wind all over college. As for us, we were
      scarcely so much laughed at as the doctor; the world wisely remembering,
      if such were the nature of our morning's orisons, we might nearly as
      profitably have remained snug in our quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was our life in Old Trinity; and strange enough it is that one should
      feel tempted to the confession, but I really must acknowledge these were,
      after all, happy times, and I look back upon them with mingled pleasure
      and sadness. The noble lord who so pathetically lamented that the devil
      was not so strong in him as he used to be forty years before, has an echo
      in my regrets that the student is not as young in me as when these scenes
      were enacting of which I write.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE INVITATION.&mdash;THE WAGER.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, a few mornings after the mess
      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 from Sir George, to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand
      civil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not at
      home when you called yesterday, and all that. By Jove, I know nothing like
      the favor you stand in; and as for Miss Dashwood, faith! the fair Lucy
      blushed, and tore her glove in most approved style, when the old general
      began his 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
      conscious. But I must tell you, in all fairness, that you have no chance;
      nothing short of a dragoon will go down."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be assured," said I, somewhat nettled, "my pretensions do not aspire to
      the fair Miss Dashwood."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Tant mieux et tant pis, mon cher</i>. I wish to Heaven mine did; and,
      by Saint Patrick, if I only played the knight-errant half as gallantly as
      yourself, I would not relinquish my claims to the Secretary at War
      himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil brought the old general down to your wild regions?"
      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
      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 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
      soul!&mdash;came west of the Shannon; she had a large property somewhere
      in Mayo, and owned some hundred acres of swamp, with some thousand
      starving tenantry thereupon, that people dignified as an estate in
      Connaught. This first suggested to him the notion of setting up for the
      county, probably supposing that the people who never paid in rent might
      like to do so in gratitude. How he was undeceived, O'Malley there can
      inform us. Indeed, I believe the worthy general, who was confoundedly hard
      up when he married, expected to have got a great fortune, and little
      anticipated the three chancery suits he succeeded to, nor the fourteen
      rent-charges to his wife's relatives that made up the bulk of the dower.
      It was an unlucky hit for him when he fell in with the old 'maid' at Bath;
      and had she lived, he must have gone to the colonies. But the Lord took
      her one day, and Major Dashwood was himself again. The Duke of York, the
      story goes, saw him at Hounslow during a review, was much struck with his
      air and appearance, made some inquiries, found him to be of excellent
      family and irreproachable conduct, made him an aide-de-camp, and, in fact,
      made his fortune. I do not believe that, while doing so kind, he could by
      possibility have done a more popular thing. Every man in the army rejoiced
      at his good fortune; so that, after all, though he has had some hard rubs,
      he has come well through, the only vestige of his unfortunate matrimonial
      connection being a correspondence kept up by a maiden sister of his late
      wife's with him. She insists upon claiming the ties of kindred upon about
      twenty family eras during the year, when she regularly writes a most
      loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing the latest information from
      Mayo, with all particulars of the Macan family, of which she is a worthy
      member. To her constant hints of the acceptable nature of certain small
      remittances, the poor general is never inattentive; but to the pleasing
      prospect of a visit in the flesh from Miss Judy Macan, the good man is
      dead. In fact, nothing short of being broke by general court-martial could
      complete his sensations of horror at such a stroke of fortune; and I am
      not certain, if choice were allowed him, 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
      blessing, the prospect of which, however remote and unlikely, has, I know
      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
      there from <i>my</i> chambers, and never notices the other man, the
      superior in 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
      not. I am, as I have ever been, the most easy fellow in the world on that
      score, never give myself airs to military people, endure anything,
      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 a
      daughter, a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that budding,
      unsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions; and
      where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of a casual
      meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber? If he has not
      sought you out, then here be his apology."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A very strong case, certainly," said Frank; "but, still, had he confided
      his critical position to my honor and secrecy, he might have depended on
      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;
      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 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,
      on <i>my</i> account."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. I not only shall go, but
      I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I shall be
      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 you say done?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked down-stairs for your
      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
      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 Sir George Dashwood's hospitality as to make an insult to his family
      the subject of a bet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not refuse my
      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 myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own
      interference; for 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
      the looking-glass. "Well, now, who's for Howth? The drag will be here in
      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
      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
      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
      my pasteboard, I returned to the college.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE BALL.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have often dressed for a storming party with less of trepidation than I
      felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood's ball. Since the eventful day
      of the election I had never seen Miss Dashwood; therefore, as to what
      precise position I might occupy in her favor was a matter of great doubt
      in my mind, and great import to my happiness. That I myself loved her, was
      a matter of which all the badinage of my friends regarding her made me
      painfully conscious; but that, in our relative positions, such an
      attachment was all but hopeless, I could not disguise from myself. Young
      as I was, I well knew to what a heritage of debt, lawsuit, and difficulty
      I was born to succeed. In my own resources and means of advancement I had
      no confidence whatever, had even the profession to which I was destined
      been more of my choice. I daily felt that it demanded greater exertions,
      if not far greater abilities, than I could command, to make success at all
      likely; and then, even if such a result were in store, years, at least,
      must elapse before it could happen; and where would she then be, and where
      should I? Where the ardent affection I now felt and gloried in,&mdash;perhaps
      all the more for its desperate hopelessness,&mdash;when the sanguine and
      buoyant spirit to combat with difficulties which youth suggests, and
      which, later, manhood refuses, should have passed away? And even if all
      these survived the toil and labor of anxious days and painful nights, what
      of her? Alas, I now reflected that, although only of my own age, her
      manner to me had taken all that tone of superiority and patronage which an
      elder assumes towards one younger, and which, in the spirit of protection
      it proceeds upon, essentially bars up every inlet to a dearer or warmer
      feeling,&mdash;at least, when the lady plays the former part. "What, then,
      is to be done?" thought I. "Forget her?&mdash;but how? How shall I
      renounce all my plans, and unweave the web of life I have been spreading
      around me for many a day, without that one golden thread that lent it more
      than half its brilliancy and all its attraction? But then the alternative
      is even worse, if I encourage expectations and nurture hopes never to be
      realized. Well, we meet to-night, after a long and eventful absence; let
      my future fate be ruled by the results of this meeting. If Lucy Dashwood
      does care for me, if I can detect in her manner enough to show me that my
      affection may meet a return, the whole effort of my life shall be to make
      her mine; if not, if my own feelings be all that I have to depend upon to
      extort a reciprocal affection, then shall I take my last look of her, and
      with it the first and brightest dream of happiness my life has hitherto
      presented."
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      It need not be wondered at if the brilliant <i>coup d'oeil</i> of the
      ball-room, as I entered, struck me with astonishment, accustomed as I had
      hitherto been to nothing more magnificent than an evening party of squires
      and their squiresses or the annual garrison ball at the barracks. The
      glare of wax-lights, the well-furnished saloons, the glitter of uniforms,
      and the blaze of plumed and jewelled dames, with the clang of military
      music, was a species of enchanted atmosphere which, breathing for the
      first time, rarely fails to intoxicate. Never before had I seen so much
      beauty. Lovely faces, dressed in all the seductive flattery of smiles,
      were on every side; and as I walked from room to room, I felt how much
      more fatal to a man's peace and heart's ease the whispered words and
      silent glances of those fair damsels, than all the loud gayety and
      boisterous freedom of our country belles, who 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
      on every side for Lucy Dashwood, it was with a beating and anxious heart I
      longed to see how she would bear comparison with the blaze of beauty
      around.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at this moment a very gorgeously dressed hussar stepped from a
      doorway beside me, as if to make a passage for some one, and the next
      moment she appeared leaning upon the arm of another lady. One look was all
      that I had 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 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,
      will you do me the kindness to find out Sir George? Mr. O'Malley&mdash;Mr.
      Lechmere." Here she said something in French to her companion, but so
      rapidly that I could not detect what it was, but merely heard the reply,
      <i>"Pas mal!"</i>&mdash;which, as the lady continued to canvass me most
      deliberately through her eye-glass, I supposed referred to me. "And now,
      Captain Fortescue&mdash;" And with a look of most courteous kindness to me
      she disappeared in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman to whose guidance I was entrusted was one of the
      aides-de-camp, and was not long in finding Sir George. No sooner had the
      good old general heard my name, than he held out both his hands and shook
      mine most heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At last, O'Malley; at last I am able to thank you for the greatest
      service ever man rendered me. He saved Lucy, my Lord; rescued her under
      circumstances where anything short of his courage and determination must
      have cost her her life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, very pretty indeed," said a stiff old gentleman addressed, as he
      bowed a most superbly powdered scalp before me; "most happy to make your
      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
      hearing all my protestations of gratitude, sincere and heartfelt as they
      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
      me. "I say, Charley," cried he, "I have been tormented to death by half
      the ladies in the room to present you to them, and have been in quest of
      you this half-hour. Your brilliant exploit in savage land has made you a
      regular <i>preux chevalier</i>; and if you don't trade on that adventure
      to your most lasting profit, you deserve to be&mdash;a lawyer. Come along
      here! Lady Muckleman, the adjutant-general's lady and chief, has four
      Scotch daughters you are to dance with; then I am to introduce you in all
      form to the Dean of Something's niece,&mdash;she is a good-looking girl,
      and has two livings in a safe county. Then there's the town-major's wife;
      and, in fact, I have several engagements from this to supper-time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A thousand thanks for all your kindness in prospective, but I think,
      perhaps, it were right I should ask Miss Dashwood to dance, if only as a
      matter of form,&mdash;you understand?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if Miss Dashwood should say, 'With pleasure, sir,' only as a matter
      of form,&mdash;you understand?" said a silvery voice beside me. I turned,
      and saw Lucy Dashwood, who, having overheard my free-and-easy suggestion,
      replied to me in this manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      I here blundered out my excuses. What I said, and what I did not say, I do
      not now remember; but certainly, it was her turn now to blush, and her arm
      trembled within mine as I led her to the top of the room. In the little
      opportunity which our quadrille presented for conversation, I could not
      help remarking that, after the surprise of her first meeting with me, Miss
      Dashwood's manner became gradually more and more reserved, and that there
      was an evident struggle between her wish to appear grateful for what had
      occurred, with a sense of the necessity of not incurring a greater degree
      of intimacy. Such was my impression, at least, and such the conclusion I
      drew from a certain quiet tone in her manner that went further to wound my
      feelings and mar my happiness than any other line of conduct towards me
      could possibly have effected.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when Sir George
      came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every semblance
      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 I
      should alarm you in this way; but certainly, a more disagreeable <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
      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 participating, as he expected, in her father's feeling of distress,
      burst out a-laughing, while she said: "Why, really, Papa, I do not see why
      this should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a
      character, as 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
      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 here to-night,&mdash;is on her way this instant, perhaps. What is
      to be done? If she forces her way in here, I shall go deranged outright;
      O'Malley, my boy, read this note, and you will not feel surprised if I
      appear in the humor you see me."
    </p>
    <p>
      I took the billet from the hands of Miss Dashwood, and read as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    DEAR BROTHER,&mdash;When this reaches your hand, I'll not be far
    off. I'm on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould
    complaint. Cowley mistakes my case entirely; he says it's nothing
    but religion and wind. Father Magrath, who understands a good
    deal about females, thinks otherwise; but God knows who's right.
    Expect me to tea, and, with love to Lucy,
    Believe me, yours in haste,
    JUDITH MACAN.
</pre>
    <p>
      Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if you have a spare bed,
      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
      free-and-easy epistle; when at last I burst forth in a hearty fit, in
      which I was joined by Miss Dashwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the account Power had given me in the morning, I had no difficulty in
      guessing that the writer was the maiden sister of the late Lady Dashwood;
      and for whose relationship Sir George had ever testified the greatest
      dread, even at the distance of two hundred miles; and for whom, in any
      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
      woman does arrive, let her be shown to her room; and for the few days of
      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
      necessary instructions, when the door of the drawing-room was flung open,
      and the servant announced, in his loudest voice, "Miss Macan." Never shall
      I forget the poor general's look of horror as the words reached him; for
      as yet, he was too far to catch even a glimpse of its fair owner. As for
      me, I was already so much interested in seeing what she was like, that I
      made my way through the crowd towards the door. It is no common occurrence
      that can distract the various occupations of a crowded ball-room, where,
      amidst the crash of music and the din of conversation, goes on the soft,
      low voice of insinuating flattery, or the light flirtation of a first
      acquaintance; every clique, every coterie, every little group of three or
      four has its own separate and private interests, forming a little world of
      its own, and caring for and heeding nothing that goes on around; and even
      when some striking character or illustrious personage makes his <i>entrée</i>,
      the attention he attracts is so momentary, that the buzz of conversation
      is scarcely, if at all, interrupted, and the business of pleasure
      continues to flow on. Not so now, however. No sooner had the servant
      pronounced the magical name of Miss Macan, than all seemed to stand still.
      The spell thus exercised over the luckless general seemed to have extended
      to his company; for it was with difficulty that any one could continue his
      train of conversation, while every eye was directed towards the door.
      About two steps in advance of the servant, who still stood door in hand,
      was a tall, elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk, with
      enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered and
      turned back in the fashion of fifty years before; while her high-pointed
      and heeled shoes completed a costume that had not been seen for nearly a
      century. Her short, skinny arms were bare and partly covered by a falling
      flower of old point lace, while on her hands she wore black silk mittens;
      a pair of green spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most piercing
      pair of eyes, to whose effect a very palpable touch of rouge on the cheeks
      certainly added brilliancy. There stood this most singular apparition,
      holding before her a fan about the size of a modern tea-tray; while at
      each repetition of her name by the servant, she curtesied deeply,
      bestowing the while upon the gay crowd before her a very curious look of
      maidenly modesty at her solitary and unprotected position.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0174.jpg" alt="Miss Judy Macan. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      As no one had ever heard of the fair Judith, save one or two of Sir
      George's most intimate friends, the greater part of the company were
      disposed to regard Miss Macan as some one who had mistaken the character
      of the invitation, and had come in a fancy dress. But this delusion was
      but momentary, as Sir George, armed with the courage of despair, forced
      his way through the crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, bid her
      welcome to Dublin. The fair Judy, at this, threw her arms about his neck,
      and saluted 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,
      in an accent that told more of Miss Macan than a three-volume biography
      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
      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
      most <i>malapropos</i> addition to his party; but by degrees the various
      groups renewed their occupations, although many a smile, and more than one
      sarcastic glance at the sofa, betrayed that the maiden aunt had not
      escaped criticism.
    </p>
    <p>
      Power, whose propensity for fun very considerably out-stripped his sense
      of decorum to his commanding officer, had already made his way towards
      Miss 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
      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
      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, that he [<i>sob, sob, sob</i>]&mdash;oh, dear! oh, dear!
      is it for this I came up from my little peaceful place in the west [<i>sob,
      sob, sob</i>]?&mdash;General, George, dear; Lucy, my love, I'm taken bad.
      Oh, dear! oh, dear! is there any whiskey negus?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever sympathy Miss Macan's sufferings might have excited in the crowd
      about her before, this last question totally routed them, and a most
      hearty fit of laughter broke forth from more than one of the bystanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, however, she was comforted, and her pacification completely
      effected by Sir George setting her down to a whist-table. From this moment
      I lost sight of her for above two hours. Meanwhile I had little
      opportunity of following up my intimacy with Miss Dashwood, and as I
      rather suspected that, on more than one occasion, she seemed to avoid our
      meeting, I took 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
      there was such an evident embarrassment in her manner that I readily
      perceived how she felt circumstanced, and that the sense of gratitude to
      one whose further advances she might have feared, rendered her constrained
      and awkward. "Too true," said I, "she avoids me. My being here is only a
      source of discomfort and pain to her; therefore, I'll take my leave, and
      whatever it may cost me, never to return." With this intention, resolving
      to wish Sir George a very good night, I sought him out for some minutes.
      At length I saw him in a corner, conversing with the old nobleman to whom
      he had presented me early in the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, upon my honor, Sir George," said he; "I saw it myself, and she did
      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 me, 'Very extraordinary it is,&mdash;four by honors again.' So I
      looked, and then I perceived it,&mdash;a very old trick it is; but she did
      it beautifully. What's her name?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Some western name; I forget it," said the poor general, ready to die with
      shame.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Clever old woman, very!" said the old lord, taking a pinch of snuff; "but
      revokes too often."
    </p>
    <p>
      Supper was announced at this critical moment, and before I had further
      thought of my determination to escape, I felt myself hurried along in the
      crowd towards the staircase. The party immediately in front of me were
      Power and Miss Macan, who now appeared reconciled, and certainly testified
      most openly their mutual feelings of good-will.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Charley," whispered Power, as I came along, "it is capital fun,&mdash;never
      met anything equal to her; but the poor general will never live through
      it, and I'm certain of ten day's arrest for this night's 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
      presenting himself, and being refused the <i>entrée</i>, so that Master
      Frank has lost his money. Sit near us, I pray you, at supper. We must take
      care 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,
      and secured a corner at a side-table. Every supper on such an occasion as
      this is the same scene of solid white muslin, faded flowers, flushed
      faces, torn gloves, blushes, blanc-mange, cold chicken, jelly, sponge
      cakes, spooney young gentlemen doing the attentive, and watchful mammas
      calculating what precise degree of propinquity in the crush is safe or
      seasonable for their daughters to the mustached and unmarrying lovers
      beside them. There are always the same set of gratified elders, like the
      benchers in King's Inn, marched up to the head of the table, to eat,
      drink, and be happy, removed from the more profane looks and soft speeches
      of the younger part of the creation. Then there are the <i>hoi polloi</i>
      of outcasts, younger sons of younger brothers, tutors, governesses,
      portionless cousins, and curates, all formed in phalanx round the
      side-tables, whose primitive habits and simple tastes are evinced by their
      all eating off the same plate and drinking from nearly the same
      wine-glass,&mdash;too happy if some better-off acquaintance at the long
      table invites them to "wine," though the ceremony on their part is limited
      to the pantomime of drinking. To this miserable <i>tiers etat</i> I
      belonged, and bore my fate with unconcern; for, alas, my spirits were
      depressed and my heart heavy. Lucy's treatment of me was every moment
      before me, contrasted with her gay and courteous demeanor to all 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 pleasure, and her smile was enchantment itself. What would I not have
      given for one moment's explanation, as I took my leave forever!&mdash;one
      brief avowal of my unalterable, devoted love; for which I sought not nor
      expected 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
      revery. I was not long in detecting the speakers, who, with their backs
      turned to us, were seated at the great table discussing a very liberal
      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
      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
      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 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
      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 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 your finger, then."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's finger;
      "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
      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
      general could interfere, she had begun. How to explain the air I know not,
      for I never heard its name; but at the end of each verse a species of echo
      followed the last word that rendered it irresistibly ridiculous.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    THE WIDOW MALONE.

    Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    Who lived in the town of Athlone,
                                 Alone?
    Oh, she melted the hearts
    Of the swains in them parts,
    So lovely the Widow Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    So lovely the Widow Malone.

    Of lovers she had a full score,
                                 Or more;
    And fortunes they all had galore,
                                 In store;
    From the minister down
    To the clerk of the crown,
    All were courting the Widow Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    All were courting the Widow Malone.

    But so modest was Mrs. Malone,
                                 'T was known
    No one ever could see her alone,
                                 Ohone!
    Let them ogle and sigh,
    They could ne'er catch her eye,
    So bashful the Widow Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    So bashful the Widow Malone.

    Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare,
                                 How quare!
    It's little for blushin' they care
                                 Down there;
    Put his arm round her waist,
    Gave ten kisses at laste,
    "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
                                 My own;
    Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."

    And the widow they all thought so shy,
                                 My eye!
    Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,
                                 For why?
    But "Lucius," says she,
    "Since you've made now so free,
    You may marry your Mary Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    You may marry your Mary Malone."

    There's a moral contained in my song,
                                 Not wrong;
    And one comfort it's not very long,
                                 But strong;
    If for widows you die,
    Larn to <i>kiss, not</i> to <i>sigh</i>,
    For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
                                 Ohone!
    Oh, they're very like Mistress Malone.
</pre>
    <p>
      Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's; and certainly her
      desires as to the chorus were followed to the letter, for "The Widow
      Malone, ohone!" resounded from one end of the table to the other, amidst
      one universal shout of laughter. None could resist the ludicrous effect of
      her melody; and even poor Sir George, sinking under the disgrace of his
      relationship, which she had contrived to make public by frequent allusions
      to her "dear brother the general," yielded at last, and joined in the
      mirth 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 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
      address in your pocket-book."
    </p>
    <p>
      Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines,
      saying, as she handed it:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "There, now, don't read it here before the people; they'll think it mighty
      indelicate in me to make an appointment."
    </p>
    <p>
      Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan's carriage was
      announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir George Dashwood, who little flattered himself that his fair guest had
      any intention of departure, became now most considerately attentive,
      reminded her of the necessity of muffling against the night air, hoped she
      would escape cold, and wished her a most cordial good-night, with a
      promise of seeing her early the following day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding Power's ambition to engross the attention of the lady, Sir
      George himself saw her to her carriage, and only returned to the room as a
      group was collecting around the gallant captain, to whom he was relating
      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, written her address on my card, told me the hour she is certain
      of being alone. See here!" At these words he pulled forth the card, and
      handed it to Lechmere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely were the eyes of the other thrown upon the writing, when he said,
      "So, this isn't it, Power."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure it is, man," said Power. "Anne Street is devilish seedy, but
      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>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    DEAR P.,&mdash;

    Please pay to my credit,&mdash;and soon, mark ye!&mdash;the two ponies
    lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your
    ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa, and walked into the cunning
    Fred Power.               Yours,
                                 FRANK WEBBER.
    "The Widow Malone, ohone!" is at your service.
</pre>
    <p>
      Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, his astonishment could not have
      equalled the result of this revelation. He stamped, swore, raved, laughed,
      and almost went deranged. The joke was soon spread through the room, and
      from Sir George to poor Lucy, now covered with blushes at her part in the
      transaction, all was laughter and astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is he? That is the question," said Sir George, who, with all the
      ridicule of the affair hanging over him, felt no common relief at the
      discovery of the imposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A friend of O'Malley's," said Power, delighted, in his defeat, to involve
      another with himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed!" said the general, regarding me with a look of a very mingled
      cast.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite true, sir," said I, replying to the accusation that his manner
      implied; "but equally so, that I neither knew of his plot nor recognized
      him when here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am perfectly sure of it, my boy," said the general; "and, after all, it
      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
      further assurance that he felt not the least annoyed, the general turned
      to converse with some other friends; while I, burning with indignation
      against Webber, took a cold farewell of Miss Dashwood, and retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE LAST NIGHT IN TRINITY.
    </p>
    <p>
      How I might have met Master Webber after his impersonation of Miss Macan,
      I cannot possibly figure to myself. Fortunately, indeed, for all parties,
      he left town early the next morning; and it was some weeks ere he
      returned. In the meanwhile I became a daily visitor at the general's,
      dined there usually three or four times a week, rode out with Lucy
      constantly, and accompanied her every evening either to the theatre or
      into society. Sir George, possibly from my youth, seemed to pay little
      attention to an intimacy which he perceived every hour growing closer, and
      frequently gave his daughter into my charge in our morning excursions on
      horseback. As for me, my happiness was all but perfect. I loved, and
      already began to hope that I was not regarded with indifference; for
      although Lucy's manner never absolutely evinced any decided preference
      towards me, yet many slight and casual circumstances served to show me
      that my attentions to her were neither unnoticed nor uncared for. Among
      the many gay and dashing companions of our rides, I remarked that, however
      anxious for such a distinction, none ever seemed to make any way in her
      good graces; and I had already gone far in my self-deception that I was
      destined for good fortune, when a circumstance which occurred one morning
      at length served to open my eyes to the truth, and blast by one fatal
      breath the whole harvest of my hopes.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were about to set out one morning on a long ride, when Sir George's
      presence was required by the arrival of an officer who had been sent from
      the Horse Guards on official business. After half an hour's delay, Colonel
      Cameron, the officer in question, was introduced, and entered into
      conversation with our party. He had only landed in England from the
      Peninsula a few days before, and had abundant information of the stirring
      events enacting there. At the conclusion of an anecdote,&mdash;I forget
      what,&mdash;he turned suddenly round to Miss Dashwood, who was standing
      beside me, and said in a low voice:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, Miss Dashwood, I am reminded of a commission I promised a very
      old brother officer to perform. Can I have one moment's conversation with
      you in the window?"
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, I perceived that he crumpled beneath his glove something like
      a letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To me?" said Lucy, with a look of surprise that sadly puzzled me whether
      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
      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
      saw was that he handed her a letter, which, having hastily broken open and
      thrown her eyes over, she grew at first deadly pale, then red, and while
      her eyes filled with tears, I heard her say, "How like him! How truly
      generous this is!" I listened for no more; my brain was wheeling round and
      my senses reeling. I turned and left the room; in another moment I was on
      my horse, galloping from the spot, despair, in all its blackness, in my
      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
      even then not over clearly. The fact that Lucy Dashwood, whom I imagined
      to be my own in heart, loved another, was all that I really knew. That one
      thought was all my mind was capable of, and in it my misery, my
      wretchedness were centred.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of all the grief my life has known, I have had no moments like the long
      hours of that dreary night. My sorrow, in turn, took every shape and
      assumed every guise. Now I remembered how the Dashwoods had courted my
      intimacy and encouraged my visits,&mdash;how Lucy herself had evinced in a
      thousand ways that she felt a preference for me. I called to mind the many
      unequivocal proofs I had given her that my feeling at least was no common
      one; and yet, how had she sported with my affections, and jested with my
      happiness! That she loved Hammersley I had now a palpable proof. That this
      affection must have been mutual, and prosecuted at the very moment I was
      not only professing my own love for her, but actually receiving all but an
      avowal of its return,&mdash;oh, it was too, too base! and in my deepest
      heart I 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
      sad and heavy, careless what became of me for the future, and pondering
      whether I should not at once give up my college career and return to my
      uncle. When I reached my chambers, all was silent and comfortless; Webber
      had not returned; my servant was from home; and I felt myself more than
      ever wretched in the solitude of what had been so oft the scene of noisy
      and festive gayety. I sat some hours in a half-musing state, every sad
      depressing thought that blighted hopes can conjure up rising in turn
      before me. A loud knocking at the door at length aroused me. I got up and
      opened it. No one was there. I looked around as well as the coming gloom
      of evening would permit, but saw nothing. I listened, and heard, at some
      distance off, my friend Power's manly voice as he sang,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!"
</pre>
    <p>
      I hallooed out, "Power!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eh, O'Malley, is that you?" inquired he. "Why, then, it seems it required
      some deliberation whether you opened your door or not. Why, man, you can
      have no great gift of prophecy, or you wouldn't have kept me so long
      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 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
      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
      kind the matter by your brisk retreat. They sent me after you yesterday;
      but wherever you went, Heaven knows. I never could come up with you; so
      that your great news has been keeping these twenty-four hours longer than
      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 assume no more intelligent look than that. Why, man, there's great
      luck in store for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As how, pray? Come, Power, out with it; though I can't pledge myself to
      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
      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
      one of us,&mdash;gazetted to the 14th Light,&mdash;the best fellows for
      love, war, and whiskey that ever sported a sabretasche.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    'Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!'
</pre>
    <p>
      By Jove, I am as delighted to have rescued you from the black harness of
      the King's Bench as though you had been a prisoner there! Know, then,
      friend Charley, that on Wednesday we proceed to Fermoy, join some score of
      gallant fellows,&mdash;all food for powder,&mdash;and, with the aid of a
      rotten transport and the stormy winds that blow, will be bronzing our
      beautiful faces in Portugal before the month's out. But come, now, let's
      see about supper. Some of ours are coming over here at eleven, and I
      promised them a devilled bone; and as it's your last night among these
      classic precincts, let us have a shindy of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      While I despatched Mike to Morrison's to provide supper, I heard from
      Power that Sir George Dashwood had interested himself so strongly for me
      that I had obtained my cornetcy in the 14th; that, fearful lest any
      disappointment might arise, he had never mentioned the matter to me, but
      that he had previously obtained my uncle's promise to concur in the
      arrangement if his negotiation succeeded. It had so done, and now the
      long-sought-for object of many days was within my grasp. But, alas, the
      circumstance which lent it all its fascinations was a vanished dream; and
      what but two days before had rendered my happiness perfect, I listened to
      listlessly and almost without interest. Indeed, my first impulse at
      finding that I owed my promotion to Sir George was to return a positive
      refusal of the cornetcy; but then I remembered how deeply such conduct
      would hurt my poor uncle, to whom I never could give an adequate
      explanation. So I heard Power in silence to the end, thanked him sincerely
      for his own good-natured kindness in the matter, which already, by the
      interest he had taken in me, went far to heal the wounds that my own
      solitary musings were deepening in my heart. At eighteen, fortunately,
      consolations are attainable that become more 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
      theme which many a boyish dream had long since made hallowed to my
      thoughts&mdash;I gradually felt my enthusiasm rising, and a certain
      throbbing at my heart betrayed to me that, sad and dispirited as I felt,
      there was still within that buoyant spirit which youth possesses as its
      privilege, and which answers to the call of enterprise as the war-horse to
      the trumpet. That a career worthy of manhood, great, glorious, and
      inspiriting, opened before me, coming so soon after the late downfall of
      my hopes, was in itself a source of such true pleasure that ere long I
      listened to my friend, and heard his narrative with breathless interest. A
      lingering sense of pique, too, had its share in all this. I longed to come
      forward in some manly and dashing part, where my youth might not be ever
      remembered against me, and when, having brought myself to the test, I
      might no longer be looked upon and treated as a boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were joined at length by the other officers of the 14th, and, to the
      number of twelve, sat down to supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was to be my last night in Old Trinity, and we resolved that the
      farewell should be a solemn one. Mansfield, one of the wildest young
      fellows in the regiment, had vowed that the leave-taking should be
      commemorated by some very decisive and open expressions of our feelings,
      and had already made some progress in arrangements for blowing up the
      great bell, which had more than once obtruded upon our morning
      convivialities; but he was overruled by his more discreet associates, and
      we at length assumed our places at table, in the midst of which stood a <i>hecatomb</i>
      of all my college equipments, cap, gown, bands, etc. A funeral pile of
      classics was arrayed upon the hearth, surmounted by my "Book on the
      Cellar," and a punishment-roll waved its length, like a banner, over the
      doomed heroes of Greece and Rome.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is seldom that any very determined attempt to be gay <i>par excellence</i>
      has a perfect success, but certainly upon this evening ours had. Songs,
      good stories, speeches, toasts, high visions of the campaign before us,
      the wild excitement which such a meeting cannot be free from, gradually,
      as the wine passed from hand to hand, seized upon all, and about four in
      the morning, such was the uproar we caused, and so terrific the noise of
      our proceedings, that the accumulated force of porters, sent one by one to
      demand admission, was now a formidable body at the door, and Mike at last
      came in to assure us that the bursar,&mdash;the most dread official of all
      collegians,&mdash;was without, and insisted, with a threat of his heaviest
      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
      was at length resolved, <i>nemine contradicente</i>, that the request
      should be complied with. A fresh bowl of punch, in honor of our expected
      guest, was immediately concocted, a new broil put on the gridiron, and
      having seated ourselves with as great a semblance of decorum as four
      bottles a man admits of, Curtis the junior captain, being most drunk, was
      deputed to receive the bursar at the door, and introduce him to our august
      presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mike's instructions were, that immediately on Dr. Stone the bursar
      entering, the door was to be slammed to, and none of his followers
      admitted. This done, the doctor was to be ushered in and left to our
      polite attentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fresh thundering from without scarcely left time for further
      deliberation; and at last Curtis moved towards the door in execution of
      his mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is there any one there?" said Mike, in a tone of most unsophisticated
      innocence, to a rapping that, having lasted three quarters of an hour,
      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
      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,
      "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 heavy
      bars were withdrawn, and the door opened, but so sparingly as with
      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
      pushed on vigorously through the antechamber, and before Curtis could
      perform his functions of usher, stood in the midst of us. What were his
      feelings at the scene before him, Heaven knows. The number of figures in
      uniform at once betrayed how little his jurisdiction extended to the great
      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
      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
      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
      converting this university into a common tavern?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish to Heaven he did," said Curtis; "capital tap your old commons
      would make."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Really, Mr. Bursar," replied I, modestly, "I had begun to flatter myself
      that our little innocent gayety had inspired you with the idea of joining
      our party."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I humbly move that the old cove in the gown do take the chair," sang out
      one. "All who are of this opinion say, 'Ay.'" A perfect yell of ayes
      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
      from under him, and he was jerked, rather than placed, upon a chair, and
      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
      the doctor's cap, replaced it by a foraging cap, very much to the
      amusement 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
      unconscious hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now for a 'Viva la Compagnie!'" said Telford, seating himself at the
      piano, and playing the first bars of that well-known air, to which, in our
      meetings, we were accustomed to improvise a doggerel in turn.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "I drink to the graces, Law, Physic, Divinity,
                                 Viva la Compagnie!
    And here's to the worthy old Bursar of Trinity,
                                 Viva la Compagnie!"
</pre>
    <p>
      "Viva, viva la va!" etc., were chorussed with a shout that shook the old
      walls, while Power took up the strain:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Though with lace caps and gowns they look so like asses,
                                 Viva la Compagnie!"
    They'd rather have punch than the springs of Parnassus,
                                 Viva la Compagnie!
    What a nose the old gentleman has, by the way,
                                 Viva la Compagnie!
    Since he smelt out the Devil from Botany Bay, [1]
                                 Viva la Compagnie!
</pre>
    <p>
      [Footnote:1 Botany Bay was the slang name given by college men to a new
      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
      while these demoniacal orgies were enacting around him. Held fast in his
      chair by Lechmere and another, he glowered on the riotous mob around like
      a maniac, and astonishment that such liberties could be taken with one in
      his situation seemed to have surpassed even his rage and resentment; and
      every now and then a stray thought would flash across his mind that we
      were mad,&mdash;a sentiment which, unfortunately, our conduct was but too
      well calculated to inspire.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So you're the morning lecturer, old gentleman, and have just dropped in
      here in the way of business; pleasant life you must have of it," said
      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
      here&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very far from it, Doctor," said Power; "I'll draw up a little account of
      the affair for 'Saunders.' They shall hear of it in every corner and nook
      of the kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The bursar of Trinity shall be a proverb for a good fellow that loveth
      his lush," hiccoughed out Fegan.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if you believe that such conduct is academical," said the doctor,
      with a withering sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps not," lisped Melville, tightening his belt; "but it's devilish
      convivial,&mdash;eh, Doctor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is that like him?" said Moreton, producing a caricature which he had just
      sketched.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Capital,&mdash;very good,&mdash;perfect. M'Cleary shall have it in his
      window by noon to-day," said Power.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant some of the combustibles disposed among the rejected
      habiliments of my late vocation caught fire, and squibs, crackers, and
      detonating shots went off on all sides. The bursar, who had not been deaf
      to several hints and friendly suggestions about setting fire to him,
      blowing him up, etc., with one vigorous spring burst from his antagonists,
      and clearing the table at a bound, reached the floor. Before he could be
      seized, he had gained the door, opened it, and was away. We gave chase,
      yelling like so many devils. But wine and punch, songs and speeches, had
      done their work, and more than one among the pursuers measured his length
      upon the pavement; while the terrified bursar, with the speed of terror,
      held on his way, and gained his chambers by about twenty yards in advance
      of Power and Melville, whose pursuit only ended when the oaken panel of
      the door shut them out from their victim. One loud cheer beneath his
      window served for our farewell to our friend, and we returned to my rooms.
      By this time a regiment of those classic functionaries ycleped porters had
      assembled around the door, and seemed bent upon giving battle in honor of
      their maltreated ruler; but Power explained to them, in a neat speech
      replete with Latin quotations, that their cause was a weak one, that we
      were more than their match, and finally proposed to them to finish the
      punch-bowl, to which we were really incompetent,&mdash;a motion that met
      immediate acceptance; and old Duncan, with his helmet in one hand and a
      goblet in the other, wished me many happy days and every luck in this life
      as I stepped from the massive archway, and took my last farewell of Old
      Trinity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Should any kind reader feel interested as to the ulterior course assumed
      by the bursar, I have only to say that the terrors of the "Board" were
      never fulminated against me, harmless and innocent as I should have
      esteemed them. The threat of giving publicity to the entire proceedings by
      the papers, and the dread of figuring in a sixpenny caricature in
      M'Cleary's window, were too much for the worthy doctor, and he took the
      wiser course under the circumstances, and held his peace about the matter.
      I, too, have done so for many a year, and only now recall the scene among
      the wild transactions of early days and boyish follies.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE PHOENIX PARK.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a glorious thing it is when our first waking thoughts not only dispel
      some dark, depressing dream, but arouse us to the consciousness of a new
      and bright career suddenly opening before us, buoyant in hope, rich in
      promise for the future! Life has nothing better than this. The bold spring
      by which the mind clears the depth that separates misery from happiness is
      ecstasy itself; and then what a world of bright visions come teeming
      before us,&mdash;what plans we form; what promises we make to ourselves in
      our own hearts; how prolific is the dullest imagination; how excursive the
      tamest fancy, at such a moment! In a few short and fleeting seconds, the
      events of a whole life are planned and pictured before us. Dreams of
      happiness and visions of bliss, of which all our after-years are
      insufficient to eradicate the <i>prestige</i>, come in myriads about us;
      and from that narrow aperture through which this new hope pierces into our
      heart, a flood of light is poured that illumines our path to the very
      verge of the grave. How many a success in after-days is reckoned but as
      one step in that ladder of ambition some boyish review has framed,
      perhaps, after all, destined to be the first and only one! With what
      triumph we hail some goal attained, some object of our wishes gained, less
      for its present benefit, than as the accomplishment of some youthful
      prophecy, when picturing to our hearts all 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 it,
      with all the delusive and deceptive influences by which it comes
      surrounded, for the greatest actual happiness he has partaken of? Alas,
      alas, it is only in the boundless expanse of such imaginations, unreal and
      fictitious as they are, that we are truly blessed! Our choicest blessings
      in life come even so associated with some sources of care that the cup of
      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 events I have detailed in the last chapter. The first thing my eyes
      fell upon was an official letter from the Horse Guards:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "The commander of the forces desires that Mr. O'Malley will report
    himself, immediately on the receipt of this letter, at the headquarters
    of the regiment to which he is gazetted."
</pre>
    <p>
      Few and simple as the lines were, how brimful of pleasure they sounded to
      my ears. The regiment to which I was gazetted! And so I was a soldier at
      last! The first wish of my boyhood was then really accomplished. And my
      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. How my heart failed me as I turned to look at the seal.
      "Thank God!" said I, aloud, on perceiving that it was a red one. I now
      tore it open and read:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    My Dear Charley,&mdash;Godfrey, being laid up with the gout, has
    desired me to write to you by this day's post. Your appointment to
    the 14th, notwithstanding all his prejudices about the army, has
    given him sincere pleasure. I believe, between ourselves, that your
    college career, of which he has heard something, convinced him that
    your forte did not lie in the classics; you know I said so always, but
    nobody minded me. Your new prospects are all that your best friends
    could wish for you: you begin early; your corps is a crack one; you
    are ordered for service. What could you have more?

    Your uncle hopes, if you can get a few days' leave, that you will
    come down here before you join, and I hope so too; for he is unusually
    low-spirited, and talks about his never seeing you again, and
    all that sort of thing.

    I have written to Merivale, your colonel, on this subject, as well
    as generally on your behalf. We were cornets together forty years
    ago. A strict fellow you'll find him, but a trump on service. If
    you can't manage the leave, write a long letter home at all events.
    And so, God bless you, and all success!
    Yours sincerely,
    W. Considine.

    I had thought of writing you a long letter of advice for your new
    career; and, indeed, half accomplished one. After all, however, I
    can tell you little that your own good sense will not teach you as you
    go on; and experience is ever better than precept. I know of but
    one rule in life which admits of scarcely any exception, and having
    followed it upwards of sixty years, approve of it only the more:
    Never quarrel when you can help it; but meet any man,&mdash;your
    tailor, your hairdresser,&mdash;if he wishes to have you out.
    W. C.
</pre>
    <p>
      I had scarcely come to the end of this very characteristic epistle, when
      two more letters were placed upon my table. One was from Sir George
      Dashwood, inviting me to dinner to meet some of my "brother officers." How
      my heart beat at the expression. The other was a short note, marked
      "Private," from my late tutor, Dr. Mooney, saying, "that if I made a
      suitable apology to the bursar for the late affair at my room, he might
      probably be induced to abandon any further step; otherwise&mdash;" then
      followed innumerable threats about fine, penalties, expulsion, etc., that
      fell most harmlessly upon my ears. I accepted the invitation; declined the
      apology; and having ordered my horse, cantered off to the barracks to
      consult my 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
      Dashwood; and a thousand misgivings crossed my mind as to whether I should
      have nerve enough to meet her, without disclosing in my manner the altered
      state of my feelings; a possibility which I now dreaded fully as much as I
      had longed some days before to avow my affection for her, however slight
      its prospect of return. All my valiant resolves and well-contrived plans
      for appearing unmoved and indifferent in her presence, with which I stored
      my mind while dressing and when on the way to dinner, were, however,
      needless, for it was a party exclusively of men; and as the coffee was
      served in the dining-room, no move was made to the drawing-room by any of
      the company. "Quite as well as it is!" was my muttered opinion, as I got
      into my cab at the door. "All is at an end as regards me in her esteem,
      and I must not spend my days sighing for a young lady that cares for
      another." Very reasonable, very proper resolutions these; but, alas! I
      went home to bed, only to think half the night long of the fair Lucy, and
      dream of her the remainder of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      When morning dawned my first thought was, Shall I see her once more? Shall
      I leave her forever thus abruptly? Or, rather, shall I not unburden my
      bosom of its secret, confess my love, and say farewell? I felt such a
      course much more in unison with my wishes than the day before; and as
      Power had told me that before a week we should present ourselves at
      Fermoy, I knew that no time was to be lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      My determination was taken. I ordered my horse, and early as it was, rode
      out to the Royal Hospital. My heart beat so strongly as I rode up to the
      door that I half resolved to return. I rang the bell. Sir George was in
      town. Miss Dashwood had just gone, five minutes before, to spend some days
      at Carton. "It is fate!" thought I as I turned from the spot and walked
      slowly beside my horse towards Dublin.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the few days that intervened before my leaving town, my time was
      occupied from morning to night; the various details of my uniform, outfit,
      etc., were undertaken for me by Power. My horses were sent for to Galway;
      and I myself, with innumerable persons to see, and a mass of business to
      transact, contrived at least three times a day to ride out to the Royal
      Hospital, always to make some trifling inquiry for Sir George, and always
      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 the
      last opened, it was with a sorrowing spirit that I felt my hour of
      departure approach without one only opportunity of seeing Lucy, even to
      say good-by. While Mike was packing in one corner, and I in another was
      concluding a long letter to my poor uncle, my door opened and Webber
      entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eh, O'Malley, I'm only in time to say adieu, it seems. To my surprise
      this morning I found you had cut the 'Silent Sister.' I feared I should be
      too 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
      you. Your last brilliant achievement at Sir George's very nearly involved
      me in a serious scrape."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A mere trifle. How confoundedly silly Power must have looked, eh? Should
      like so much to have seen his face. He booked up next day,&mdash;very
      proper fellow. By-the-bye, O'Malley, I rather like the little girl; she is
      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
      cravat and adjusting his hair at the glass. "She's spoiled by all the
      tinsel vaporing of her hussar and aide-de-camp acquaintances; but
      something 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
      served out Stone gloriously: perhaps it's as well, though,&mdash;you know
      they'd have expelled you; but still something might turn up. Soldiering is
      a bad style of thing, eh? How the old general did take his sister-in-law's
      presence to heart! But he must forgive and forget, for I am going to be
      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
      with the cry of the fox-pack in his ears; but I don't know how he'll stand
      a peal of artillery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, come along," said Webber; "I'll ride with you." So saying, we
      mounted and set off to the Park, where two regiments of cavalry and some
      horse artillery were ordered for inspection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The review was over when we reached the exercising ground, and we slowly
      walked our horses towards the end of the Park, intending to return to
      Dublin by the road. We had not proceeded far, when, some hundred yards in
      advance, we perceived an officer riding with a lady, followed by an
      orderly dragoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There he goes," said Webber; "I wonder if he'd ask me to dinner, if I
      were 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 voilà</i>, Miss Lucy. The
      little darling rides well, too; how squarely she sits her horse. O'Malley,
      I've a weakness there; upon my soul I have."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very possible," said I; "I am aware of another friend of mine
      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
      see, with some reason to hope for success."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, as to that, we flatter ourselves the thing does not present any very
      considerable difficulties."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As how, pray?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, of course, like all such matters, a very decisive determination to
      be, to do, and to suffer, as Lindley Murray says, carries the day. Tell
      her she's an angel every day for three weeks. She may laugh a little at
      first, but she'll believe it in the end. Tell her that you have not the
      slightest prospect of obtaining her affections, but still persist in
      loving her. That, finally, you must die from the effects of despair, etc.,
      but rather like the notion of it than otherwise. That you know she has no
      fortune; that you haven't a sixpence; and who should marry, if people
      whose position in the world was similar did not?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But halt; pray, how are you to get time and place for all such
      interesting conversations?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Time and place! Good Heavens, what a question! Is not every hour of the
      twenty-four the fittest? Is not every place the most suitable? A sudden
      pause in the organ of St. Patrick's did, it is true, catch me once in a
      declaration of love, but the choir came in to my aid and drowned the
      lady's answer. My dear O'Malley, what could prevent you this instant, if
      you are 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 to
      say good-by to the little girl without a witness, I'll take off the
      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
      from his pocket, and fastened it round his waist like an officer's sash.
      This done, and telling me to keep in their wake for some minutes, he
      turned 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
      voice calling for the orderly. I looked and saw Webber at a considerable
      distance in front, curvetting and playing all species of antics. The
      distance between the general and myself was now so short that I overheard
      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
      horse, he sprang forward at a gallop, incensed beyond endurance that his
      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
      slopes, covered with furze-trees, and from which it emerged afterwards in
      the thickest and most intricate part of the Park. Sir George dashed boldly
      after, and in less than half a minute both were lost to my view, leaving
      me in breathless amazement at Master Frank's ingenuity, and some puzzle as
      to my own future movements.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now then, or never!" said I, as I pushed boldly forward, and in an
      instant was alongside of Miss Dashwood. Her astonishment at seeing me so
      suddenly increased the confusion from which I felt myself suffering, and
      for some minutes I could scarcely speak. At last I plucked up courage a
      little, and said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Miss Dashwood, I have looked most anxiously, for the last four days, for
      the moment which chance has now given me. I wished, before I parted
      forever with those to whom I owe already so much, that I should at least
      speak my 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 embark immediately for Portugal."
    </p>
    <p>
      I thought&mdash;perhaps it was but a thought&mdash;that her cheek grew
      somewhat paler as I spoke; but she remained silent; and I, scarcely
      knowing what I had 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
      intention of leaving so soon, for only last night he spoke of some letters
      he meant to give you to some friends in the Peninsula; besides, I know,"
      here she smiled faintly,&mdash;"that he destined some excellent advice for
      your ears, as to your new path in life, for he has an immense opinion of
      the value of such to a young officer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am, indeed, most grateful to Sir George, and truly never did any one
      stand more in need of counsel than I do." This was said half musingly, and
      not intended to be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, pray, consult papa," said she, eagerly; "he is much attached to
      you, 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
      pretences. Should I tell you all the truth, you would not pardon, perhaps
      not hear me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have, indeed, puzzled me; but if there is anything in which my father&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Less him than his daughter," said I, fixing my eyes full upon her as I
      spoke. "Yes, Lucy, I feel I must confess it, cost what it may; I love you.
      Stay, hear me out; I know the fruitlessness, the utter despair, that
      awaits such a sentiment. My own heart tells me that I am not, cannot be,
      loved in return; yet would I rather cherish in its core my affection,
      slighted and unblessed, such as it is, than own another heart. I ask for
      nothing, I hope for nothing; I merely entreat that, for my truth, I may
      meet belief, and for my heart's worship of her whom alone I can love,
      compassion. I see that you at least pity me. Nay, one word more; I have
      one favor more to ask,&mdash;it is my last, my only one. Do not, when time
      and distance may have separated us, perhaps forever, think that the
      expressions I now use are prompted by a mere sudden ebullition of boyish
      feeling; do not attribute to the circumstance of my youth alone the warmth
      of the attachment I profess,&mdash;for I swear to you, by every hope that
      I have, that in my heart of hearts my love to you is the source and spring
      of every action in my life, of every aspiration in my heart; and when I
      cease to love you, I shall cease to feel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, farewell,&mdash;farewell forever!" I pressed her hand to my
      lips, gave one long, last look, turned my horse rapidly away, and ere a
      minute was far out of sight of where I had left her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ROAD.
    </p>
    <p>
      Power was detained in town by some orders from the adjutant-general, so
      that I started for Cork the next morning with no other companion than my
      servant Mike. For the first few stages upon the road, my own thoughts
      sufficiently occupied me to render me insensible or indifferent to all
      else. My opening career, the prospects my new life as a soldier held out,
      my hopes of distinction, my love of Lucy with all its train of doubts and
      fears, passed in review before me, and I took no note of time till far
      past noon. I now looked to the back part of the coach, where Mike's voice
      had been, as usual, in the ascendant for some time, and perceived that he
      was surrounded by an eager auditory of four raw recruits, who, under the
      care of a sergeant, were proceeding to Cork to be enrolled in their
      regiment. The sergeant, whose minutes of wakefulness were only those when
      the coach stopped to change horses, and when he got down to mix a "summat
      hot," paid little attention to his followers, leaving them perfectly free
      in all their movements, to listen to Mike's eloquence and profit by his
      suggestions, should they deem fit. Master Michael's services to his new
      acquaintances, I began to perceive, were not exactly of the same nature as
      Dibdin is reported to have rendered to our navy in the late war. Far from
      it. His theme was no contemptuous disdain for danger; no patriotic
      enthusiasm to fight for home and country; no proud consciousness of
      British valor, mingled with the appropriate hatred of our mutual enemies,&mdash;on
      the contrary, Mike's eloquence was enlisted for the defendant. He
      detailed, and in no unimpressive way either, the hardships of a soldier's
      life,&mdash;its dangers, its vicissitudes, its chances, its possible
      penalties, its inevitably small rewards; and, in fact, so completely did
      he work on the feelings of his hearers that I perceived more than one
      glance exchanged between the victims that certainly betokened anything
      save the resolve to fight for King George. It was at the close of a long
      and most powerful appeal upon the superiority of any other line in life,
      petty larceny and small felony inclusive, that he concluded with the
      following quotation:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thrue for ye, boys!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    'With your red scarlet coat,
    You're as proud as a goat,
      And your long cap and feather.'
</pre>
    <p>
      But, by the piper that played before Moses! it's more whipping nor
      gingerbread is going on among them, av ye knew but all, and heerd the
      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 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
      know their own minds, he thought, anyhow, he knew his, so he ran away,&mdash;and
      devil a bit of him they ever cotch afther. May be ye might like to hear
      the 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
      shrewd look at the sergeant, to be sure that he was still sleeping,
      settled 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
      to oblige Mr. Barry, the landlord there. For,' says he, 'Phil,' says he,
      'it's not a soldier ye'll be at all, but my own man, to brush my clothes
      and go errands, and the like o' that; and the king, long life to him! will
      help to pay ye for your trouble. Ye understand me?' Well, my father
      agreed, and Mr. Barry was as good as his word. Never a guard did my father
      mount, nor as much as a drill had he, nor a roll-call, nor anything at
      all, save and except wait on the captain, his master, just as pleasant as
      need be, and no inconvenience in life.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, for three years this went on as I am telling, and the regiment was
      ordered down to Bantry, because of a report that the 'boys' was rising
      down there; and the second evening there was a night party patrolling with
      Captain Barry for six hours in the rain, and the captain, God be marciful
      to him! tuk could and died. More by token, they said it was drink, but my
      father says it wasn't: 'for' says he, 'after he tuk eight tumblers
      comfortable,' my father mixed the ninth, and the captain waived his hand
      this way, as much as to say he'd have no more. 'Is it that ye mean?' says
      my father; and the captain nodded. 'Musha, but it's sorry I am,' says my
      father, 'to see you this way; for ye must be bad entirely to leave off in
      the beginning of the evening.' And thrue for him, the captain was dead in
      the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A sorrowful day it was for my father when he died. It was the finest
      place in the world; little to do, plenty of divarsion, and a kind man he
      was,&mdash;when he was drunk. Well, then, when the captain was buried and
      all was over, my father hoped they'd be for letting him away, as he said,
      'Sure, I'm no use in life to anybody, save the man that's gone, for his
      ways are all I know, and I never was a sodger.' But, upon my conscience,
      they had other thoughts in their heads, for they ordered him into the
      ranks 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
      ought to be discharged on a pension with two-and-sixpence a day, obliged
      to go capering about the barrack-yard, practising the goose-step, or some
      other nonsense not becoming my age nor my habits.' But so it was. Well,
      this went on for some time, and sure, if they were hard on my father,
      hadn't he his revenge; for he nigh broke their hearts with his stupidity.
      Oh, nothing in life could equal him! Devil a thing, no matter how easy, he
      could learn at all; and so far from caring for being in confinement, it
      was that he liked best. Every sergeant in the regiment had a trial of him,
      but all to no good; and he seemed striving so hard to learn all the while
      that 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 body
      of the rebels, as they called them, was coming down from the Gap of
      Mulnavick to storm the town and burn all before them. The whole regiment
      was of coorse under arms, and great preparations was made for a battle.
      Meanwhile patrols were ordered to scour the roads, and sentries posted at
      every turn of the way and every rising ground to give warning when the
      boys came in sight; and my father was placed at the Bridge of Drumsnag, in
      the wildest and bleakest part of the whole country, with nothing but furze
      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
      by himself, with no human creature to speak to, nor a whiskey-shop within
      ten miles of him; 'cowld comfort,' says he, 'on a winter's day; and faix,
      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
      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
      luck to the hammer that struck the shilling that 'listed me, that's all,'
      for he was mighty low in his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just then a noise came rattling down near him. He listened, and before he
      could get on his legs, down comes' the general, ould Cohoon, with an
      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 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
      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 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
      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,
      till ye'd think he'd fall off his horse; and the dragoon behind him&mdash;more
      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 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
      me the longer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, my good fellow,' says the general, 'I haven't more time to waste
      here; but let me teach you something before I go. Whenever your officer
      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
      brought you to a court-martial.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, there's no knowing,' says my father, 'what they'd be up to; but
      sure, if that's all, I'll do it, with all "the veins," whenever yer coming
      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
      respect to your officer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never fear, sir,' says my father; 'and many thanks to you for your
      kindness for telling me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Away went the general, and the orderly after him, and in ten minutes they
      were out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The night was falling fast, and one half of the mountain was quite dark
      already, when my father began to think they were forgetting him entirely.
      He looked one way, and he looked another, but sorra bit of a sergeant's
      guard was coming to relieve him. There he was, fresh and fasting, and
      daren't go for the bare life. 'I'll give you a quarter of an hour more,'
      says my father, 'till the light leaves that rock up there; after that,'
      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 he
      see at the same moment but a shadow of something coming down the road
      opposite the bridge. He looked again; and then he made out the general
      himself, that was walking his horse down the steep part of the mountain,
      followed by the orderly. My father immediately took up his musket off the
      wall, settled his belts, shook the ashes out of his pipe and put it into
      his pocket, making himself as smart and neat-looking as he could be,
      determining, when ould Cohoon came up, to ask him for leave to go home, at
      least for the night. Well, by this time the general was turning a sharp
      part of the cliff that looks down upon the bridge, from where you might
      look five miles round on every side. 'He sees me,' says my father; 'but
      I'll be just as quick as himself.' No sooner said than done; for coming
      forward to the parapet of the bridge, he up with his musket to his
      shoulder, and presented it straight at the general. It wasn't well there,
      when the officer pulled up his horse quite short, and shouted out,
      'Sentry! 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
      to speak with fright, for every turn he gave on his horse, my father
      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 to fire next?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "With that the general drew a pistol from his holster, and took deliberate
      aim at my father; and there they both stood for five minutes, looking at
      each other, the orderly all the while breaking his heart laughing behind a
      rock; for, ye see, the general knew av he retreated that my father might
      fire on purpose, and av he came on, that he might fire by chance,&mdash;and
      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;
      '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
      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
      out of his mouth before off went the musket, bang!&mdash;and down fell the
      general, smack on the ground, senseless. Well the orderly ran out at this,
      and took him up and examined his wound; but it wasn't a wound at all, only
      the wadding of the gun. For my father&mdash;God be kind to him!&mdash;ye
      see, could do nothing right; and so he bit off the wrong end of the
      cartridge when he put it in the gun, and, by reason, there was no bullet
      in it. Well, from that day after they never got a sight of him; for the
      instant that the general dropped, he sprang over the bridge-wall and got
      away; and what, between living in a lime-kiln for two months, eating
      nothing but blackberries and sloes, and other disguises, he never returned
      to the army, but ever after took to a civil situation, and drive a hearse
      for many years."
    </p>
    <p>
      How far Mike's narrative might have contributed to the support of his
      theory, I am unable to pronounce; for his auditory were, at some distance
      from Cork, made to descend from their lofty position and join a larger
      body of recruits, all proceeding to the same destination, under a strong
      escort of infantry. For ourselves, we reached the "beautiful city" in due
      time, and took up our quarters at the Old George Hotel.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      CORK.
    </p>
    <p>
      The undress rehearsal of a new piece, with its dirty-booted actors, its
      cloaked and hooded actresses <i>en papillote</i>, bears about the same
      relation to the gala, wax-lit, and bespangled ballet, as the raw young
      gentleman of yesterday to the epauletted, belted, and sabretasched
      dragoon, whose transformation is due to a few hours of head-quarters, and
      a few interviews with the adjutant.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, at least, I felt it; and it was with a very perfect concurrence in his
      Majesty's taste in a uniform, and a most entire approval of the regimental
      tailor, that I strutted down George's Street a few days after my arrival
      in Cork. The transports had not as yet come round; there was a great doubt
      of their doing so for a week or so longer; and I found myself as the
      dashing cornet, the centre of a thousand polite attentions and most kind
      civilities.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer under whose orders I was placed for the time was a great
      friend of Sir George Dashwood's, and paid me, in consequence, much
      attention. Major Dalrymple had been on the staff from the commencement of
      his military career, had served in the commissariat for some time, was
      much on foreign stations; but never, by any of the many casualties of his
      life, had he seen what could be called service. His ideas of the soldier's
      profession were, therefore, what might almost be as readily picked up by a
      commission in the battle-axe guards, as one in his Majesty's Fiftieth. He
      was now a species of district paymaster, employed in a thousand ways,
      either inspecting recruits, examining accounts, revising sick
      certificates, or receiving contracts for mess beef. Whether the nature of
      his manifold occupations had enlarged the sphere of his talents and
      ambition, or whether the abilities had suggested the variety of his
      duties, I know not, but truly the major was a man of all work. No sooner
      did a young ensign join his regiment at Cork, than Major Dalrymple's card
      was left at his quarters; the next day came the major himself; the third
      brought an invitation to dinner; on the fourth he was told to drop in, in
      the evening; and from thenceforward, he was the <i>ami de la maison</i>,
      in company with numerous others as newly-fledged and inexperienced as
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      One singular feature of the society at the house was that although the
      major was as well known as the flag on Spike Island, yet somehow, no
      officer above the rank of an ensign was ever to be met with there. It was
      not that he had not a large acquaintance; in fact, the "How are you,
      Major?" "How goes it, Dalrymple?" that kept everlastingly going on as he
      walked the streets, proved the reverse; but strange enough, his
      predilections leaned towards the newly gazetted, far before the bronzed
      and seared campaigners who had seen the world, and knew more about it. The
      reasons for this line of conduct were twofold. In the first place, there
      was not an article of outfit, from a stock to a sword-belt, that he could
      not and did not supply to the young officer,&mdash;from the gorget of the
      infantry to the shako of the grenadier, all came within his province; not
      that he actually kept a <i>magasin</i> of these articles, but he had so
      completely interwoven his interests with those of numerous shopkeepers in
      Cork that he rarely entered a shop over whose door Dalrymple &amp; Co.
      might not have figured on the sign-board. His stables were filled with a
      perfect infirmary of superannuated chargers, fattened and conditioned up
      to a miracle, and groomed to perfection. He could get you&mdash;<i>only
      you</i>&mdash;about three dozen of sherry to take out with you as
      sea-store; he knew of such a servant; he chanced upon such a
      camp-furniture yesterday in his walks; in fact, why want for anything? His
      resources were inexhaustible; his kindness unbounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then money was no object,&mdash;hang it, you could pay when you liked;
      what signified it? In other words, a bill at thirty-one days, cashed and
      discounted by a friend of the major's, would always do. While such were
      the unlimited advantages his acquaintance conferred, the sphere of his
      benefits took another range. The major had two daughters; Matilda and
      Fanny were as well known in the army as Lord Fitzroy Somerset, or Picton,
      from the Isle of Wight to Halifax, from Cape Coast to Chatham, from
      Belfast to the Bermudas. Where was the subaltern who had not knelt at the
      shrine of one or the other, if not of both, and vowed eternal love until a
      change of quarters? In plain words, the major's solicitude for the service
      was such, that, not content with providing the young officer with all the
      necessary outfit of his profession, he longed also to supply him with a
      comforter for his woes, a charmer for his solitary hours, in the person of
      one of his amiable daughters. Unluckily, however, the necessity for a wife
      is not enforced by "general orders," as is the cut of your coat, or the
      length of your sabre; consequently, the major's success in the home
      department of his diplomacy was not destined for the same happy results
      that awaited it when engaged about drill trousers and camp kettles, and
      the Misses Dalrymple remained misses through every clime and every
      campaign. And yet, why was it so? It is hard to say. What would men have?
      Matilda was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, romantic-looking girl, with a tall
      figure and a slender waist, with more poetry in her head than would have
      turned any ordinary brain; always unhappy, in need of consolation, never
      meeting with the kindred spirit that understood her, destined to walk the
      world alone, her fair thoughts smothered in the recesses of her own heart.
      Devilish hard to stand this, when you began in a kind of platonic
      friendship on both sides. More than one poor fellow nearly succumbed,
      particularly when she came to quote Cowley, and told him, with tears in
      her eyes,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "There are hearts that live and love alone," etc.
</pre>
    <p>
      I'm assured that this <i>coup-de-grace</i> rarely failed in being followed
      by a downright avowal of open love, which, somehow, what between the route
      coming, what with waiting for leave from home, etc., never got further
      than a most tender scene, and exchange of love tokens; and, in fact, such
      became so often the termination, that Power swears Matty had to make a
      firm resolve about cutting off any more hair, fearing a premature baldness
      during the recruiting season.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Fanny had selected another arm of the service. Her hair was fair; her
      eyes blue, laughing, languishing,&mdash;mischief-loving blue, with long
      lashes, and a look in them that was wont to leave its impression rather
      longer than you exactly knew of; then, her figure was <i>petite</i>, but
      perfect; her feet Canova might have copied; and her hand was a study for
      Titian; her voice, too, was soft and musical, but full of that <i>gaiété
      de coeur</i> that never fails to charm. While her sister's style was <i>il
      penserono</i>, hers was <i>l'allegro</i>; every imaginable thing, place,
      or person supplied food for her mirth, and her sister's lovers all came in
      for their share. She hunted with Smith Barry's hounds; she yachted with
      the Cove Club; she coursed, practised at a mark with a pistol, and played
      chicken hazard with all the cavalry,&mdash;for, let it be remarked as a
      physiological fact, Matilda's admirers were almost invariably taken from
      the infantry, while Fanny's adorers were as regularly dragoons. Whether
      the former be the romantic arm of the service, and the latter be more
      adapted to dull realities, or whether the phenomenon had any other
      explanation, I leave to the curious. Now, this arrangement, proceeding
      upon that principle which has wrought such wonders in Manchester and
      Sheffield,&mdash;the division of labor,&mdash;was a most wise and
      equitable one, each having her one separate and distinct field of action,
      interference was impossible; not but that when, as in the present
      instance, cavalry was in the ascendant, Fanny would willingly spare a
      dragoon or two to her sister, who likewise would repay the debt when
      occasion offered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mamma&mdash;for it is time I should say something of the head of the
      family&mdash;was an excessively fat, coarse-looking, dark-skinned
      personage, of some fifty years, with a voice like a boatswain in a quinsy.
      Heaven can tell, perhaps, why the worthy major allied his fortunes with
      hers, for she was evidently of a very inferior rank in society, could
      never have been aught than downright ugly, and I never heard that she
      brought him any money. "Spoiled five," the national amusement of her age
      and sex in Cork, scandal, the changes in the army list, the failures in
      speculation of her luckless husband, the forlorn fortunes of the girls,
      her daughters, kept her in occupation, and her days were passed in one
      perpetual, unceasing current of dissatisfaction and ill-temper with all
      around, that formed a heavy counterpoise to the fascinations of the young
      ladies. The repeated jiltings to which they had been subject had blunted
      any delicacy upon the score of their marriage; and if the newly-introduced
      cornet or ensign was not coming forward, as became him, at the end of the
      requisite number of days, he was sure of receiving a very palpable
      admonition from Mrs. Dalrymple. Hints, at first dimly shadowed, that
      Matilda was not in spirits this morning; that Fanny, poor child, had a
      headache,&mdash;directed especially at the culprit in question,&mdash;grew
      gradually into those little motherly fondnesses in mamma, that, like the
      fascination of the rattlesnake, only lure on to ruin. The doomed man was
      pressed to dinner when all others were permitted to take their leave; he
      was treated like one of the family, God help him! After dinner, the major
      would keep him an hour over his wine, discussing the misery of an
      ill-assorted marriage; detailing his own happiness in marrying a woman
      like the Tonga Islander I have mentioned; hinting that girls should be
      brought up, not only to become companions to their husbands, but with
      ideas fitting their station; if his auditor were a military man, that none
      but an old officer (like him) could know how to educate girls (like his);
      and that feeling he possessed two such treasures, his whole aim in life
      was to guard and keep them,&mdash;a difficult task, when proposals of the
      most flattering kind were coming constantly before him. Then followed a
      fresh bottle, during which the major would consult his young friend upon a
      very delicate affair,&mdash;no less than a proposition for the hand of
      Miss Matilda, or Fanny, whichever he was supposed to be soft upon. This
      was generally a <i>coup-de-maître</i>; should he still resist, he was
      handed over to Mrs. Dalrymple, with a strong indictment against him, and
      rarely did he escape a heavy sentence. Now, is it not strange that two
      really pretty girls, with fully enough of amiable and pleasing qualities
      to have excited the attention and won the affections of many a man, should
      have gone on for years,&mdash;for, alas! they did so in every climate,
      under every sun,&mdash;to waste their sweetness in this miserable career
      of intrigue and man-trap, and yet nothing come of it? But so it was. The
      first question a newly-landed regiment was asked, if coming from where
      they resided, was, "Well, how are the girls?" "Oh, gloriously. Matty is
      there." "Ah, indeed! poor thing." "Has Fan sported a new habit?" "Is it
      the old gray with the hussar braiding? Confound it, that was seedy when I
      saw them in Corfu. And Mother Dal as fat and vulgar as ever?" "Dawson of
      ours was the last, and was called up for sentence when we were ordered
      away; of course, he bolted," etc. Such was the invariable style of
      question and answer concerning them; and although some few, either from
      good feeling or fastidiousness, relished but little the mode in which it
      had become habitual to treat them, I grieve to say that, generally, they
      were pronounced fair game for every species of flirtation and love-making
      without any "intentions" for the future. I should not have trespassed so
      far upon my readers' patience, were I not, in recounting these traits of
      my friends above, narrating matters of history. How many are there who may
      cast their eyes upon these pages, that will say, "Poor Matilda! I knew her
      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
      of my arrival in Cork to a short, punchy, little red-faced gentleman, in a
      short jacket and ducks, "you are, I perceive, appointed to the 14th; you
      will have the goodness to appear on parade to-morrow morning. The
      riding-school hours are&mdash;&mdash;. The morning drill is&mdash;&mdash;;
      evening drill&mdash;&mdash;. Mr. Minchin, you are a 14th man, I believe?
      No, I beg pardon! a carbineer; but no matter. Mr. O'Malley, Mr. Minchin;
      Captain Dounie, Mr. O'Malley. You'll dine with us to-day, and to-morrow
      you shall be entered at the mess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yours are at Santarem, I believe?" said an old, weather-beaten looking
      officer with one arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm ashamed to say, I know nothing whatever of them; I received my
      gazette 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 <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
      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
      evening. What will the old squaw think?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not I," said Minchin. "She wrote to the Duke of York about my helping
      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 with the rest, to stroll about the town till dinner-time.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ADJUTANT'S DINNER.
    </p>
    <p>
      The adjutant's dinner was as professional an affair as need be. A circuit
      or a learned society could not have been more exclusively devoted to their
      own separate and immediate topics than were we. Pipeclay in all its
      varieties came on the <i>tapis</i>; the last regulation cap, the new
      button, the promotions, the general orders, the colonel and the colonel's
      wife, stoppages, and the mess fund were all well and ably discussed; and
      strange enough, while the conversation took this wide range, not a chance
      allusion, not one stray hint ever wandered to the brave fellows who were
      covering the army with glory in the Peninsula, nor one souvenir of him
      that, was even then enjoying a fame as a leader second to none in Europe.
      This surprised me not a little at the time; but I have since that learned
      how little interest the real services of an army possess for the ears of
      certain officials, who, stationed at home quarters, pass their inglorious
      lives in the details of drill, parade, mess-room gossip, and barrack
      scandal. Such, in fact, were the dons of the present dinner. We had a
      commissary-general, an inspecting brigade-major of something, a physician
      to the forces, the adjutant himself, and Major Dalrymple; the <i>hoi
      polloi</i> consisting of the raw ensign, a newly-fledged cornet (Mr.
      Sparks), and myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissary told some very pointless stories about his own department;
      the doctor read a dissertation upon Walcheren fever; the adjutant got very
      stupidly tipsy; and Major Dalrymple succeeded in engaging the three
      juniors of the party to tea, having previously pledged us to purchase
      nothing whatever of outfit without his advice, he well knowing (which he
      did) how young fellows like us were cheated, and resolving to be a father
      to us (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
      dinners would succeed in disenchanting me of all my military illusions;
      for, young as I was, I saw that the commissary was a vulgar bore, the
      doctor a humbug, the adjutant a sot, and the major himself I greatly
      suspected to be an old rogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are coming with us, Sparks?" said Major Dalrymple, as he took me by
      one arm and the ensign by the other. "We are going to have a little tea
      with the ladies; not five minutes' walk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most happy, sir," said Mr. Sparks, with a very flattered expression of
      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,
      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 uncommonly prosy! That commissary, with his mess beef, and old
      Pritchard, with black doses and rigors,&mdash;nothing so insufferable!
      Besides, in reality, a young officer never needs all that nonsense. A
      little medicine chest&mdash;I'll get you one each to-morrow for five
      pounds&mdash;no, five pounds ten&mdash;the same thing&mdash;that will see
      you all through the Peninsula. Remind me of it in the morning." This we
      all promised to do, and the major resumed: "I say, Sparks, you've got a
      real prize in that gray horse,&mdash;such a trooper as he is! O'Malley,
      you'll be wanting something of that kind, if we can find it for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Many thanks, Major; but my cattle are on the way here already. I've only
      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
      the other replied, "Well, if you say so, I'll get it; but it's devilish
      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
      complete, for sixty pounds! If it was not that a widow was disposing of it
      in great distress, one hundred could not buy it. Here we are; come along,&mdash;no
      ceremony. Mind the two steps; that's it, Mrs. Dalrymple, Mr. 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
      the bell, displaying in so doing the least possible portion of a very
      well-turned ankle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Matilda Dal laid down her book, but seemingly lost in abstraction,
      did not deign to look at us. Mrs. Dalrymple, however, did the honors with
      much politeness, and having by a few adroit and well-put queries
      ascertained everything concerning our rank and position, seemed perfectly
      satisfied that our intrusion was justifiable.
    </p>
    <p>
      While my <i>confrère</i>, Mr. Sparks, was undergoing his examination I had
      time to look at the ladies, whom I was much surprised at finding so very
      well looking; and as the ensign had opened a conversation with Fanny, I
      approached my chair towards the other, and having carelessly turned over
      the leaves of the book she had been reading, drew her on to talk of it. As
      my acquaintance with young ladies hitherto had been limited to those who
      had "no soul," I felt some difficulty at first in keeping up with the
      exalted tone of my fair companion, but by letting her take the lead for
      some time, I got to know more of the ground. We went on tolerably
      together, every moment increasing my stock of technicals, which were all
      that was needed to sustain the conversation. How often have I found the
      same plan succeed, whether discussing a question of law or medicine, with
      a learned professor of either! or, what is still more difficult,
      canvassing the merits of a preacher or a doctrine with a serious young
      lady, whose "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
      a convert to her views as to have found a person capable of sympathizing
      with her; and thus, long before the little supper, with which it was the
      major's practice to regale his friends every evening, made its appearance,
      we had established a perfect understanding together,&mdash;a circumstance
      that, a bystander might have remarked, was productive of a more widely
      diffused satisfaction than I could have myself seen any just cause for.
      Mr. Burton was also progressing, as the Yankees say, with the sister;
      Sparks had booked himself as purchaser of military stores enough to make
      the campaign of the whole globe; and we were thus all evidently fulfilling
      our various vocations, and affording perfect satisfaction to our
      entertainers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came the spatch-cock, and the sandwiches, and the negus, which Fanny
      first mixed for papa, and subsequently, with some little pressing, for Mr.
      Burton; Matilda the romantic assisted <i>me</i>; Sparks helped himself.
      Then we laughed, and told stories; pressed Sparks to sing, which, as he
      declined, we only pressed the more. How, invariably, by-the-bye, is it the
      custom to show one's appreciation of anything like a butt by pressing him
      for a song! The major was in great spirits; told us anecdotes of his early
      life in India, and how he once contracted to supply the troops with milk,
      and made a purchase, in consequence, of some score of cattle, which turned
      out to be bullocks. Matilda recited some lines from Pope in my ear. Fanny
      challenged Burton to a rowing match. Sparks listened to all around him,
      and Mrs. Dalrymple mixed a very little weak punch, which Dr. Lucas had
      recommended to her to take the last thing at night,&mdash;<i>Noctes
      coenoeque</i> etc. Say what you will, these were very jovial little <i>réunions</i>.
      The girls were decidedly very pretty. We were in high favor; and when we
      took leave at the door, with a very cordial shake hands, it was with no <i>arrière
      pensée</i> we promised to see them in the morning.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ENTANGLEMENT.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we think for a moment over all the toils, all the anxieties, all the
      fevered excitement of a <i>grande passion</i>, it is not a little singular
      that love should so frequently be elicited by a state of mere idleness;
      and yet nothing, after all, is so predisposing a cause as this. Where is
      the man between eighteen and eight-and-thirty&mdash;might I not say forty&mdash;who,
      without any very pressing duns, and having no taste for strong liquor and
      <i>rouge-et-noir</i>, can possibly lounge through the long hours of his
      day without at least fancying himself in love? The thousand little
      occupations it suggests become a necessity of existence; its very worries
      are like the wholesome opposition that purifies and strengthens the frame
      of a free state. Then, what is there half so sweet as the reflective
      flattery which results from our appreciation of an object who in return
      deems us the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of perfection? There it is, in fact;
      that confounded bump of self-esteem does it all, and has more imprudent
      matches to answer for than 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
      "devilish spooney" about the "Dals." The morning drill, the riding-school,
      and the parade were all most fervently consigned to a certain military
      character that shall be nameless, as detaining me from some appointment
      made the evening before; for as I supped there each night, a party of one
      kind or another was always planned for the day following. Sometimes we had
      a boating excursion to Cove, sometimes a picnic at Foaty; now a rowing
      party to Glanmire, or a ride, at which I furnished the cavalry. These
      doings were all under my especial direction, and I thus became speedily
      the organ of the Dalrymple family; and the simple phrase, "It was Mr.
      O'Malley's arrangement," "Mr. O'Malley wished it," was like the <i>Moi le
      roi</i> of Louis XIV.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though all this while we continued to carry on most pleasantly, Mrs.
      Dalrymple, I could perceive, did not entirely sympathize with our projects
      of amusement. As an experienced engineer might feel when watching the
      course of some storming projectile&mdash;some brilliant congreve&mdash;flying
      over a besieged fortress, yet never touching the walls nor harming the
      inhabitants, so she looked on at all these demonstrations of attack with
      no small impatience, and wondered when would the breach be reported
      practicable. Another puzzle also contributed its share of anxiety,&mdash;which
      of the girls was it? To be sure, he spent three hours every morning with
      Fanny; but then, he never left Matilda the whole evening. He had given his
      miniature to one; a locket with his hair was a present to the sister. The
      major thinks he saw his arm round Matilda's waist in the garden; the
      housemaid swears she saw him kiss Fanny in the pantry. Matilda smiles when
      we talk of his name with her sister's; Fanny laughs outright, and says,
      "Poor Matilda! the man never dreamed of her." This is becoming
      uncomfortable. The major must ask his intentions. It is certainly one or
      the other; but then, we have a right to know which. Such was a very
      condensed view of Mrs. Dalrymple's reflections on this important topic,&mdash;a
      view taken with her usual tact and clear-sightedness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Matters were in this state when Power at length arrived in Cork, to take
      command of our detachment and make the final preparations for our
      departure. I had been, as usual, spending the evening at the major's, and
      had just reached my quarters, when I found my friend sitting at my fire,
      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 been till this hour,&mdash;past two o'clock? There is no ball, no
      assembly going on, eh?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said I, half blushing at the eagerness of the inquiry; "I've been
      spending the evening with a friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Spending the evening! Say, rather, the night! Why, confound you, man,
      what 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
      devilish good fellow, with two such daughters!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ahem!" said Power, shutting one eye knowingly, and giving a look like a
      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.
      Matilda was just then coming it rather strong with Villiers, of ours, a
      regular greenhorn. Fanny, also, nearly did for Harry Nesbitt, by riding a
      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
      just have heard their names."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, perhaps so; only tell me which is your peculiar weakness, as they
      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 little pink&mdash;'There are hearts that live and love alone.' Oh,
      poor fellow, you've got it! By Jove, how you've been coming it, though, in
      ten days! She ought not to have got to that for a month, at least; and how
      like a young one it was, to be caught by the poetry. Oh, Master Charley, I
      thought that the steeple-chaser might have done most with your Galway
      heart,&mdash;the girl in the gray habit, that sings 'Moddirederoo,' ought
      to have been the prize! Halt! by Saint George, but that tickles you also!
      Why, zounds, if I go on, probably, at this rate, I'll find a tender spot
      occupied by the 'black lady' herself."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no use concealing, or attempting to conceal, anything from my
      inquisitive friend; so I mixed my grog, and opened my whole heart; told
      how I had been conducting myself for the entire preceding fortnight; and
      when I concluded, sat silently awaiting Power's verdict, as though a jury
      were 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
      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 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
      attentions were not decided, and as the law does not, as yet, permit
      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
      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
      few minutes' private conversation with me to-morrow, and I thought it was
      about some confounded military chest or sea-store, or one of his infernal
      contrivances that he every day assures me are indispensable; though, if
      every officer had only as much baggage as I have got, under his
      directions, it would take two armies, at least, to carry the effects of
      the fighting one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poor fellow!" said he, starting upon his legs; "what a burst you've made
      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
      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
      time, something of the estimation my friends were held in. "Come, Power,
      pull me through, like a good fellow,&mdash;pull me through, without doing
      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; but, at the same time, let me assure you, the affair is not so
      easy as you may at first blush suppose. These worthy people have been so
      often 'done'&mdash;to use the cant phrase&mdash;before, that scarcely a <i>ruse</i>
      remains untried. It is of no use pleading that your family won't consent;
      that your prospects are null; that you are ordered for India; that you are
      engaged elsewhere; that you have nothing but your pay; that you are too
      young or too old,&mdash;all such reasons, good and valid with any other
      family, will avail you little here. Neither will it serve your cause that
      you may be warranted by a doctor as subject to periodical fits of
      insanity; monomaniacal tendencies to cut somebody's throat, etc. Bless
      your heart, man, they have a soul above such littlenesses! They care
      nothing for consent of friends, means, age, health, climate, prospects, or
      temper. Firmly believing matrimony to be a lottery, they are not
      superstitious about the number they pitch upon; provided only that they
      get a ticket, they are content."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then it strikes me, if what you say is correct, that I have no earthly
      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 hero of that affair. It was right well planned, too. One of the
      letters was suffered, by mere accident, to fall into Mrs. Dal's hands, and
      she was quite prepared for the event when he was reported shot the next
      morning. Then the young lady, of course, whether she cared or not, was
      obliged to be perfectly unconcerned, lest the story of engaged affections
      might get wind and spoil another market. The thing went on admirably, till
      one day, some few months later, they saw, in a confounded army-list, that
      the late George Vickers was promoted to the 18th Dragoons, so that the
      trick was discovered, and is, of course, stale at present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then could I not have a wife already, and a large family of interesting
      babies?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No go,&mdash;only swell the damages, when they come to prosecute.
      Besides, your age and looks forbid the assumption of such a fact. No, no;
      we must go deeper to work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But where shall we go?" said I, impatiently; "for it appears to me these
      good people have been treated to every trick and subterfuge that ever
      ingenuity suggested."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, I think I have it; but it will need a little more reflection. So,
      now, let us to bed. I'll give you the result of my lucubrations at
      breakfast; and, if I mistake not, we may get you through this without any
      ill-consequences. Good-night, then, old boy; and now dream away of your
      lady-love till our next meeting."
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE PREPARATION.
    </p>
    <p>
      To prevent needless repetitions in my story, I shall not record here the
      conversation which passed between my friend Power and myself on the
      morning following at breakfast. Suffice it to say, that the plan proposed
      by him for my rescue was one I agreed to adopt, reserving to myself, in
      case of failure, a <i>pis aller</i> of which I knew not the meaning, but
      of whose 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 road of escape be left, why, then, I believe you must have recourse to
      another alternative. Still I should wish to avoid it, if possible, and I
      put it to you, in honor, not to employ it unless as a last expedient. You
      promise me this?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course," said I, with great anxiety for the dread final measure. "What
      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
      other plan will do,&mdash;must do. Come, come, O'Malley, the admiralty say
      that nothing encourages drowning in the navy like a life-buoy. The men
      have such a prospect of being picked up that they don't mind falling
      overboard; so, if I give you this life-preserver of mine, you'll not swim
      an inch. Is it not so, eh?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Far from it," said I. "I shall feel in honor bound to exert myself the
      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
      exhausted; when you have totally lost your memory, in fact, and your
      ingenuity in excuses say,&mdash;but mind, Charley, not till then,&mdash;say
      that you 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
      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
      crossing the street there? Yes, to be sure it is; and, by Jove! he has got
      on the old braided frock this morning. Had you not told me one word of
      your critical position, I should have guessed there was something in the
      wind from that. That same vestment has caused many a stout heart to
      tremble that 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
      Gibraltar. He was never known to wear it except when asking some poor
      fellow's 'intentions.' He would no more think of sporting it as an
      every-day affair, than the chief-justice would go cook-shooting in his
      black cap and ermine. Come, he is bound for your quarters, and as it will
      not answer our plans to let him see you now, you had better hasten
      down-stairs, and get round by the back way into George's Street, and
      you'll be at his house before he can return."
    </p>
    <p>
      Following Power's directions, I seized my foraging-cap and got clear out
      of the premises before the major had reached them. It was exactly noon as
      I sounded my loud and now well-known summons at the major's knocker. The
      door was quickly opened; but instead of dashing up-stairs, four steps at a
      time, as was my wont, to the drawing-room, I turned short into the
      dingy-looking little parlor on the right, and desired Matthew, the
      venerable servitor of the house, to say that I wished particularly to see
      Mrs. Dalrymple for a few minutes, if the hour were not inconvenient.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something perhaps of excitement in my manner, some flurry in my
      look, or some trepidation in my voice, or perhaps it was the unusual hour,
      or the still more remarkable circumstance of my not going at once to the
      drawing-room, that raised some doubts in Matthew's mind as to the object
      of my visit; and instead of at once complying with my request to inform
      Mrs. Dalrymple that I was there, he cautiously closed the door, and taking
      a quick but satisfactory glance round the apartment to assure himself that
      we 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
      could possibly mean; he, following up the train of his own thoughts,
      comprehended little or nothing of my surprise, and evidently was so
      engrossed by his reflections that he had neither ears nor eyes for aught
      around him. There was a most singular semi-comic expression in the old
      withered face that nearly made me laugh at first; but as I continued to
      look steadily at it, I perceived that, despite the long-worn wrinkles that
      low Irish drollery and fun had furrowed around the angles of his mouth,
      the real character of his look was one of sorrowful compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doubtless, my readers have read many interesting narratives wherein the
      unconscious traveller in some remote land has been warned of a plan to
      murder him, by some mere passing wink, a look, a sign, which some one,
      less steeped in crime, less hardened in iniquity than his fellows, has
      ventured for his rescue. Sometimes, according to the taste of the
      narrator, the interesting individual is an old woman, sometimes a young
      one, sometimes a black-bearded bandit, sometimes a child; and not
      unfrequently, a dog is humane enough to do this service. One thing,
      however, never varies,&mdash;be the agent biped or quadruped, dumb or
      speechful, young or old, the stranger invariably takes the hint, and gets
      off scott free for his sharpness. This never-varying trick on the doomed
      man, I had often been sceptical enough to suspect; however, I had not been
      many minutes a spectator of the old man's countenance, when I most
      thoroughly recanted my errors, and acknowledged myself wrong. If ever the
      look of a man conveyed a warning, his did; but there was more in it than
      even that,&mdash;there was a tone of sad and pitiful compassion, such as
      an old gray-bearded rat might be supposed to put on at seeing a young and
      inexperienced one opening the hinge of an iron trap, to try its efficacy
      upon his neck. Many a little occasion had presented itself, during my
      intimacy with the family, of doing Matthew some small services, of making
      him some trifling presents; so that, when he assumed before me the gesture
      and look I have mentioned, I was not long in deciphering his intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Matthew!" screamed a sharp voice which I recognized at once for that of
      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
      turned upon me one look of such import that only the circumstances of my
      story can explain its force, or my reader's own ingenious imagination can
      supply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never fear, my good old friend," said I, grasping his hand warmly, and
      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
      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
      announced me unexpectedly among the ladies there assembled, who, not
      hearing of my approach, were evidently not a little surprised and
      astonished. Had I been really the enamored swain that the Dalrymple family
      were willing to believe, I half suspect that the prospect before me might
      have cured me of my passion. A round bullet-head, <i>papilloté</i>, with
      the "Cork Observer," where still-born babes and maids-of-all-work were
      descanted upon in very legible type, was now the substitute for the
      classic front and Italian ringlets of <i>la belle</i> Matilda; while the
      chaste Fanny herself, whose feet had been a fortune for a statuary, was,
      in the most slatternly and slipshod attire, pacing the room in a towering
      rage, at some thing, place, or person, unknown (to me). If the
      ballet-master at the <i>Académie</i> could only learn to get his imps,
      demons, angels, and goblins "off" half as rapidly as the two young ladies
      retreated on my being announced, I answer for the piece so brought out
      having a run for half the season. Before my eyes had regained their
      position parallel to the plane of the horizon, they were gone, and I found
      myself alone with Mrs. Dalrymple. Now, she stood her ground, partly to
      cover the retreat of the main body, partly, too, because&mdash;representing
      the baggage wagons, ammunition stores, hospital, staff, etc.&mdash;her
      retirement from the field demanded more time and circumspection than the
      light brigade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let not my readers suppose that the <i>mère</i> Dalrymple was so perfectly
      faultless in costume that her remaining was a matter of actual
      indifference; far from it. She evidently had a struggle for it; but a
      sense of duty decided her, and as Ney doggedly held back to cover the
      retreating forces on the march from Moscow, so did she resolutely lurk
      behind till the last flutter of the last petticoat assured her that the
      fugitives were safe. Then did she hesitate for a moment what course to
      take; but as I assumed my chair beside her, she composedly sat down, and
      crossing her 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 their taste, ordained that the 79th and 42d Regiments should in future,
      in lieu of their respective tartans, wear flannel kilts and black worsted
      hose, I could readily have fallen into the error of mistaking Mrs.
      Dalrymple for a field officer in the new regulation dress; the philabeg
      finding no mean representation in a capacious pincushion that hung down
      from her girdle, while a pair of shears, not scissors, corresponded to the
      dirk. After several ineffectual efforts on her part to make her vestment
      (I know not its fitting designation) cover more of her legs than its
      length could possibly effect, and after some most bland smiles and half
      blushes at <i>dishabille</i>, etc., were over, and that I had apologized
      most humbly for the unusually early hour of my call, I proceeded to open
      my negotiations, and unfurl my banner for the fray.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The old 'Racehorse' has arrived at last," said I, with a half-sigh, "and
      I believe that we shall not obtain a very long time for our leave-taking;
      so that, trespassing upon your very great kindness, I have ventured upon
      an early call."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The 'Racehorse,' surely can't sail to-morrow," said Mrs. Dalrymple, whose
      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
      commands us to embark in twenty-four hours; so that, in fact, we scarcely
      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 are sure to meet. I have many thanks yet to give him for all his most
      kind attentions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know he is most anxious to see you," said Mrs. Dalrymple, with a very
      peculiar emphasis, and evidently desiring that I should inquire the
      reasons of this anxiety. I, however, most heroically forbore indulging my
      curiosity, and added that I should endeavor to find him on my way to the
      barracks; and then, hastily looking at my watch, I pronounced it a full
      hour later than it really was, and promising to spend the evening&mdash;my
      last evening&mdash;with them, I took my leave and hurried away, in no
      small flurry to be once more out of reach of Mrs. Dalrymple's fire, which
      I every moment expected to open upon me.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE SUPPER.
    </p>
    <p>
      Power and I dined together <i>tête-à-tête</i> at the hotel, and sat
      chatting 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
      towards the timepiece; another bumper, and I'll let you off. What shall it
      be?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What you like," said I, upon whom a share of three bottles of strong
      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> for a critical moment,&mdash;every bubble that rises
      sparkling to the surface prompts some bright thought, or elicits some
      brilliant idea, that would only have been drowned in your more sober
      fluids. Here's to the girl you love, whoever she be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To her bright eyes, then, be it," said I, clearing off a brimming goblet
      of nearly half the bottle, while my friend Power seemed multiplied into
      any given number of gentlemen standing amidst something like a glass
      manufactory of decanters.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope you feel steady enough for this business," said my friend,
      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, and
      we'll go on board together; for old Bloater the skipper says he'll
      certainly weigh by daybreak."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Till then," said I, as opening the door, I proceeded very cautiously to
      descend the stairs, affecting all the time considerable <i>nonchalance</i>,
      and endeavoring, as well as my thickened utterance would permit, to hum:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon."
</pre>
    <p>
      If I was not in the most perfect possession of my faculties in the house,
      the change to the open air certainly but little contributed to their
      restoration; and I scarcely felt myself in the street when my brain became
      absolutely one whirl of maddened and confused excitement. Time and space
      are nothing to a man thus enlightened, and so they appeared to me;
      scarcely a second had elapsed when I found myself standing in the
      Dalrymples' drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      If a few hours had done much to metamorphose <i>me</i>, certes, they had
      done something for my fair friends also; anything more unlike what they
      appeared in the morning can scarcely be imagined. Matilda in black, with
      her hair in heavy madonna bands upon her fair cheek, now paler even than
      usual, never seemed so handsome; while Fanny, in a light-blue dress, with
      blue flowers in her hair, and a blue sash, looked the most lovely piece of
      coquetry ever man set his eyes upon. The old major, too, was smartened up,
      and put into an old regimental coat that he had worn during the siege of
      Gibraltar; and lastly, Mrs. Dalrymple herself was attired in a very
      imposing costume that made her, to my not over-accurate judgment, look
      very like an elderly bishop in a flame-colored cassock. Sparks was the
      only stranger, and wore upon his countenance, as I entered, a look of very
      considerable embarrassment that even my thick-sightedness could not fail
      of detecting.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Parlez-moi de l'amitié</i>, my friends. Talk to me of the warm embrace
      of your earliest friend, after years of absence; the cordial and heartfelt
      shake hands of your old school companion, when in after years, a chance
      meeting has brought you together, and you have had time and opportunity
      for becoming distinguished and in repute, and are rather a good hit to be
      known to than otherwise; of the close grip you give your second when he
      comes up to say, that the gentleman with the loaded detonator opposite
      won't fire, that he feels he's in the wrong. Any or all of these together,
      very effective and powerful though they be, are light in the balance when
      compared with the two-handed compression you receive from the gentleman
      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
      holding me fast and looking me full in the face, to calculate the extent
      to which my potations rendered his flattery feasible.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hurried to death with preparations, I suppose," said Mrs. Dalrymple,
      smiling blandly. "Fanny dear, some tea for him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, Mamma, he does not like all that sugar; surely not," said she,
      looking up with a most sweet expression, as though to say, "I at least
      know his tastes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believed you were going without seeing us," whispered Matilda, with a
      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
      very intelligible look at Fanny, and a tender squeeze of Matilda's hand,
      as I seated myself at the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely had I placed myself at the tea-table, with Matilda beside and
      Fanny opposite me, each vying with the other in their delicate and kind
      attentions, when I totally forgot all my poor friend Power's injunctions
      and directions for my management. It is true, I remembered that there was
      a scrape of some kind or other to be got out of, and one requiring some
      dexterity, too; but what or with whom I could not for the life of me
      determine. What the wine had begun, the bright eyes completed; and amidst
      the witchcraft of silky tresses and sweet looks, I lost all my reflection,
      till the impression of an impending difficulty remained fixed in my mind,
      and I tortured my poor, weak, and erring intellect to detect it. At last,
      and by a mere chance, my eyes fell upon Sparks; and by what mechanism I
      contrived it, I know not, but I immediately saddled him with the whole of
      my annoyances, and attributed to him and to his fault any embarrassment I
      labored under.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physiological reason of the fact I'm very ignorant of, but for the
      truth and frequency I can well vouch, that there are certain people,
      certain faces, certain voices, certain whiskers, legs, waistcoats, and
      guard-chains, that inevitably produce the most striking effects upon the
      brain of a gentleman already excited by wine, and not exactly cognizant of
      his own peculiar fallacies.
    </p>
    <p>
      These effects are not produced merely among those who are quarrelsome in
      their cups, for I call the whole 14th to witness that I am not such; but
      to any person so disguised, the inoffensiveness of the object is no
      security on the other hand,&mdash;for I once knew an eight-day clock
      kicked down a barrack stairs by an old Scotch major, because he thought it
      was laughing at him. To this source alone, whatever it be, can I attribute
      the feeling of rising indignation with which I contemplated the luckless
      cornet, who, seated at the fire, unnoticed and uncared for, seemed a very
      unworthy 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
      very sovereign contempt,&mdash;"Mr. Sparks, I fear, regards my visit here
      in the light of an intrusion."
    </p>
    <p>
      Had poor Mr. Sparks been told to proceed incontinently up the chimney
      before him, he could not have looked more aghast. Reply was quite out of
      his power. So sudden and unexpectedly was this charge of mine made that he
      could only stare vacantly from one to the other; while I, warming with my
      subject, and perhaps&mdash;but I'll not swear it&mdash;stimulated by a
      gentle 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
      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
      father-in-law in his eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The spirit of an officer and a gentleman spoke there," said Mrs.
      Dalrymple, now carried beyond all prudence by the hope that my attack
      might arouse my dormant friend into a counter-declaration; nothing,
      however, was further from poor Sparks, who began to think he had been
      unconsciously drinking tea with five lunatics.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If he supposes," said I, rising from my chair, "that his silence will
      pass with me as any palliation&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, dear! oh, dear! there will be a duel. Papa, dear, why don't you speak
      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.
      Sparks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must say," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "however sorry I may feel in my own
      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 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
      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
      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 <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 interrupt the harmony of our evening. Not so, however. I had apparently
      acquitted myself like a hero, and was evidently in a white heat, in which
      I could be fashioned into any shape. Sparks was humbled so far that he
      would probably feel it a relief to make any proposition; so that by our
      opposite courses we had both arrived at a point at which all the dexterity
      and address of the family had been long since aiming without success.
      Conversation then resumed its flow, and in a few minutes every trace of
      our late <i>fracas</i> had disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      By degrees I felt myself more and more disposed to turn my attention
      towards Matilda, and dropping my voice into a lower tone, opened a
      flirtation of a most determined kind. Fanny had, meanwhile, assumed a
      place beside Sparks, and by the muttered tones that passed between them, I
      could plainly perceive they were similarly occupied. The major took up the
      "Southern Reporter," of which he appeared deep in the contemplation, while
      Mrs. Dal herself buried her head in her embroidery and neither heard nor
      saw anything around her.
    </p>
    <p>
      I know, unfortunately, but very little what passed between myself and my
      fair companion; I can only say that when supper was announced at twelve
      (an hour later than usual), I was sitting upon the sofa with my arm round
      her waist, my cheek so close that already her lovely tresses brushed my
      forehead, and her breath fanned my burning brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Supper, at last," said the major, with a loud voice, to arouse us from
      our trance of happiness without taking any mean opportunity of looking
      unobserved. "Supper, Sparks, O'Malley; come now, it will be some time
      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,
      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
      amused herself by wondering what the secret could be, why Mr. Sparks
      couldn't tell her, and Fanny meanwhile pretended to look for something at
      a 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
      warmth of whose sincerity there could be no question. "Bess, my love,"
      said he, addressing his wife. The remainder was lost in a whisper; but
      whatever it was, it evidently redounded to Sparks's credit, for the next
      moment a repetition of the hand-shaking took place, and Sparks looked the
      happiest of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>A mon tour</i>," thought I, "now," as I touched the major's arm, and
      led him towards the window. What I said may be one day matter for Major
      Dalrymple's memoirs, if he ever writes them; but for my part I have not
      the least idea. I only know that while I was yet speaking he called over
      Mrs. Dal, who, in a frenzy of joy, seized me in her arms and embraced me.
      After which, I kissed her, shook hands with the major, kissed Matilda's
      hand, and laughed prodigiously, as though I had done something
      confoundedly droll,&mdash;a sentiment evidently participated in by Sparks,
      who laughed too, as did the others; and a merrier, happier party never sat
      down to supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Make your company pleased with themselves," says Mr. Walker, in his <i>Original</i>
      work upon dinner-giving, "and everything goes on well." Now, Major
      Dalrymple, without having read the authority in question, probably because
      it was not written at the time, understood the principle fully as well as
      the police-magistrate, and certainly was a proficient in the practice of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be sure, he possessed one grand requisite for success,&mdash;he seemed
      most perfectly happy himself. There was that <i>air dégagé</i> about him
      which, when an old man puts it on among his juniors, is so very
      attractive. Then the ladies, too, were evidently well pleased; and the
      usually austere mamma had relaxed her "rigid front" into a smile in which
      any <i>habitué</i> of the house could have read our fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      We ate, we drank, we ogled, smiled, squeezed hands beneath the table, and,
      in fact, so pleasant a party had rarely assembled round the major's
      mahogany. As for me, I made a full disclosure of the most burning love,
      backed by a resolve to marry my fair neighbor, and settle upon her a
      considerably larger part of my native county than I had ever even rode
      over. Sparks, on the other side, had opened his fire more cautiously, but
      whether taking courage from my boldness, or perceiving with envy the
      greater estimation I was held in, was now going the pace fully as fast as
      myself, and had commenced explanations of his intentions with regard to
      Fanny that evidently satisfied her friends. Meanwhile the wine was passing
      very freely, and the hints half uttered an hour before began now to be
      more openly spoken and canvassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sparks and I hob-nobbed across the table and looked unspeakable things at
      each other; the girls held down their heads; Mrs. Dal wiped her eyes; and
      the major pronounced himself the happiest father in Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now wearing late, or rather early; some gray streaks of dubious
      light were faintly forcing their way through the half-closed curtains, and
      the dread thought of parting first presented itself. A cavalry trumpet,
      too, at this moment sounded a call that aroused us from our trance of
      pleasure, and warned us that our moments were few. A dead silence crept
      over all; the solemn feeling which leave-taking ever inspires was
      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,
      boys, before we part."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here let it be, then, Major," said I, holding his arm as he turned to
      leave the room,&mdash;"here, now; we are all so deeply interested, no
      place is so fit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then," said the major, "as you desire it, now that I'm to regard
      you both in the light of my sons-in-law,&mdash;at least, as pledged to
      become so,&mdash;it is only fair as respects&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see,&mdash;I understand perfectly," interrupted I, whose passion for
      conducting the whole affair myself was gradually gaining on me. "What you
      mean is, that we should make known our intentions before some mutual
      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
      over to my quarters for our captain,&mdash;he's the fittest person, you
      know, at 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
      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
      possessed himself of Fanny's hand, while the major and his wife consulted
      for a few seconds.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, O'Malley, all you propose is perfect. Now, then, for the captain.
      Who shall he inquire for?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0240.jpg" alt="Charles Pops the Question. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Oh, an old friend of yours," said I, jocularly; "you'll be glad to see
      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 very intimate friend, indeed, if he tell the truth."
    </p>
    <p>
      A look of something like embarrassment passed around the circle at these
      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,
      as our mutual friend Captain Power?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Had a shell fallen into the cold grouse pie in the midst of us, scattering
      death and destruction on every side, the effect could scarcely have been
      more frightful than that my last words produced. Mrs. Dalrymple fell with
      a sough upon the floor, motionless as a corpse; Fanny threw herself,
      screaming, upon a sofa; Matilda went off into strong hysterics upon the
      hearth-rug; while the major, after giving me a look a maniac might have
      envied, rushed from the room in search of his pistols with a most terrific
      oath to shoot somebody, whether Sparks or myself, or both of us, on his
      return, I cannot say. Fanny's sobs and Matilda's cries, assisted by a
      drumming process by Mrs. Dal's heels upon the floor, made a most infernal
      concert and effectually prevented anything like thought or reflection; and
      in all probability so overwhelmed was I at the sudden catastrophe I had so
      innocently caused, I should have waited in due patience for the major's
      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
      upon the stone sill, and leaped into the street. I followed mechanically,
      and jumped after him, just as the major had reached the window. A ball
      whizzed by me, that soon determined my further movements; so, putting on
      all speed, I flew down the street, turned the corner, and regained the
      hotel breathless and without a hat, while Sparks arrived a moment later,
      pale as a ghost, and trembling like an aspen-leaf.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Safe, by Jove!" said Sparks, throwing himself into a chair, and panting
      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 any curiosity as to the cause; "and now, let us on board; there
      goes the trumpet again. The skipper is a surly old fellow, and we must not
      lose his tide for him." So saying, he proceeded to collect his cloaks,
      cane, etc., and get ready for departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE VOYAGE.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I awoke from the long, sound sleep which succeeded my last adventure,
      I had some difficulty in remembering where I was or how I had come there.
      From my narrow berth I looked out upon the now empty cabin, and at length
      some misty and confused sense of my situation crept slowly over me. I
      opened the little shutter beside me and looked out. The bold headlands of
      the southern coast were frowning in sullen and dark masses about a couple
      of miles distant, and I perceived that we were going fast through the
      water, which was beautifully calm and still. I now looked at my watch; it
      was past eight o'clock; and as it must evidently be evening, from the
      appearance of the sky, I felt that I had slept soundly for above twelve
      hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the hurry of departure the cabin had not been set to rights, and there
      lay every species of lumber and luggage in all imaginable confusion.
      Trunks, gun-cases, baskets of eggs, umbrellas, hampers of sea-store,
      cloaks, foraging-caps, maps, and sword-belts were scattered on every side,&mdash;while
      the <i>débris</i> of a dinner, not over-remarkable for its propriety in
      table equipage, added to the ludicrous effect. The heavy tramp of a foot
      overhead denoted the step of some one taking his short walk of exercise;
      while the rough voice of the skipper, as he gave the word to "Go about!"
      all convinced me that we were at last under way, and off to "the wars."
    </p>
    <p>
      The confusion our last evening on shore produced in my brain was such that
      every effort I made to remember anything about it only increased my
      difficulty, and I felt myself in a web so tangled and inextricable that
      all endeavor to escape free was impossible. Sometimes I thought that I had
      really married Matilda Dalrymple; then, I supposed that the father had
      called me out, and wounded me in a duel; and finally, I had some confused
      notion about a quarrel with Sparks, but what for, when, and how it ended,
      I knew not. How tremendously tipsy I must have been! was the only
      conclusion I could draw from all these conflicting doubts; and after all,
      it was the only thing like fact that beamed upon my mind. How I had come
      on board and reached my berth was a matter I reserved for future inquiry,
      resolving that about the real history of my last night on shore I would
      ask no questions, 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,
      etc., and whether he himself had been forgotten in our hasty departure.
      About this latter point I was not destined for much doubt; for a
      well-known voice, from the foot of the companion-ladder, at once
      proclaimed my faithful follower, and evidenced his feelings at his
      departure from his home and country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Free was, at the time I mention, gathered up like a ball opposite a
      small, low window that looked upon the bluff headlands now fast becoming
      dim and misty as the night approached. He was apparently in low spirits,
      and hummed in a species of low, droning voice, the following ballad, at
      the end of each verse of which came an Irish chorus which, to the erudite
      in such matters, will suggest the air of Moddirederoo:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    MICKEY FREE'S LAMENT.

    Then fare ye well, ould Erin dear;
      To part, my heart does ache well:
    From Carrickfergus to Cape Clear,
      I'll never see your equal.
    And though to foreign parts we're bound,
      Where cannibals may ate us,
    We'll ne'er forget the holy ground
      Of potteen and potatoes.
               Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc.

    When good Saint Patrick banished frogs,
      And shook them from his garment,
    He never thought we'd go abroad,
      To live upon such varmint;
    Nor quit the land where whiskey grew
      To wear King George's button,
    Take vinegar for mountain dew,
      And toads for mountain mutton.
               Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc.
</pre>
    <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
      glory&mdash;bad luck to it!&mdash;by this time. He'd make your heart break
      to look at 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, Mike?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir, another major; his name is Mulroon, or Mundoon, or something
      like that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Monsoon, you son of a lumper potato," cried out a surly, gruff voice from
      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 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
      way, till I get used to the confounded rocking and pitching, and with a
      little grog and some sleep, get over the time gayly enough. Steward,
      another tumbler like the last; there&mdash;very good&mdash;that will do.
      Your good 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, and in a few minutes more, a very decisive snore pronounced my
      friend to be fulfilling his precept for killing the hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      I now made the effort to emancipate myself from my crib, and at last
      succeeded in getting on the floor, where, after one <i>chassez</i> at a
      small looking-glass opposite, followed by a very impetuous rush at a
      little brass stove, in which I was interrupted by a trunk and laid
      prostrate, I finally got my clothes on, and made my way to the deck.
      Little attuned as was my mind at the moment to admire anything like
      scenery, it was impossible to be unmoved by the magnificent prospect
      before me. It was a beautiful evening in summer; the sun had set above an
      hour before, leaving behind him in the west one vast arch of rich and
      burnished gold, stretching along the whole horizon, and tipping all the
      summits of the heavy rolling sea, as it rolled on, unbroken by foam or
      ripple, in vast moving mountains, from the far coast of Labrador. We were
      already in blue water, though the bold cliffs that were to form our
      departing point were but a few miles to leeward. There lay the lofty bluff
      of Old Kinsale, whose crest, overhanging, peered from a summit of some
      hundred feet into the deep water that swept its rocky base, many a tangled
      lichen and straggling bough trailing in the flood beneath. Here and there
      upon the coast a twinkling gleam proclaimed the hut of the fisherman,
      whose swift hookers had more than once shot by us and disappeared in a
      moment. The wind, which began to fall at sunset, freshened as the moon
      rose; and the good ship, bending to the breeze, lay gently over, and
      rushed through the waters with a sound of gladness. I was alone upon the
      deck. Power and the captain, whom I expected to have found, had
      disappeared somehow, and I was, after all, not sorry to be left to my own
      reflections uninterrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      My thoughts turned once more to my home,&mdash;to my first, my best,
      earliest friend, whose hearth I had rendered lonely and desolate, and my
      heart sank within me as I remembered it. How deeply I reproached myself
      for the selfish impetuosity with which I had ever followed any rising
      fancy, any new and sudden desire, and never thought of him whose every
      hope was in, whose every wish was for me. Alas! alas, my poor uncle! how
      gladly would I resign every prospect my soldier's life may hold out, with
      all its glittering promise, and all the flattery of success, to be once
      more beside you; to feel your warm and manly grasp; to see your smile; to
      hear your voice; to be again where all our best feelings are born and
      nurtured, our cares assuaged, our joys more joyed in, and our griefs more
      wept,&mdash;at home! These very words have more music to my ears than all
      the softest strains that ever siren sung. They bring us back to all we
      have loved, by ties that are never felt but through such simple
      associations. And in the earlier memories called up, our childish feelings
      come back once more to visit us like better spirits, as we walk amidst the
      dreary desolation that years of 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, feeling it, knows that still there lives for him that same early
      home, with all its loved inmates, its every dear and devoted object
      waiting his coming and longing for his approach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were my thoughts as I stood gazing at the bold line of coast now
      gradually growing more and more dim while evening fell, and we continued
      to stand farther out to sea. So absorbed was I all this time in my
      reflections, that I never heard the voices which now suddenly burst upon
      my ears quite close beside me. I turned, and saw for the first time that
      at the end of the quarter-deck stood what is called a roundhouse, a small
      cabin, from which the sounds in question proceeded. I walked gently
      forward and peeped in, and certainly anything more in contrast with my
      late revery need not be conceived. There sat the skipper, a bluff,
      round-faced, jolly-looking little tar, mixing a bowl of punch at a table,
      at which sat my friend Power, the adjutant, and a tall, meagre-looking
      Scotchman, whom I once met in Cork, and heard that he was the doctor of
      some infantry regiment. Two or three black bottles, a paper of cigars, and
      a tallow candle were all the table equipage; but certainly the party
      seemed not to want for spirits and fun, to judge from the hearty bursts of
      laughing that every moment pealed forth, and shook the little building
      that held them. Power, as usual with him, seemed to be taking the lead,
      and was evidently amusing himself with the peculiarities of his
      companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, Adjutant, fill up; here's to the campaign before us. We, at least,
      have nothing but pleasure in the anticipation; no lovely wife behind; no
      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 less regrets at leaving hame; but a married man is no' entirely
      denied his ain consolations."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good sense in that," said the skipper; "a wide berth and plenty of sea
      room are not bad things now and then."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is that your experience also?" said Power, with a knowing look. "Come,
      come, Adjutant, we're not so ill off, you see; but, by Jove, I can't
      imagine how it is a man ever comes to thirty without having at least one
      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
      bottom. "It is devilish strange,&mdash;woman, lovely woman!" Here he
      filled and drank again, as though he had been proposing a toast for his
      own peculiar drinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, now," resumed Power, catching at once that there was something
      working in his mind,&mdash;"I say, now, how happened it that you, a right
      good-looking, soldier-like fellow, that always made his way among the fair
      ones, with that confounded roguish eye and slippery tongue,&mdash;how the
      deuce 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
      blandly at the flattery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And nae bad notion yours just to stay there," said the doctor, with a
      very peculiar contortion of countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No pleasing you, no contenting a fellow like you," said Power, returning
      to the charge; "that's the thing; you get a certain ascendancy; you have a
      kind of success that renders you, as the French say, <i>téte montée</i>,
      and you 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
      and all,&mdash;"quite wrong there; for some how, all my life, I was
      decidedly susceptible. Not that I cared much for your blushing sixteen, or
      budding beauties in white muslin, fresh from a back-board and a governess;
      no, my taste inclined rather to the more sober charms of two or
      three-and-thirty, the <i>embonpoint</i>, a good foot and ankle, a sensible
      breadth about the shoulders&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Somewhat Dutch-like, I take it," said the skipper, puffing out a volume
      of 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 I
      ever liked in the notion of a woman who had got over all the awkward
      girlishness of early years, and had that self-possession which habit and
      knowledge of the world confer, and knew enough of herself to understand
      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 the
      spinster class. I defy any man breathing,&mdash;let him be half
      police-magistrate, half chancellor,&mdash;to find out the figure of a
      young lady's dower. On your first introduction to the house, some kind
      friend whispers, 'Go it, old boy; forty thousand, not a penny less.' A few
      weeks later, as the siege progresses, a maiden aunt, disposed to puffing,
      comes down to twenty; this diminishes again one half, but then 'the money
      is in bank stock, hard Three-and-a-Half.' You go a little farther, and as
      you sit one day over your wine with papa, he certainly promulgates the
      fact that his daughter has five thousand pounds, two of which turn out to
      be in Mexican bonds, and three in an Irish mortgage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Happy for you," interrupted Power, "that it be not in Galway, where a
      proposal to foreclose, would be a signal for your being called out and
      shot without benefit of clergy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bad luck to it, for Galway," said the adjutant. "I was nearly taken in
      there once to marry a girl that her brother-in-law swore had eight hundred
      a year; and it came out afterwards that so she had, but it was for one
      year 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,
      "worth, all the algebra they ever taught in Trinity. Take the half of the
      assumed sum, and divide it by three; the quotient will be a flattering
      representative of the figure sought for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not in the north," said the adjutant, firmly,&mdash;"not in the north,
      Power. They are all well off there. There's a race of canny, thrifty,
      half-Scotch niggers,&mdash;your pardon, Doctor, they are all Irish,&mdash;linen-weaving,
      Presbyterian, yarn-factoring, long-nosed, hard-drinking fellows, that lay
      by rather a snug thing now and then. Do you know, I was very near it once
      in the north. I've half a mind to tell you the story; though, perhaps,
      you'll laugh at me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole party at once protested that nothing could induce them to
      deviate so widely from the line of propriety; and the skipper having mixed
      a fresh bowl and filled all the glasses round, the cigars were lighted,
      and the adjutant began.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX.
    </h2>
    <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
      from Belfast and take up our quarters in Londonderry. We had not been more
      than a few weeks altogether in Ulster when the order came; and as we had
      been, for the preceding two years, doing duty in the south and west, we
      concluded that the island was tolerably the same in all parts. We opened
      our campaign in the maiden city exactly as we had been doing with
      'unparalleled success' in Cashel, Fermoy, Tuam, etc.,&mdash;that is to
      say, we announced garrison balls and private theatricals; offered a cup to
      be run for in steeple-chase; turned out a four-in-hand drag, with mottled
      grays; 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.
      No dinners; but they gave none. No fun; but they had none in themselves.
      In fact, we knew better; we understood how the thing was to be done, and
      resolved that, as a mine of rich ore lay unworked, it was reserved for us
      to produce the shining metal that others, less discerning, had failed to
      discover. Little we knew of the matter; never was there a blunder like
      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
      features. In the first place, all the large towns in the south and west
      have, besides the country neighborhood that surrounds them, a certain
      sprinkling of gentlefolk, who, though with small fortunes and not much
      usage of the world, are still a great accession to society, and make up
      the blank which, even in the most thickly peopled country, would be sadly
      felt without them. Now, in Derry, there is none of this. After the great
      guns&mdash;and, <i>per Baccho!</i> what great guns they are!&mdash;you
      have nothing but the men engaged in commerce,&mdash;sharp, clever, shrewd,
      well-informed fellows; they are deep in flax-seed, cunning in molasses,
      and not to be excelled in all that pertains to coffee, sassafras,
      cinnamon, gum, oakum, and elephants' teeth. The place is a rich one, and
      the spirit of commerce is felt throughout it. Nothing is cared for,
      nothing is talked of, nothing alluded to, that does not bear upon this;
      and, in fact, if you haven't a venture in Smyrna figs, Memel timber, Dutch
      dolls, or some such commodity, you are absolutely nothing, and might as
      well be at a ball with a cork leg, or go deaf to the opera."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, when I've told thus much, I leave you to guess what impression our
      triumphal entry into the city produced. Instead of the admiring crowds
      that awaited us elsewhere, as we marched gayly into quarters, here we saw
      nothing but grave, sober-looking, and, I confess it, intelligent-looking
      faces, that scrutinized our appearance closely enough, but evidently with
      no great approval and less enthusiasm. The men passed on hurriedly to the
      counting-houses and wharves; the women, with almost as little interest,
      peeped at us from the windows, and walked away again. Oh, how we wished
      for Galway, glorious Galway, that paradise of the infantry that lies west
      of the Shannon! Little we knew, as we ordered the band, in lively
      anticipation of the gayeties before us, to strike up 'Payne's first set,'
      that, to the ears of the fair listeners in Ship Quay Street, the rumble of
      a sugar 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
      imitative in their tastes. The lovely Italian, whose very costume is a
      natural following of a Raphael, is no more like the pretty Liverpool
      damsel than Genoa is to Glasnevin; and yet what the deuce have they, dear
      souls, with their feet upon a soft carpet and their eyes upon the pages of
      Scott or Byron, to do with all the cotton or dimity that ever was printed?
      But 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
      though his own experience pointed otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, go ahead!" said the skipper, who evidently disliked the digression
      thus interrupting the adjutant's story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, we marched along, looking right and left at the pretty faces&mdash;and
      there were plenty of them, too&mdash;that a momentary curiosity drew to
      the windows; but although we smiled and ogled and leered as only a newly
      arrived regiment can smile, ogle, or leer, by all that's provoking we
      might as well have wasted our blandishments upon the Presbyterian
      meeting-house, 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
      black north, by Jove!' said a third: and so we went along to the barracks,
      somewhat displeased to think that, though the 18th were slow, they might
      have met their match.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Disappointed, as we undoubtedly felt, at the little enthusiasm that
      marked our <i>entrée</i>, we still resolved to persist in our original
      plan, and accordingly, early the following morning, announced our
      intention of giving amateur theatricals. The mayor, who called upon our
      colonel, was the first to learn this, and received the information with
      pretty much the same kind of look the Archbishop of Canterbury might be
      supposed to assume if requested by a a friend to ride 'a Derby.' The
      incredulous expression of the poor man's face, as he turned from one of us
      to the other, evidently canvassing in his mind whether we might not, by
      some special dispensation 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
      safe company, or whether our notification was too much for his nerves, I
      know not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We were not to be balked, however. Our plans for gayety, long planned and
      conned over, wore soon announced in all form; and though we made efforts
      almost super-human in the cause, our plays were performed to empty
      benches, our balls were unattended, our picnic invitations politely
      declined, and, in a word, all our advances treated with a cold and
      chilling politeness that plainly said, 'We'll none of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Each day brought some new discomfiture, and as we met at mess, instead of
      having, as heretofore, some prospect of pleasure and amusement to chat
      over, it was only to talk gloomily over our miserable failures, and lament
      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 do?&mdash;we began, by degrees, to forget our woes. Some of us took
      to late hours and brandy-and-water; others got sentimental, and wrote
      journals and novels and poetry; some made acquaintances among the
      townspeople, and out in to a quiet rubber to pass the evening; while
      another detachment, among which I was, got up a little love affair to
      while away the tedious hours, and cheat the lazy sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have already said something of my taste in beauty; now, Mrs. Boggs was
      exactly the style of woman I fancied. She was a widow; she had black eyes,&mdash;not
      your jet-black, sparkling, Dutch-doll eyes, that roll about and twinkle,
      but mean nothing; no, hers had a soft, subdued, downcast, pensive look
      about them, and were fully as melting a pair of orbs as any blue eyes you
      ever looked at.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, she had a short upper lip, and sweet teeth; by Jove, they were
      pearls! and she showed them too, pretty often. Her figure was
      well-rounded, plump, and what the French call <i>nette</i>. To complete
      all, her instep and ankle were unexceptional; and lastly, her jointure was
      seven hundred pounds per annum, with a trifle of eight thousand more that
      the late lamented Boggs bequeathed, when, after four months of
      uninterrupted bliss, he left Derry for another world.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When chance first threw me in the way of the fair widow, some casual
      coincidence of opinion happened to raise me in her estimation, and I soon
      afterwards received an invitation to a small evening party at her house,
      to 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 tell you I fell desperately in love. I began by visiting twice or thrice
      a week, and in less than two months, spent every morning at her house, and
      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
      all manner of flirtatious in my previous life; timid young ladies, manly
      young ladies, musical, artistical, poetical, and hysterical,&mdash;bless
      you, I knew them all by heart; but never before had I to deal with a
      serious one, and a widow to boot. The case was a trying one. For some
      weeks it was all very up-hill work; all the red shot of warm affection I
      used to pour in on other occasions was of no use here. The language of
      love, in which I was no mean proficient, availed me not. Compliments and
      flattery, those rare skirmishers before the engagement, were denied me;
      and I verily think that 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,
      I still found myself seated in the trenches, and not a single breach in
      the fortress; 'but, to be sure, it's the way they have in the north, and
      one must be patient.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "While thus I was in no very sanguine frame of mind as to my prospects, in
      reality my progress was very considerable. Having become a member of Mr.
      M'Phun's congregation, I was gradually rising in the estimation of the
      widow and her friends, whom my constant attendance at meeting, and my very
      serious demeanor had so far impressed that very grave deliberation was
      held 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
      not possessed the eyes, lips, hips, ankles, and jointure aforesaid,&mdash;I
      honestly avow that neither the charms of that sweet man Mr. M'Phun's
      eloquence, nor even the flattering distinction in store for me, would have
      induced me to prolong my suit. However, I was not going to despair when in
      sight of land. The widow was evidently softened. A little time longer, and
      the most scrupulous moralist, the most rigid advocate for employing time
      wisely, could not have objected to my daily system of courtship. I was
      none of your sighing, dying, ogling, hand-squeezing, waist-pressing,
      oath-swearing, everlasting-adoring affairs, with an interchange of rings
      and lockets; not a bit of it. It was confoundedly like a controversial
      meeting at the Rotundo, and I myself had a far greater resemblance to
      Father Tom Maguire than a gay Lothario.
    </p>
    <p>
      "After all, when mess-time came, when the 'Roast beef' played, and we
      assembled at dinner, and the soup and fish had gone round, with two
      glasses of sherry in, my spirits rallied, and a very jolly evening
      consoled me for all my fatigues and exertions, and supplied me with energy
      for the morrow; for, let me observe here, that I only made love before
      dinner. The evenings I reserved for myself, assuring Mrs. Boggs that my
      regimental duties required all my time after mess hour, in which I was
      perfectly correct: for at six we dined; at seven I opened the claret No.
      1; at eight I had uncorked my second bottle; by half-past eight I was
      returning to the sherry; and at ten, punctual to the moment, I was
      repairing to my quarters on the back of my servant, Tim Daly, who had
      carried me safely for eight years, without a single mistake, as the
      fox-hunters say. This was a way we had in the &mdash;th. Every man was
      carried away from mess, some sooner, some later. I was always an early
      riser, and went betimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, although I had very abundant proof, from circumstantial evidence,
      that I was nightly removed from the mess-room to my bed in the mode I
      mention, it would have puzzled me sorely to prove the fact in any direct
      way; inasmuch as by half-past nine, as the clock chimed, and Tim entered
      to take me, I was very innocent of all that was going on, and except a
      certain 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
      just as my suit with the widow had assumed its most favorable footing, old
      General Hinks, that commanded the district, announced his coming over to
      inspect our regiment. Over he came accordingly, and to be sure, we had a
      day of it. We were paraded for six mortal hours; then we were marching and
      countermarching, moving into line, back again into column, now forming
      open column, then into square; till at last, we began to think that the
      old general was like the Flying Dutchman, and was probably condemned to
      keep on drilling us to the day of judgment. To be sure, he enlivened the
      proceeding to me by pronouncing the regiment the worst-drilled and
      appointed corps in the service, and the adjutant (me!) the stupidest
      dunderhead&mdash;these were 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
      the eighteen manoeuvres. It's small trouble your eyes right or your left,
      shoulders forward, will give me. I'll sell out, and with the Widow Boggs
      and seven hundred a year,&mdash;but no matter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "This confounded inspection lasted till half-past five in the afternoon;
      so that our mess was delayed a full hour in consequence, and it was past
      seven as we sat down to dinner. Our faces were grim enough as we met
      together at first; but what will not a good dinner and good wine do for
      the surliest party? By eight o'clock we began to feel somewhat more
      convivially disposed; and before nine, the decanters were performing a
      quick-step round 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;
      let us also have a merry evening.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'By Jove! Ormond,' cried another, 'we must not leave this to-night.
      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
      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
      to-morrow, for to-night we all stand fast.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Besides,' said another, 'she's at meeting by this. 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
      rose-colored three-cornered billet. It was from <i>la chère</i> Boggs
      herself, and ran thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    DEAR SIR,&mdash;Mr. M'Phun and a few friends are coming to tea at
    my house after meeting; perhaps you will also favor us with your
    company.
    Yours truly,
    ELIZA BOGGS.
</pre>
    <p>
      "What was to be done? Quit the mess; leave a jolly party just at the
      jolliest moment; exchange Lafitte and red hermitage for a <i>soirée</i> of
      elders, presided over by that sweet man, Mr. M'Phun! It was too bad!&mdash;but
      then, how much was in the scale! What would the widow say if I declined?
      What would she think? I well knew that the invitation meant nothing less
      than a full-dress parade of me before her friends, and that to decline was
      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
      had turned round, had made the tour of half the table. I never perceived
      the circumstance, however, and filling my glass, professed my resolve to
      sit to the last, with a mental reserve to take my departure at the very
      first opportunity. Ormond and the paymaster quitted the room for a moment,
      as if to give orders for a broil at twelve, and now all seemed to promise
      a 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,
      old boy, give us a chant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'What shall it be, then?' inquired I, anxious to cover my intended
      retreat by any appearance of joviality.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Give us&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "When I was in the Fusiliers
    Some fourteen years ago."'
</pre>
    <p>
      "'No, no; confound it! I've heard nothing else since I joined the
      regiment. 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
      "West India Quarters."'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, yes,' said half-a-dozen voices together; 'let's have "West India
      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,
      when the clock on the chimney-piece chimed half-past nine, and the same
      instant I felt a heavy hand fall upon my shoulder. I turned and beheld my
      servant Tim. This, as I have already mentioned, was the hour at which Tim
      was in the habit of taking me home to my quarters; and though we had dined
      an hour later, he took no notice of the circumstance, but true to his
      custom, he was behind my chair. A very cursory glance at my 'familiar' was
      quite sufficient to show me that we had somehow changed sides; for Tim,
      who was habitually the most sober of mankind, was, on the present
      occasion, exceedingly drunk, while I, a full hour before that
      consummation, was perfectly sober.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'What d'ye want, sir?' inquired I, with something of severity in my
      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 a
      butt of for his offences. 'Leave the room, or I'll kick you out of it.'
      Now, this, let me add in a parenthesis, was somewhat of a boast, for Tim
      was six feet three, and strong in proportion, and when in liquor, fearless
      as a tiger.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You'll kick me out of the room, eh, will you? Try, only try it, that's
      all.' Here a new roar of laughter burst forth, while Tim, again placing an
      enormous paw upon my shoulder, continued, 'Don't be sitting there, making
      a 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
      the poker; but Tim was beforehand with me, and seizing me by the waist
      with both hands, flung me across his shoulders as though I were a baby,
      saying, at the same time, 'I'll take you away at half-past eight
      to-morrow, as you're as rampageous again.' I kicked, I plunged, I swore, I
      threatened, I even begged and implored to be set down; but whether my
      voice was lost in the uproar around me, or that Tim only regarded my
      denunciations in the light of cursing, I know not, but he carried me
      bodily down the stairs, steadying himself by one hand on the banisters,
      while with the other he held me as in a vice. I had but one consolation
      all this while; it was this, that as my quarters lay immediately behind
      the mess-room, Tim's excursion would soon come to an end, and I should be
      free once more; but guess my terror to find that the drunken scoundrel,
      instead of going as usual to the left, turned short to the right hand, and
      marched boldly into Ship Quay Street. Every window in the mess-room was
      filled with our fellows, absolutely shouting with laughter. 'Go it Tim!
      That's the fellow! Hold him tight! Never let go!' cried a dozen voices;
      while the wretch, with the tenacity of drunkenness, gripped me still
      harder, and took his way down the middle of the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0260.jpg" alt="The Adjutant's After Dinner Ride. "
      width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "It was a beautiful evening in July, a soft summer night, as I made this
      pleasing excursion down the most frequented thoroughfare in the maiden
      city, my struggles every moment exciting roars of laughter from an
      increasing crowd of spectators, who seemed scarcely less amused than
      puzzled at the exhibition. In the midst of a torrent of imprecations
      against my torturer, a loud noise attracted me. I turned my head, and saw,&mdash;horror
      of horrors!&mdash;the door of the meeting-house just flung open, and the
      congregation issuing forth <i>en masse</i>. Is it any wonder if I remember
      no more? There I was, the chosen one of the widow Boggs, the elder elect,
      the favored friend and admired associate of Mr. M'Phun, taking an airing
      on a summer's evening on the back of a drunken Irishman. Oh, the thought
      was horrible! and certainly the short and pithy epithets by which I was
      characterized in the crowd, neither improved my temper nor assuaged my
      wrath, and I feel bound to confess that my own language was neither
      serious nor becoming. Tim, however, cared little for all this, and pursued
      the even tenor of his way through the whole crowd, nor stopped till,
      having made half the circuit of the wall, he deposited me safe at my own
      door; adding, as he set me down, 'Oh, av you're as throublesome every
      evening, it's a 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
      expired, exchanged into the &mdash;th, preferring Halifax itself to the
      ridicule that awaited me in Londonderry."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      FRED POWER'S ADVENTURE IN PHILIPSTOWN.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lazy hours of the long summer day crept slowly over. The sea, unbroken
      by foam or ripple, shone like a broad blue mirror, reflecting here and
      there some fleecy patches of snow-white cloud as they stood unmoved in the
      sky. The good ship rocked to and fro with a heavy and lumbering motion,
      the cordage rattled, the bulkheads creaked, the sails flapped lazily
      against the masts, the very sea-gulls seemed to sleep as they rested on
      the long swell that bore them along, and everything in sea and sky bespoke
      the calm. No sailor trod the deck; no watch was stirring; the very tiller
      ropes were deserted; and as they traversed backwards and forwards with
      every roll of the vessel, told that we had no steerage-way, and lay a mere
      log upon the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat alone in the bow, and fell into a musing fit upon the past and the
      future. How happily for us is it ordained that in the most stirring
      existences there are every here and there such little resting-spots of
      reflection, from which, as from some eminence, we look back upon the road
      we have been treading in life, and cast a wistful glance at the dark vista
      before us! When first we set out upon our worldly pilgrimage, these are
      indeed precious moments, when with buoyant heart and spirit high,
      believing all things, trusting all things, our very youth comes back to
      us, reflected from every object we meet; and like Narcissus, we are but
      worshipping our own image in the water. As we go on in life, the cares,
      the anxieties, and the business of the world engross us more and more, and
      such moments become fewer and shorter. Many a bright dream has been
      dissolved, many a fairy vision replaced, by some dark reality; blighted
      hopes, false friendships have gradually worn callous the heart once alive
      to every gentle feeling, and time begins to tell upon us,&mdash;yet still,
      as the well-remembered melody to which we listened with delight in infancy
      brings to our mature age a touch of early years, so will the very
      association of these happy moments recur to us in our revery, and make us
      young again in thought. Then it is that, as we look back upon our worldly
      career, we become convinced how truly is the child the father of the man,
      how frequently are the projects of our manhood the fruit of some boyish
      predilection; and that in the emulative ardor that stirs the schoolboy's
      heart, we may read the <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 us. Disengaged for the time from every worldly anxiety, we pass in
      review before our own selves, and in the solitude of our own hearts are we
      judged. That still small voice of conscience, unheard and unlistened to
      amidst the din and bustle of life, speaks audibly to us now; and while
      chastened on one side by regrets, we are sustained on the other by some
      approving thought; and with many a sorrow for the past, and many a promise
      for the 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
      and larger; the long line of mellow gold that sheeted along the distant
      horizon grew first of a dark ruddy tinge, then paler and paler, till it
      became almost gray; a single star shone faintly in the east, and darkness
      soon set in. With night came the wind, for almost imperceptibly the sails
      swelled slowly out, a slight rustle at the bow followed, the ship lay
      gently over, and we were once more in motion. It struck four bells; some
      casual resemblance in the sound of the old pendulum that marked the hour
      at my uncle's house startled me so that I actually knew not where I was.
      With lightning speed my once home rose up before me with its happy hearts;
      the old familiar faces were there; the gay laugh was in my ears; there sat
      my dear old uncle, as with bright eye and mellow voice he looked a very
      welcome to his guests; there Boyle; there Considine; there the
      grim-visaged portraits that graced the old walls whose black oak wainscot
      stood in broad light and shadow, as the blazing turf fire shone upon it;
      there was my own place, now vacant; methought my uncle's eye was turned
      towards it and that I heard him say, "My poor boy! I wonder where is he
      now!" My heart swelled, my chest heaved, the tears coursed slowly down my
      cheeks, as I asked myself, "Shall I ever see them more?" Oh, how little,
      how very little to us are the accustomed blessings of our life till some
      change has robbed us of them, and how dear are they when lost to us! My
      uncle's dark foreboding that we should never meet again on earth, came for
      the first time forcibly to my mind, and my heart was full to bursting.
      What could repay me for the agony of that moment as I thought of him, my
      first, my best, my only friend, whom I had deserted? And how gladly would
      I have resigned my bright day-dawn of ambition to be once more beside his
      chair, to hear his voice, to see his smile, to feel his love for me! A
      loud laugh from the cabin roused me from my sad, depressing revery, and at
      the same instant Mike's well-known voice informed me that the captain was
      looking for me everywhere, as supper was on the table. Little as I felt
      disposed to join the party at such a moment, as I knew there was no
      escaping Power, I resolved to make the best of matters; so after a few
      minutes I followed Mickey down the companion and entered the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene before me was certainly not calculated to perpetuate depressing
      thoughts. At the head of a rude old-fashioned table, upon which figured
      several black bottles and various ill-looking drinking vessels of every
      shape and material, sat Fred Power; on his right was placed the skipper,
      on his left the doctor,&mdash;the bronzed, merry-looking, weather-beaten
      features of the one contrasting ludicrously with the pale, ascetic,
      acute-looking expression of the other. Sparks, more than half-drunk, with
      the mark of a red-hot cigar upon his nether lip, was lower down; while
      Major Monsoon, to preserve the symmetry of the party, had protruded his
      head, surmounted by a huge red nightcap, from the berth opposite, and held
      out his goblet to be replenished from the punch-bowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Welcome, thrice welcome, thou man of Galway!" cried out Power, as he
      pointed to a seat, and pushed a wine-glass towards me. "Just in time, too,
      to pronounce upon a new brewery. Taste that; a little more of the lemon
      you would say, perhaps? Well, I agree with you. Rum and brandy, glenlivet
      and guava jelly, limes, green tea, and a slight suspicion of preserved
      ginger,&mdash;nothing else, upon honor,&mdash;and the most simple mixture
      for the cure, the radical cure, of blue devils and debt I know of; eh,
      Doctor? You advise it yourself, to be taken before bed-time; nothing
      inflammatory in it, nothing pugnacious; a mere circulation of the better
      juices and more genial spirits of the marly clay, without arousing any of
      the baser passions; whiskey is the devil for that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I canna say that I dinna like whiskey toddy," said the doctor; "in the
      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 Patlanders,&mdash;cool, calculating, long-headed fellows, you only
      come up to the mark after fifteen tumblers; whereas we hot-brained devils,
      with a blood at 212 degrees of Fahrenheit and a high-pressure engine of
      good spirits always ready for an explosion, we go clean mad when tipsy;
      not but I am fully convinced that a mad Irishman is worth two sane people
      of any other country under heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you mean by that insin&mdash;insin&mdash;sinuation to imply any
      disrespect to the English," stuttered out Sparks, "I am bound to say that
      I for one, and the doctor, I am sure, for another&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Na, na," interrupted the doctor, "ye mauna coont upon me; I'm no disposed
      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
      nothing,&mdash;of which number you are not,&mdash;for most decidedly you
      shall be disappointed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never mind, Sparks, take the whole fight to your own proper self, and do
      battle like a man; and here I stand, ready at all arms to prove my
      position,&mdash;that we drink better, sing better, court better, fight
      better, and make better punch than every John Bull, from Berwick to the
      Land's End."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sparks, however, who seemed not exactly sure how far his antagonist was
      disposed to quiz, relapsed into a half-tipsy expression of contemptuous
      silence, and sipped his liquor without reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said Power, after a pause, "bad luck to it for whiskey; it nearly
      got me broke once, and poor Tom O'Reilly of the 5th, too, the
      best-tempered fellow in the service. We were as near it as touch and go;
      and all for some confounded Loughrea spirits that we believed to be
      perfectly innocent, and 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
      besides, if I make a clean breast of my own sins, I'll insist upon
      Monsoon's telling you afterwards how he stocked his cellar in Cadiz. Eh,
      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 as for the narrative, it is equally at your service. Of course it
      goes no further. The commander-in-chief, long life to him! is a glorious
      fellow; but he has no more idea of a joke than the Archbishop of
      Canterbury, and it might chance to reach him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recount, and fear not!" cried Power; "we are discreet as the worshipful
      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
      merit in it, but the moral is beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ireland, to be sure, is a beautiful country; but somehow it would prove a
      very dull one to be quartered in, if it were not that the people seem to
      have a natural taste for the army. From the belle of Merrion Square down
      to the inn-keeper's daughter in Tralee, the loveliest part of the creation
      seem to have a perfect appreciation of our high acquirements and
      advantages; and in no other part of the globe, the Tonga Islands included,
      is a red-coat more in favor. To be sure, they would be very ungrateful if
      it were not the case; for we, upon our side, leave no stone unturned to
      make ourselves agreeable. We ride, drink, play, and make love to the
      ladies from Fairhead to Killarney, in a way greatly calculated to render
      us popular; and as far as making the time pass pleasantly, we are the boys
      for the 'greatest happiness' principle. I repeat it; we deserve our
      popularity. Which of us does not get head and ears in debt with garrison
      balls and steeple-chases, picnics, regattas, and the thousand-and-one
      inventions to get rid of one's spare cash,&mdash;so called for being so
      sparingly dealt out by our governors? Now and then, too, when all else
      fails, we take a newly-joined ensign and make him marry some pretty but
      penniless lass in a country town, just to show the rest that we are not
      joking, but have serious ideas of matrimony in the midst of all our
      flirtations. If it were all like this, the Green Isle would be a paradise;
      but unluckily every now and then one is condemned to some infernal place
      where there is neither a pretty face nor tight ankle, where the priest
      himself is not a good fellow, and long, ill-paved, straggling streets,
      filled on market days with booths of striped calico and soapy cheese, is
      the only promenade, and a ruinous 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
      look on the chimney-piece for a shower of visiting-cards and pink notes of
      invitation; in vain you ask your servant, Has any one called. Alas, your
      only visitor has been the ganger, to demand a party to assist in
      still-hunting amidst that interesting class of the population who, having
      nothing to eat, are engaged in devising drink, and care as much for the
      life of a red-coat as you do for that of a crow or a curlew. This may seem
      overdrawn; but I would ask you, Were you ever for your sins quartered in
      that capital city of the Bog of Allen they call Philipstown? Oh, but it is
      a romantic spot! They tell us somewhere that much of the expression of the
      human face divine depends upon the objects which constantly surround us.
      Thus the inhabitants of mountain districts imbibe, as it were, a certain
      bold and daring character of expression from the scenery, very different
      from the placid and monotonous look of those who dwell in plains and
      valleys; and I can certainly credit the theory in this instance, for every
      man, woman, and child you meet has a brown, baked, scruffy, turf-like
      face, that fully satisfies you that if Adam were formed of clay the
      Philipstown 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,
      where one might 'live and love forever,' to take up our quarters at this
      sweet spot. Little we knew of Philipstown; and like my friend the adjutant
      there, when he laid siege to Deny, we made our <i>entrée</i> with all the
      pomp we could muster, and though we had no band, our drums and fifes did
      duty for it; and we brushed along through turf-creels and wicker-baskets
      of new brogues that obstructed the street till we reached the barrack,&mdash;the
      only testimony of admiration we met with being, I feel bound to admit,
      from a ragged urchin of ten years, who, with a wattle in his hand,
      imitated me as I marched along, and when I cried halt, took his leave of
      us by dexterously fixing his thumb to the side of his nose and
      outstretching his fingers, as if thus to convey a very strong hint that we
      were not half so fine fellows as we thought ourselves. Well, four mortal
      summer months of hot sun and cloudless sky went over, and still we
      lingered in that vile village, the everlasting monotony of our days being
      marked by the same brief morning drill, the same blue-legged chicken
      dinner, the same smoky Loughrea whiskey, and the same evening stroll along
      the canal bank to watch for the Dublin packet-boat, with its never-varying
      cargo of cattle-dealers, priests, and peelers on their way to the west
      country, as though the demand for such colonial productions in these parts
      was insatiable. This was pleasant, you will say; but what was to be done?
      We had nothing else. Now, nothing saps a man's temper like <i>ennui</i>.
      The cranky, peevish people one meets with would be excellent folk, if they
      only had something to do. As for us, I'll venture to say two men more
      disposed to go pleasantly down the current of life it were hard to meet
      with; and yet, such was the consequence of these confounded four months'
      sequestration from all other society, we became sour and cross-grained,
      everlastingly disputing about trifles, and continually arguing about
      matters which neither were interested in, nor, indeed, knew anything
      about. There were, it is true, few topics to discuss; newspapers we never
      saw; sporting there was none,&mdash;but then, the drill, the return of
      duty, the probable chances of our being ordered for service, were all
      daily subjects to be talked over, and usually with considerable asperity
      and bitterness. One point, however, always served us when hard pushed for
      a bone of contention; and which, begun by a mere accident at first,
      gradually increased to a sore and peevish subject, and finally led to the
      consequences which I have hinted at in the beginning. This was no less
      than the respective merits of our mutual servants; each everlastingly
      indulging in a tirade against the other for awkwardness, incivility,
      unhandiness,&mdash;charges, I am bound to confess, most amply proved on
      either side.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, I am sure, O'Reilly, if you can stand that fellow, it's no affair
      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
      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
      recrimination till we retired for the night, wearied with our exertions,
      and not a little ashamed of ourselves at bottom for our absurd warmth and
      excitement. In the morning the matter would be rigidly avoided by each
      party until some chance occasion had brought it on the <i>tapis</i>, when
      hostilities would be immediately renewed, and carried on with the same
      vigor, to end as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this agreeable state of matters we sat one warm summer evening before
      the mess-room, under the shade of a canvas awning, discussing, by way of
      refrigerant, our eighth tumbler of whiskey punch. We had, as usual, been
      jarring away about everything under heaven. A lately arrived post-chaise,
      with an old, stiff-looking gentleman in a queue, had formed a kind of
      'godsend' for debate, as to who he was, whither he was going, whether he
      really had intended to spend the night there, or that he only put up
      because the chaise was broken; each, as was customary, maintaining his own
      opinion with an obstinacy we have often since laughed at, though, at the
      time, we had few mirthful thoughts about the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As the debate waxed warm, O'Reilly asserted that he positively knew the
      individual in question to be a United Irishman, travelling with
      instructions from the French government; while I laughed him to scorn by
      swearing that he was the rector of Tyrrell's Pass, that I knew him well,
      and, moreover, that he was the worst preacher in Ireland. Singular enough
      it was that all this while the disputed identity was himself standing
      coolly at the inn window, with his snuff-box in his hand, leisurely
      surveying us as we sat, appearing, at least, to take a very lively
      interest in our debate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Come, now,' said O'Reilly, 'there's only one way to conclude this, and
      make you pay for your obstinacy. What will you bet that he's the rector of
      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
      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 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 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
      tray of glasses and a spiced round of beef for supper into the mess-room;
      and as I may remark that they fully entered into the feelings of jealousy
      their respective masters professed, each eyed the other with a look of
      very unequivocal dislike.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Arrah! you needn't be pushing me that way,' said Pat, 'an' the round o'
      beef in my hands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Devil's luck to ye, it's the glasses you'll be breaking with your
      awkward 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
      two liftenants?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "This, strange as it may sound, was so far true, as I held a commission in
      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 fell
      in a thousand pieces on the pavement, while the spiced round rolled
      pensively down the yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0271.jpg" alt="The Rival Flunkies. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
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    <p>
      "Scarcely was the noise heard when, with one vigorous kick, the tray of
      glasses was sent spinning into the air, and the next moment the disputants
      were engaged in bloody battle. It was at this moment that our attention
      was first drawn towards them, and I need not say with what feelings of
      interest we looked on.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Hit him, Pat&mdash;there, Jem, under the guard! That's it&mdash;go in!
      Well done, left hand! By Jove! that was a facer! His eye's closed&mdash;he's
      down! Not a bit of it-how do you like that? Unfair, unfair! No such thing!
      I say it was! Not at all&mdash;I deny it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "By this time we had approached the combatants, each man patting his own
      fellow on the back, and encouraging him by the most lavish promises. Now
      it was, but in what way I never could exactly tell, that I threw out my
      right hand to stop a blow that I saw coming rather too near me, when, by
      some unhappy mischance, my doubled fist lighted upon Tom O'Reilly's nose.
      Before I could express my sincere regret for the accident, the blow was
      returned with double force, and the next moment we were at it harder than
      the others. After five minutes' sharp work, we both stopped for breath,
      and incontinently burst out a-laughing. There was Tom, with a nose as
      large as three, a huge cheek on one side, and the whole head swinging
      round like a harlequin's; while I, with one eye closed, and the other like
      a half-shut cockle-shell, looked scarcely less rueful. We had not much
      time for mirth, 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
      not to be released until the sentence of a court-martial decide if conduct
      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
      preacher in Ireland&mdash;eh, Fred?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "We had not much time for further commentaries upon our friend, for he at
      once opened his frock coat, and displayed to our horrified gaze the
      uniform of a general officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, sir, General Johnson, if you will allow me to present him to your
      acquaintance; and now, guard, turn out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "In a few minutes more the orders were issued, and poor Tom and myself
      found ourselves fast confined to our quarters, with a sentinel at the
      door, and the pleasant prospect that, in the space of about ten days, we
      should be broke, and dismissed the service; which verdict, as the general
      order would say, the commander of the forces has been graciously pleased
      to approve.
    </p>
    <p>
      "However, when morning came the old general, who was really a trump,
      inquired a little further into the matter, saw it was partly accidental,
      and after a severe reprimand, and a caution about Loughrea whiskey after
      the sixth tumbler, released us from arrest, and forgave the whole affair."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ugh, what a miserable thing is a voyage! Here we are now eight days at
      sea, the eternal sameness of all around growing every hour less
      supportable. Sea and sky are beautiful things when seen from the dark
      woods and waving meadows on shore; but their picturesque effect is sadly
      marred from want of contrast. Besides that, the "<i>toujours</i> pork,"
      with crystals of salt as long as your wife's fingers; the potatoes that
      seemed varnished in French polish; the tea seasoned with geological
      specimens from the basin of London, ycleped maple sugar; and the butter&mdash;ye
      gods, the butter! But why enumerate these smaller features of discomfort
      and omit the more glaring ones?&mdash;the utter selfishness which blue
      water suggests, as inevitably as the cold fit follows the ague. The good
      fellow that shares his knapsack or his last guinea on land, here forages
      out the best corner to hang his hammock; jockeys you into a comfortless
      crib, where the uncalked deck-butt filters every rain from heaven on your
      head; votes you the corner at dinner, not only that he may place you with
      your back to the thorough-draught of the gangway ladder, but that he may
      eat, drink, and lie down before you have even begun to feel the
      qualmishness that the dinner of a troop-ship is well calculated to
      suggest; cuts his pencil with your best razor; wears your shirts, as
      washing is scarce; and winds up all by having a good story of you every
      evening for the edification of the other "sharp gentlemen," who, being too
      wide awake to be humbugged themselves, enjoy his success prodigiously.
      This, gentle reader, is neither confession nor avowal of mine. The passage
      I have here presented to you I have taken from the journal of my brother
      officer, Mr. Sparks, who, when not otherwise occupied, usually employed
      his time in committing to paper his thoughts upon men, manners, and things
      at sea in general; though, sooth to say, his was not an idle life. Being
      voted by unanimous consent "a junior," he was condemned to offices that
      the veriest fag in Eton or Harrow had rebelled against. In the morning,
      under the pseudonym of <i>Mrs</i>. Sparks, he presided at breakfast,
      having previously made tea, coffee, and chocolate for the whole cabin,
      besides boiling about twenty eggs at various degrees of hardness; he was
      under heavy recognizances to provide a plate of buttered toast of very
      alarming magnitude, fried ham, kidneys, etc., to no end. Later on, when
      others sauntered about the deck, vainly endeavoring to fix their attention
      upon a novel or a review, the poor cornet might be seen with a white apron
      tucked gracefully round his spare proportions, whipping eggs for pancakes,
      or, with upturned shirt-sleeves, fashioning dough for a pudding. As the
      day waned, the cook's galley became his haunt, where, exposed to a
      roasting fire, he inspected the details of a <i>cuisine</i>; for which,
      whatever his demerits, he was sure of an ample remuneration in abuse at
      dinner. Then came the dinner itself, that dread ordeal, where nothing was
      praised and everything censured. This was followed by the punch-making,
      where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were to be
      exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the supper at
      night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening grown
      quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and most
      unmeasured reprobation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Sparks, it's getting late. The spatch-cock, old boy. Don't be
      slumbering."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup to-day! By
      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
      burning me ever since I tuk it. Ou, man, but ye're an awfu' creture wi'
      vittals!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He'll improve, Doctor; he'll improve. Don't discourage him; the boy's
      young. Be alive now, there. Where's the toast?&mdash;confound you, where's
      the toast?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There, Sparks, you like a drumstick, I know. Mustn't muzzle the ox, eh?
      Scripture for you, old boy. Eat away; hang the expense. Hand him over the
      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
      clean against the articles of war! Come, man, it's drink we're thinking
      of. There's the rum, sugar, limes; see to the hot water. Well, Skipper,
      how are we getting on?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lying our course; eight knots off the log. Pass the rum. Why, Mister
      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
      luckless fellow would be obliged to jump up from his meagre fare and set
      to work at a fresh brewage of punch for the others. The bowl and the
      glasses filled, by some little management on Power's part our friend the
      cornet would be <i>drawn out</i>, as the phrase is, into some confession
      of his early years, which seemed to have been exclusively spent in
      love-making,&mdash;devotion to the fair being as integral a portion of his
      character as tippling was of the worthy major's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like most men who pass their lives in over-studious efforts to please,&mdash;however
      ungallant the confession be,&mdash;the amiable Sparks had had little
      success. His love, if not, as it generally happened, totally unrequited,
      was invariably the source of some awkward catastrophe, there being no
      imaginable error he had not at some time or other fallen into, nor any
      conceivable mischance to which he had not been exposed. Inconsolable
      widows, attached wives, fond mothers, newly-married brides, engaged young
      ladies were by some <i>contretemps</i> continually the subject of his
      attachments; and the least mishap which followed the avowal of his passion
      was to be heartily laughed at and obliged to leave the neighborhood.
      Duels, apologies, actions at law, compensations, etc., were of every-day
      occurrence, and to such an extent, too, that any man blessed with a
      smaller bump upon the occiput would eventually have long since abandoned
      the pursuit, and taken to some less expensive pleasure. But poor Sparks,
      in the true spirit of a martyr, only gloried the more, the more he
      suffered; and like the worthy man who continued to purchase tickets in the
      lottery for thirty years, with nothing but a succession of blanks, he ever
      imagined that Fortune was only trying his patience, and had some cool
      forty thousand pounds of happiness waiting his perseverance in the end.
      Whether this prize ever did turn up in the course of years, I am unable to
      say; but certainly, up to the period of his history I now speak of, all
      had been as gloomy and unrequiting as need be. Power, who knew something
      of every man's adventures, was aware of so much of poor Sparks's career,
      and usually contrived to lay a trap for a confession that generally served
      to amuse us during an evening,&mdash;as much, I acknowledge, from the
      manner of the recital as anything contained in the story. There was a
      species of serious matter-of-fact simplicity in his detail of the most
      ridiculous scenes that left you convinced that his bearing upon the affair
      in question must have greatly heightened the absurdity,&mdash;nothing,
      however comic or droll in itself, ever exciting in him the least approach
      to a smile. He sat with his large light-blue eyes, light hair, long upper
      lip, and retreating chin, lisping out an account of an adventure, with a
      look of Listen about him that was inconceivably amusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, Sparks," said Power, "I claim a promise you made me the other
      night, on condition we let you off making the oyster-patties at ten
      o'clock; you can't forget what I mean." Here the captain knowingly touched
      the tip of his ear, at which signal the cornet colored slightly, and drank
      off his wine in a hurried, confused way. "He promised to tell us, Major,
      how he lost the tip of his left ear. I have myself heard hints of the
      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,
      without exception, the most touching and beautiful thing I ever heard. As
      a 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 adventure, and be able to recount it as you do,&mdash;for, mark me,
      that's no small part of the effect,&mdash;than I'd be full colonel of the
      regiment. Well, I am sure I always thought it affecting. But, somehow, my
      dear friend, you don't know your powers; you have that within you would
      make the fortune of half the periodicals going. Ask Monsoon or O'Malley
      there if I did not say so at breakfast, when you were grilling the old
      hen,&mdash;which, by-the-bye, 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
      very remarkable incident, here goes."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. SPARKS'S STORY.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I sat at breakfast one beautiful morning at the Goat Inn at Barmouth,
      looking out of a window upon the lovely vale of Barmouth, with its tall
      trees and brown trout-stream struggling through the woods, then turning to
      take a view of the calm sea, that, speckled over with white-sailed
      fishing-boats, stretched away in the distance. The eggs were fresh; the
      trout newly caught; the cream delicious. Before me lay the 'Plwdwddlwn
      Advertiser,' which, among the fashionable arrivals at the seaside, set
      forth Mr. Sparks, nephew of Sir Toby Sparks, of Manchester,&mdash;a
      paragraph, by the way, I always inserted. The English are naturally an
      aristocratic people, and set a due value upon a title."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A very just observation," remarked Power, seriously, while Sparks
      continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      "However, as far as any result from the announcement, I might as well have
      spared myself the trouble, for not a single person called. Not one
      solitary invitation to dinner, not a picnic, not a breakfast, no, nor even
      a tea-party, was heard of. Barmouth, at the time I speak of, was just in
      that transition state at which the caterpillar may be imagined, when,
      having abandoned his reptile habits, he still has not succeeded in
      becoming a butterfly. In fact, it had ceased to be a fishing village, but
      had not arrived at the dignity of a watering-place. Now, I know nothing as
      bad as this. You have not, on one hand, the quiet retirement of a little
      peaceful hamlet, with its humble dwellings and cheap pleasures, nor have
      you the gay and animated tableau of fashion in miniature, on the other;
      but you have noise, din, bustle, confusion, beautiful scenery and lovely
      points of view marred and ruined by vulgar associations. Every bold rock
      and jutting promontory has its citizen occupants; every sandy cove or
      tide-washed bay has its myriads of squalling babes and red baize-clad
      bathing women,&mdash;those veritable descendants of the nymphs of old.
      Pink parasols, donkey-carts, baskets of bread-and-butter, reticules,
      guides to Barmouth, specimens of ore, fragments of gypsum meet you at
      every step, and destroy every illusion of the picturesque."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I shall leave this,' thought I. 'My dreams, my long-cherished dreams of
      romantic walks upon the sea-shore, of evening strolls by moonlight,
      through dell and dingle, are reduced to a short promenade through an alley
      of bathing-boxes, amidst a screaming population of nursery-maids and sick
      children, with a thorough-bass of "Fresh shrimps!" discordant enough to
      frighten the very fish from the shores. There is no peace, no quiet, no
      romance, no poetry, no love.' Alas, that most of all was wanting! For,
      after all, what is it which lights up the heart, save the flame of a
      mutual attachment? What gilds the fair stream of life, save the bright ray
      of warm affection? What&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "In a word," said Power, "it is the sugar in the punch-bowl of our
      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
      clothes; I ordered post-horses; I was ready to start; one item in the bill
      alone detained me. The frequent occurrence of the enigmatical word 'crw,'
      following my servant's name, demanded an explanation, which I was in the
      act of receiving, when a chaise-and-four drove rapidly up to the house. In
      a moment the blinds were drawn up, and such a head appeared at the window!
      Let me pause for one moment to drink in the remembrance of that lovely
      being,&mdash;eyes where heaven's own blue seemed concentrated were shaded
      by long, deep lashes of the darkest brown; a brow fair, noble, and
      expansive, at each side of which masses of dark-brown hair waved half in
      ringlets, half in loose falling bands, shadowing her pale and downy cheek,
      where one faint rosebud tinge seemed lingering; lips slightly parted, as
      though to speak, gave to the features all the play of animation which
      completed this 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
      all honorable men; eh, Charley?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go ahead with the story," said the skipper; "I'm beginning to feel an
      interest in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Isabella,' said a man's voice, as a large, well-dressed personage
      assisted her to alight,&mdash;'Isabella, love, you must take a little rest
      here before we proceed farther.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I think she had better, sir,' said a matronly-looking woman, with a
      plaid cloak and a black bonnet.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They disappeared within the house, and I was left alone. The bright dream
      was past: she was there no longer; but in my heart her image lived, and I
      almost felt she was before me. I thought I heard her voice, I saw her
      move; my limbs trembled; my hands tingled; I rang the bell, ordered my
      trunks back again to No. 5, and as I sank upon the sofa, murmured to
      myself, 'This 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
      well; the next ye are seized wi' a kind of shivering; then comes a kind of
      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
      of observing that all that we are in the habit of hearing about single or
      only attachments is mere nonsense. No man is so capable of feeling deeply
      as he who is in the daily practice of it. Love, like everything else in
      this world, demands a species of cultivation. The mere tyro in an affair
      of the heart thinks he has exhausted all its pleasures and pains; but only
      he who has made it his daily study for years, familiarizing his mind with
      every phase of the passion, can properly or adequately appreciate it.
      Thus, the more you love, the better you love; the more frequently has your
      heart 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!"
      exclaimed Power.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For days I scarcely ever left the house," resumed Sparks, "watching to
      catch one glance of the lovely Isabella. My farthest excursion was to the
      little garden of the inn, where I used to set every imaginable species of
      snare, in the event of her venturing to walk there. One day I would leave
      a volume of poetry; another, a copy of Paul and Virginia with a marked
      page; sometimes my guitar, with a broad, blue ribbon, would hang pensively
      from a tree,&mdash;but, alas! all in vain; she never appeared. At length I
      took courage to ask the waiter about her. For some minutes he could not
      comprehend what I meant; but, at last, discovering my object, he cried
      out, 'Oh, No. 8, 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
      the old woman in a chaise-and-four. They ordered horses at Dolgelly to
      meet 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
      three mortal days to a mere company of Welsh waiters and chamber-maids,
      sighing, serenading, reciting, attitudinizing, rose-plucking,
      soliloquizing, half-suiciding, and all for the edification of a set of
      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
      remain another hour in the house. Such were my feelings at least, and so
      thinking, I sent for my servant, abused him for not having my clothes
      ready packed. He replied; I reiterated, and as my temper mounted, vented
      every imaginable epithet upon his head, and concluded by paying him his
      wages and 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
      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
      floor, was a most welcome sight to me, after eleven hours' travelling on a
      broiling July day. Behind the very house itself rose the mighty Snowdon,
      towering high above the other mountains, whose lofty peaks were lost
      amidst the clouds; before me was the narrow valley&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wake me up when he's under way again," said the skipper, yawning
      fearfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go on, Sparks," said Power, encouragingly; "I was never more interested
      in 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 of the past and dreams of the future, my fishing-rod my only
      companion. Not, indeed, that I ever caught anything; for, somehow, my
      tackle was always getting foul of some willow-tree or water-lily, and at
      last, I gave up even the pretence of whipping the streams. Well, one day&mdash;I
      remember it as well as though it were but yesterday, it was the 4th of
      August&mdash;I had set off upon an excursion to Llanberris. I had crossed
      Snowdon early, and reached the little lake on the opposite side by
      breakfast time. There I sat down near the ruined tower of Dolbadern, and
      opening my knapsack, made a hearty meal. I have ever been a day-dreamer;
      and there are few things I like better than to lie, upon some hot and
      sunny day, in the tall grass beneath the shade of some deep boughs, with
      running water murmuring near, hearing the summer bee buzzing monotonously,
      and in the distance, the clear, sharp tinkle of the sheep-bell. In such a
      place, at such a time, one's fancy strays playfully, like some happy
      child, and none but pleasant thoughts present themselves. Fatigued by my
      long walk, and overcome by heat, I fell asleep. How long I lay there I
      cannot tell, but the deep shadows were half way down the tall mountain
      when I awoke. A sound had startled me; I thought I heard a voice speaking
      close to me. I looked up, and for some seconds I could not believe that I
      was not dreaming. Beside me, within a few paces, stood Isabella, the
      beautiful vision that I had seen at Barmouth, but far, a thousand times,
      more beautiful. She was dressed in something like a peasant's dress, and
      wore the round hat which, in Wales at least, seems to suit the character
      of the female face so well; her long and waving ringlets fell carelessly
      upon her shoulders, and her cheek flushed from walking. Before I had a
      moment's notice to recover my roving thought, she spoke; her voice was
      full and round, but soft and thrilling, as she said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I beg pardon, sir, for having disturbed you unconsciously; but, having
      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
      fissure in the rock, and formed a little well of clear water beneath. I
      bowed deeply, and murmuring something, I know not what, took the pitcher
      from her hand, and scaling the rocky cliff, mounted to the clear source
      above, where having filled the vessel, I descended. When I reached the
      ground beneath, I discovered that she was joined by another person whom,
      in an instant, I recognized to be the old gentleman I had seen with her at
      Barmouth, and who in the most courteous manner apologized for the trouble
      I had been caused, and informed me that a party of his friends were
      enjoying 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
      seized the opportunity of forming an acquaintance with Isabella, who, I
      must confess, upon her part showed no disinclination to the prospect of my
      joining the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      "After a few minutes' walking, we came to a small rocky point which
      projected for some distance into the lake, and offered a view for several
      miles of the vale of Llanberris. Upon this lovely spot we found the party
      assembled; they consisted of about fourteen or fifteen persons, all busily
      engaged in the arrangement of a very excellent cold dinner, each
      individual having some peculiar province allotted to him or her, to be
      performed by their own hands. Thus, one elderly gentlemen was whipping
      cream under a chestnut-tree, while a very fashionably-dressed young man
      was washing radishes in the lake; an old lady with spectacles was frying
      salmon over a wood-fire, opposite to a short, pursy man with a bald head
      and drab shorts, deep in the mystery of a chicken salad, from which he
      never lifted his eyes when I came up. It was thus I found how the fair
      Isabella's lot had been cast, as a drawer of water; she, with the others,
      contributing her share of exertion for the common good. The old gentleman
      who accompanied her seemed the only unoccupied person, and appeared to be
      regarded as the ruler of the feast; at least, they all called him general,
      and implicitly followed every suggestion he threw out. He was a man of a
      certain grave and quiet manner, blended with a degree of mild good-nature
      and courtesy, that struck me much at first, and gained greatly on me, even
      in the few minutes I conversed with him as we came along. Just before he
      presented me to his friends, he 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
      inform you this is a kind of club, as I may call it, where every one
      assumes a certain character, and is bound to sustain it under a penalty.
      We have these little meetings every now and then; and as strangers are
      never present, I feel some explanation necessary, that you may be able to
      enjoy the thing,&mdash;you understand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Oh, perfectly,' said I, overjoyed at the novelty of the scene, and
      anticipating much pleasure from my chance meeting with such very original
      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
      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
      have forty thousand acres of pickled cabbage spoiling for want of a little
      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
      back into an immoderate fit of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>'Le Rio est serci</i>,' said the thin meagre figure in nankeens,
      bowing, cap in hand, before the general; and accordingly, we all assumed
      our places upon the grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Say it again! Say it again, and I'll plunge this dagger in your heart!'
      said a hollow voice, tremulous with agitation and rage, close beside me. I
      turned my head, and saw an old gentleman with a wart on his nose, sitting
      opposite a meat-pie, which he was contemplating with a look of fiery
      indignation. Before I could witness the sequel of the scene, I felt a soft
      hand pressed upon mine. I turned. It was Isabella herself, who, looking at
      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
      enormous numbers were now present, ran hither and thither; and duck, ham,
      pigeon-pie, cold veal, apple tarts, cheese, pickled salmon, melon, and
      rice pudding, flourished on every side. As for me, whatever I might have
      gleaned from the conversation around under other circumstances, I was too
      much occupied with Isabella to think of any one else. My suit&mdash;for
      such it was&mdash;progressed rapidly. There was evidently something
      favorable in the circumstances we last met under; for her manner had all
      the warmth and cordiality of old friendship. It is true that, more than
      once, I caught the general's eye fixed upon us with anything but an
      expression of pleasure, and I thought that Isabella blushed and seemed
      confused also. 'What care I?' however, was my reflection; 'my views are
      honorable; and the nephew and heir of Sir Toby Sparks&mdash;' Just in the
      very act of making this reflection, the old man in the shorts hit me in
      the eye with a roasted apple, calling 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
      man hung down his head, and spoke not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'A word with you, young gentleman,' said a fat old lady, pinching my arm
      above the elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never mind her,' said Isabella, smiling; 'poor dear old Dorking, she
      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,
      with tears in her eyes as she spoke; 'will you, dare you assist a
      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 confess, I was unable myself to repress; upon which the old lady,
      putting on a frown of the most ominous blackness, said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You may laugh, Madam; but first before you ridicule the misfortunes of
      others, ask yourself are you, too, free from infirmity? When did you see
      the ace of spades, Madam? Answer me that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Isabella became suddenly pale as death; her very lips blanched, and her
      voice, almost inaudible, muttered:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Am I, then, deceived? Is not this he?' So saying, she placed her hand
      upon my shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'That the ace of spades?' exclaimed the old lady, with a sneer,&mdash;'that
      the ace of spades!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Are you, or are you not, sir?' said Isabella, fixing her deep and
      languid 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
      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
      handful of hair out of my whiskers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' shouted one; 'Bow-wow-wow!' roared another; 'Phiz!'
      went a third; and in an instant, such a scene of commotion and riot
      ensued. Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and decanters flew right and left;
      every one pitched into his neighbor with the most fearful cries, and hell
      itself seemed broke loose. The hour-glass and the Moulah of Oude had got
      me down and were pummelling me to death, when a short, thickset man came
      on all fours slap down upon them shouting out, 'Way, make way for the
      royal Bengal tiger!' at which they both fled like lightning, leaving me to
      the encounter single-handed. Fortunately, however, this was not of very
      long duration, for some well-disposed Christians pulled him from off me;
      not, however, before he had seized me in his grasp, and bitten off a
      portion of my left 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
      the famous Dr. Andrew Moorville, that had the great madhouse at Bangor,
      and who was in the habit of giving his patients every now and then a kind
      of country party; it being one remarkable feature of their malady that
      when one takes to his peculiar flight, whatever it be, the others
      immediately take the hint and go off at score. Hence my agreeable
      adventure: the Bengal tiger being a Liverpool merchant, and the most
      vivacious madman in England; while the hour-glass and the Moulah were both
      on an experimental tour to 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
      was in fact the most hopeless case there. The last words I heard her speak
      confirmed my mournful impression of her case,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes,' said she, as they removed her to her carriage, 'I must, indeed,
      have but a weak intellect, when I could have taken the nephew of a
      Manchester cotton-spinner, with a face like a printed calico, for a trump
      card, and the best in the pack!'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Sparks uttered these last words with a faltering accent, and
      finishing his glass at one draught withdrew without wishing us good-night.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE SKIPPER.
    </p>
    <p>
      In such like gossipings passed our days away, for our voyage itself had
      nothing of adventure or incident to break its dull monotony; save some few
      hours of calm, we had been steadily following our seaward track with a
      fair breeze, and the long pennant pointed ever to the land where our
      ardent expectations were hurrying before it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latest accounts which had reached us from the Peninsula told that our
      regiment was almost daily engaged; and we burned with impatience to share
      with the others the glory they were reaping. Power, who had seen service,
      felt less on this score than we who had not "fleshed our maiden swords;"
      but even he sometimes gave way, and when the wind fell toward sunset, he
      would break out into some exclamation of discontent, half fearing we
      should be too late. "For," said he, "if we go on in this way the regiment
      will be 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
      too well to give in; they've got a capital ground and plenty of spare
      time," said the major.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only to think," cried Power, "that we should be lounging away our idle
      hours when these gallant fellows are in the saddle late and early. It is
      too bad; eh, O'Malley? You'll not be pleased to go back with the polish on
      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 the very forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By-the-bye," added he, "I have a letter for Hammersley, which should
      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
      a man at his age takes the malady, it is forty times as severe as with a
      younger fellow, like you. But then, to be sure, he began at the wrong end
      in the matter; why commence with papa? When a man has his own consent for
      liking a girl, he must be a contemptible fellow if he can't get her; and
      as to anything else being wanting, I don't understand it. But the moment
      you begin by influencing the heads of the house, good-by to your chances
      with the dear thing herself, if she have any spirit whatever. It is, in
      fact, calling on her to surrender without the honors of war; and what girl
      would stand that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's vara true," said the doctor; "there's a strong speerit of opposition
      in the sex, from physiological causes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Curse your physiology, old Galen; what you call opposition, is that
      piquant resistance to oppression that makes half the charm of the sex. It
      is with them&mdash;with reverence be it spoken&mdash;as with horses: the
      dull, heavy-shouldered ones, that bore away with the bit in their teeth,
      never caring whether you are pulling to the right or to the left, are
      worth nothing; the real luxury is in the management of your arching-necked
      curvetter, springing from side to side with every motion of your wrist,
      madly bounding at restraint, yet, to the practised hand, held in check
      with 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
      you're not far wrong. The lively craft that answers the helm quick, goes
      round well in stays, luffs up close within a point or two, when you want
      her, is always a good sea-boat, even though she pitches and rolls a bit;
      but the heavy lugger that never knows whether your helm is up or down,
      whether she's off the wind or on it, is only fit for firewood,&mdash;you
      can do 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
      yours?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My yarn won't come so well after your sky-scrapers of love and courting
      and all that. But if you like to hear what happened to me once, I have no
      objection to tell you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I often think how little we know what's going to happen to us any minute
      of our lives. To-day we have the breeze fair in our favor, we are going
      seven knots, studding-sails set, smooth water, and plenty of sea-room;
      to-morrow the wind freshens to half a gale, the sea gets up, a rocky coast
      is seen from the lee bow, and may be&mdash;to add to all&mdash;we spring a
      leak forward; but then, after all, bad as it looks, mayhap, we rub through
      even this, and with the next day, the prospect is as bright and cheering
      as ever. You'll perhaps ask me what has all this moralizing to do with
      women and ships at sea? Nothing at all with them, except that I was a
      going to say, that when matters look worst, very often the best is in
      store for us, and we should never say strike when there is a timber
      together. Now for my story:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's about four years ago, I was strolling one evening down the side of
      the harbor at Cove, with my hands in my pocket, having nothing to do, nor
      no prospect of it, for my last ship had been wrecked off the Bermudas, and
      nearly all the crew lost; and somehow, when a man is in misfortune, the
      underwriters won't have him at no price. Well, there I was, looking about
      me at the craft that lay on every side waiting for a fair wind to run down
      channel. All was active and busy; every one getting his vessel ship-shape
      and tidy,&mdash;tarring, painting, mending sails, stretching new bunting,
      and getting in sea-store; boats were plying on every side, signals flying,
      guns firing from the men-of-war, and everything was lively as might be,&mdash;all
      but me. There I was, like an old water-logged timber ship, never moving a
      spar, but looking for all the world as though I were a settling fast to go
      down stern foremost: may be as how I had no objection to that same; but
      that's neither here nor there. Well, I sat down on the fluke of an anchor,
      and began a thinking if it wasn't better to go before the mast than live
      on that way. Just before me, where I sat down, there was an old schooner
      that lay moored in the same place for as long as I could remember. She was
      there when I was a boy, and never looked a bit the fresher nor newer as
      long as I recollected; her old bluff bows, her high poop, her round stern,
      her flush deck, all Dutch-like, I knew them well, and many a time I
      delighted to think what queer kind of a chap he was that first set her on
      the stocks, and pondered in what trade she ever could have been. All the
      sailors about the port used to call her Noah's Ark, and swear she was the
      identical craft that he stowed away all the wild beasts in during the
      rainy season. Be that as it might, since I fell into misfortune, I got to
      feel a liking for the old schooner; she was like an old friend; she never
      changed to me, fair weather or foul; there she was, just the same as
      thirty years before, when all the world were forgetting and steering wide
      away from me. Every morning I used to go down to the harbor and have a
      look at her, just to see that all was right and nothing stirred; and if it
      blew very hard at night, I'd get up and go down to look how she weathered
      it, just as if I was at sea in her. Now and then I'd get some of the
      watermen to row me aboard of her, and leave me there for a few hours; when
      I used to be quite happy walking the deck, holding the old worm-eaten
      wheel, looking out ahead, and going down below, just as though I was in
      command of her. Day after day this habit grew on me, and at last my whole
      life was spent in watching her and looking after her,&mdash;-there was
      something so much alike in our fortunes, that I always thought of her.
      Like myself, she had had her day of life and activity; we had both braved
      the storm and the breeze; her shattered bulwarks and worn cutwater
      attested that she had, like myself, not escaped her calamities. We both
      had survived our dangers, to be neglected and forgotten, and to lie
      rotting on the stream of life till the crumbling hand of Time should break
      us up, timber by timber. Is it any wonder if I loved the old craft; nor if
      by any chance the idle boys would venture aboard of her to play and amuse
      themselves that I hallooed them away; or when a newly-arrived ship, not
      caring for the old boat, would run foul of her, and carry away some spar
      or piece of running rigging, I would suddenly call out to them to sheer
      off and not damage us? By degrees, they came all to notice this; and I
      found that they thought me out of my senses, and many a trick 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,
      waiting for a chance boat to put me aboard. It was past sunset, the tide
      was ebbing, and the old craft was surging to the fast current that ran by
      with a short, impatient jerk, as though she were well weary, and wished to
      be at rest; her loose stays creaked mournfully, and as she yawed over, the
      sea ran from many a breach in her worn sides, like blood trickling from a
      wound. 'Ay, ay,' thought I, 'the hour is not far off; another stiff gale,
      and all that remains of you will be found high and dry upon the shore.' My
      heart was very heavy as I thought of this; for in my loneliness, the old
      Ark&mdash;though that was not her name, as I'll tell you presently&mdash;was
      all the companion I had. I've heard of a poor prisoner who, for many and
      many years, watched a spider that wove his web within his window, and
      never lost sight of him from morning till night; and somehow, I can
      believe it well. The heart will cling to something, and if it has no
      living object to press to, it will find a lifeless one,&mdash;it can no
      more stand alone than the shrouds can without the mast. The evening wore
      on, as I was thinking thus; the moon shone out, but no boat came, and I
      was just determining to go home again for the night, when I saw two men
      standing on the steps of the wharf below me, and looking straight at the
      Ark. Now, I must tell you I always felt uneasy when any one came to look
      at her; for I began to fear that some shipowner or other would buy her to
      break up, though, except the copper fastenings, there was little of any
      value about her. Now, the moment I saw the two figures stop short, and
      point to her, I said to myself, 'Ah, my old girl, so they won't even let
      the blue water finish you, but they must set their carpenters and dockyard
      people to work upon you.' This thought grieved me more and more. Had a
      stiff sou'-wester laid her over, I should have felt it more natural, for
      her sand was run out; but just as this passed through my mind, I heard a
      voice from one of the persons, that I at 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, I'm sure I've no objection. I don't like the job, I confess; but
      still the Admiralty must be obeyed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Oh, my lord,' said the other, 'she's the very thing; she's a
      rakish-looking craft, and will do admirably. Any repair we want, a few
      days will effect; secrecy is the great thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes,' said the admiral, after a pause, 'as you observed, secrecy is the
      great thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ho! ho!' thought I, 'there's something in the wind, here;' so I laid
      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
      ship-shape as we can, and if the skipper&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ay, but there is the real difficulty,' said the admiral, hastily; 'where
      are we to find a fellow that will suit us? We can't every day find a man
      willing to jeopardize himself in such a cause as this, even though the
      reward be a great one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Very true, my lord; but I don't think there is any necessity for our
      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
      such a scrape blindfolded?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, my lord, you never think it requisite to give a plan of your cruise
      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
      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
      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;
      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
      fleet here fit for nothing else. Any fellow who has been thrice up for
      punishment in six months, we'll draft on board of her; the fellows who
      have 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
      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
      expedition. I see it all; they're fitting her out as a fire-ship, and
      going to send her slap in among the French fleet at Brest. Well,' thought
      I, 'even that's better; that, at least, is a glorious end, though the poor
      fellows have no chance of escape.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Now, then,' said the admiral, 'to-morrow you'll look out for the fellow
      to take the command. He must be a smart seaman, a bold fellow, too,
      otherwise the ruffianly crew will be too much for him; he may bid high,
      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
      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 whose loss no one would feel; some one without friend or home, who,
      setting his life for nought, cares less for the gain than the very
      recklessness of the adventure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'That's me,' said I, springing up from the anchor-stock, and springing
      between them; 'I'm that man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had the very Devil himself appeared at the moment, I doubt if they would
      have been more scared. The admiral started a pace or two backwards, while
      Dawkins, the first surprise over, seized me by the collar, and hold me
      fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Who are you, scoundrel, and what brings you here?' said he, in a voice
      hoarse with passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I'm old Noah,' said I; for somehow, I had been called by no other name
      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 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
      lunatic that is always wandering about the harbor, and, I believe, has no
      harm in him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, but he has been listening, doubtless, to our conversation,' said
      the 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
      minutes, but neither spoke; at last Dawkins said, 'Well, Noah, I've been
      told you are a man to be depended on; may we rely upon your not repeating
      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
      be mad?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'My lord,' said I, boldly, 'I am not mad. Misfortune and calamity I have
      had enough of to make me so; but, thank God, my brain has been tougher
      than my poor heart. I was once the part-owner and commander of a goodly
      craft, that swept the sea, if not with a broad pennon at her mast-head,
      with as light a spirit as ever lived beneath one. I was rich, I had a home
      and a child; I am now poor, houseless, childless, friendless, and an
      outcast. If in my solitary wretchedness I have loved to look upon that old
      bark, it is because its fortune seemed like my own. It had outlived all
      that needed or cared for it. For this reason have they thought me mad,
      though there are those, and not few either, who can well bear testimony if
      stain or reproach lie at my door, and if I can be reproached with aught
      save bad luck. I have heard by chance what you have said this night. I
      know that you are fitting out a secret expedition; I know its dangers, its
      inevitable dangers, and I here offer myself to lead it. I ask no reward; I
      look for no price. Alas, who is left to me for whom I could labor now?
      Give me but the opportunity to end my clays with honor on board the old
      craft, where my heart still clings; give me but that. Well, if you will
      not do so much, let me serve among the crew; put me before the mast. My
      lord, you'll not refuse this. It is an old man asks; one whose gray hairs
      have floated many a year ago before the breeze.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'My poor fellow, you know not what you ask; this is no common case of
      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
      your real name? Are you he who commanded the "Dwarf" privateer in the Isle
      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
      night at this hour; keep your own counsel of what has passed, and now
      good-night.' So saying, the admiral took Dawkins by the arm and returned
      slowly towards the town, leaving me where I stood, meditating on this
      singular meeting and its possible consequences.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The whole of the following day was passed by me in a state of feverish
      excitement which I cannot describe; this strange adventure breaking in so
      suddenly upon the dull monotony of my daily existence had so aroused and
      stimulated me that I could neither rest nor eat. How I longed for night to
      come; for sometimes, as the day wore later, I began to fear that the whole
      scene of my meeting with the admiral had been merely some excited dream of
      a tortured and fretted mind; and as I stood examining the ground where I
      believed the interview to have occurred, I endeavored to recall the
      position of different objects as they stood around, to corroborate my own
      failing remembrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At last the evening closed in; but unlike the preceding one, the sky was
      covered with masses of dark and watery cloud that drifted hurriedly
      across; the air felt heavy and thick, and unnaturally still and calm; the
      water of the harbor looked of a dull, leaden hue, and all the vessels
      seemed larger than they were, and stood out from the landscape more
      clearly than usual; now and then a low rumbling noise was heard, somewhat
      alike in sound, but far too faint for distant thunder, while occasionally
      the boats and smaller craft rocked to and fro, as though some ground swell
      stirred 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
      then all felt still and calm as before. I sat upon the anchor-stock, my
      eyes fixed upon the old Ark, until gradually her outline grew fainter and
      fainter against the dark sky, and her black hull could scarcely be
      distinguished from the water beneath. I felt that I was looking towards
      her; for long after I had lost sight of the tall mast and high-pitched
      bowsprit, I feared to turn away my head lest I should lose the place where
      she lay.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The time went slowly on, and although in reality I had not been long
      there, I felt as if years themselves had passed over my head. Since I had
      come there my mind brooded over all the misfortunes of my life; as I
      contrasted its outset, bright with hope and rich in promise, with the sad
      reality, my heart grew heavy and my chest heaved painfully. So sunk was I
      in my reflections, so lost in thought, that I never knew that the storm
      had broken loose, and that the heavy rain was falling in torrents. The
      very ground, parched with long drought, smoked as it pattered upon it;
      while the low, wailing cry of the sea-gull, mingled with the deep growl of
      far-off thunder, told that the night was a fearful one for those at sea.
      Wet through and shivering, I sat still, now listening amidst the noise of
      the hurricane and the creaking of the cordage for any footstep to
      approach, and now relapsing back into half-despairing dread that my heated
      brain alone had conjured up the scene of the day before. Such were my
      dreary reflections when a loud crash aboard the schooner told me that some
      old spar had given way. I strained my eyes through the dark to see what
      had happened, but in vain; the black vapor, thick with falling rain,
      obscured everything, and all was hid from view. I could hear that she
      worked violently as the waves beat against her worn sides, and that her
      iron cable creaked as she pitched to the breaking sea. The wind was
      momentarily increasing, and I began to fear lest I should have taken my
      last look at the old craft, when my attention was called off by hearing a
      loud voice cry out, 'Halloo there! Where are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ay, ay, sir, I'm here.' In a moment the admiral and his friend were
      beside me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'What a night!' exclaimed the admiral, as he shook the rain from the
      heavy boat-cloak and cowered in beneath some tall blocks of granite near.
      'I began half to hope that you might not have been here, my poor fellow,'
      said the admiral; 'it's a dreadful time for one so poorly clad for a
      storm. I say, Dawkins, let him have a pull at your flask.' The brandy
      rallied me a 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,
      'so that we must even make short work of it. Since we met here last night
      I have satisfied myself that you are to be trusted, that your character
      and reputation have nothing heavier against them than misfortune, which
      certainly, if I have been rightly informed, has been largely dealt out to
      you. Now, then, I am willing to accept of your offer of service if you are
      still of the same mind as when you made it, and if you are willing to
      undertake what we have to do without any question and inquiry as to points
      on which we must not and dare not inform you. Whatever you may have
      overheard last night may or may not have put you in possession of our
      secret. If the former, your determination can be made at once; if the
      latter, you have only to decide whether you are ready to go blindfolded in
      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
      one of danger, but that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I think, my lord,' said Dawkins, 'that no more need now be said. Cupples
      is ready to engage, we are equally so to accept; the thing is pressing.
      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
      complete the arrangement. This is the plan,' said he, turning towards me
      as he spoke: 'As soon as that old craft can be got ready for sea, or some
      other if she be not worth, it, you will sail from this port with a strong
      crew, well armed and supplied with ammunition. Your destination is Malta,
      your object to deliver to the admiral stationed there the despatches with
      which you will be entrusted; they contain information of immense
      importance, which for certain reasons cannot be sent through a ship of
      war, but must be forwarded by a vessel that may not attract peculiar
      notice. If you be attacked, your orders are to resist; if you be taken, on
      no account destroy the papers, for the French vessel can scarcely escape
      capture from our frigates, and it is of great consequence these papers
      should remain. Such is a brief sketch of our plan; the details can be made
      known to you hereafter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I am quite ready, my lord. I ask for no terms; I make no stipulations.
      If the result be favorable it will be time enough to speak of that. When
      am I to sail?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "As I spoke, the admiral turned suddenly round and said something in a
      whisper to Dawkins, who appeared to overrule it, whatever it might be, and
      finally brought him over to his own opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Come, Cupples,' said Dawkins, 'the affair is now settled; to-morrow a
      boat will be in waiting for you opposite Spike Island to convey you on
      board the "Semiramis," where every step in the whole business shall be
      explained to you; meanwhile you have only to keep your own counsel and
      trust the secret to no one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, Cupples,' said the admiral, 'we rely upon you for that, so
      good-night.' As he spoke he placed within my hands a crumpled note for ten
      pounds, and squeezing my fingers, departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My yarn is spinning out to a far greater length than I intended, so I'll
      try and shorten it a bit. The next day I went aboard the 'Semiramis,'
      where, when I appeared upon the quarter-deck, I found myself an object of
      some interest. The report that I was the man about to command the 'Brian,'&mdash;that
      was the real name of the old craft,&mdash;had caused some curiosity among
      the officers, and they all spoke to me with great courtesy. After waiting
      a short time I was ordered to go below, where the admiral, his
      flag-captain, Dawkins, and the others were seated. They repeated at
      greater length the conversation of the night before, and finally decided
      that I was to sail in three weeks; for although the old schooner was sadly
      damaged, they had lost no time, but had her already high in dock, with two
      hundred ship-carpenters at work upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not shorten sail here to tell you what reports were circulated about
      Cove as to my extraordinary change in circumstances, nor how I bore my
      altered fortunes. It is enough if I say that in less than three weeks I
      weighed anchor and stood out to sea one beautiful morning in autumn, and
      set out upon my expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have already told you something of the craft. Let me complete the
      picture by informing you that before twenty-four hours passed over I
      discovered that so ungainly, so awkward, so unmanageable a vessel never
      put to sea. In light winds she scarcely stirred or moved, as if she were
      waterlogged; if it came to blow upon the quarter, she fell off from her
      helm at a fearful rate; in wearing, she endangered every spar she had; and
      when you put her in stays, when half round she would fall back and nearly
      carry away every stitch of canvas with the shock. If the ship was bad, the
      crew was ten times worse. What Dawkins said turned out to be literally
      true. Every ill-conducted, disorderly fellow who had been up the gangway
      once a week or so, every unreclaimed landsman of bad character and no
      seamanship, was sent on board of us: and in fact, except that there was
      scarcely any discipline and no restraint, we appeared like a floating
      penitentiary of convicted felons.
    </p>
    <p>
      So long as we ran down channel with a slack sea and fair wind, so long all
      went on tolerably well; to be sure they only kept watch when they were
      tired below, when they came up, reeled about the deck, did all just as
      they pleased, and treated me with no manner of respect. After some vain
      efforts to repress their excesses,&mdash;vain, for I had but one to second
      me,&mdash;I appeared to take no notice of their misconduct, and contented
      myself with waiting for the time when, my dreary voyage over, I should
      quit the command and part company with such associates forever. At last,
      however, it came on to blow, and the night we passed the Lizard was indeed
      a fearful one. As morning broke, a sea running mountains high, a wind
      strong from the northwest, was hurrying the old craft along at a rate I
      believed impossible. I shall not stop to recount the frightful scenes of
      anarchy, confusion, drunkenness, and insubordination which our crew
      exhibited,&mdash;the recollection is too bad already, and I would spare
      you and myself the recital; but on the fourth day from the setting in of
      the gale, as we entered the Bay of Biscay, some one aloft descried a
      strange sail to windward bearing down as if in pursuit of us. Scarcely did
      the news reach the deck when, bad as it was before, matters became now ten
      times worse, some resolving to give themselves up if the chase happened to
      be French, and vowing that before surrendering the spirit-room should be
      forced, and every man let drink as he pleased. Others proposed if there
      were anything like equality in the force, to attack, and convert the
      captured vessel, if they succeeded, into a slaver, and sail at once for
      Africa. Some were for blowing up the old 'Brian' with all on board; and in
      fact every counsel that drunkenness, insanity, and crime combined could
      suggest was offered and descanted on. Meanwhile the chase gained rapidly
      upon us, and before noon we discovered her to be a French letter-of-marque
      with four guns and a long brass swivel upon the poop deck. As for us,
      every sheet of canvas we could crowd was crammed on, but in vain. And as
      we labored through the heavy sea, our riotous crew grew every moment
      worse, and sitting down sulkily in groups upon the deck, declared that,
      come what might, they would neither work the ship nor fight her; that they
      had been sent to sea in a rotten craft merely to effect their destruction;
      and that they cared little for the disgrace of a flag they detested. Half
      furious with the taunting sarcasm I heard on every side, and nearly mad
      from passion, and bewildered, my first impulse was to run among them with
      my drawn cutlass, and ere I fell their victim, take heavy vengeance upon
      the ringleaders, when suddenly a sharp booming noise came thundering
      along, and a round shot went flying over our heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Down with the ensign; strike at once!' cried eight or ten voices
      together, as the ball whizzed through the rigging. Anticipating this, and
      resolving, whatever might happen, to fight her to the last, I had made the
      mate, a staunch-hearted, resolute fellow, to make fast the signal sailyard
      aloft, so that it was impossible for any one on deck to lower the bunting.
      Bang! went another gun; and before the smoke cleared away, a third, which,
      truer in its aim than the rest, went clean through the lower part of our
      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
      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
      with, 'if we take her, I promise to claim nothing of the prize. Whatever
      we capture you shall divide among yourselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'It's very easy to divide what we never had,' said one; 'Nearly as easy
      as to give it,' cried another; 'I'll never light match or draw cutlass in
      the cause,' said a third.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Surrender!' 'Strike the flag!' 'Down with the colors!' roared several
      voices together.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By this time the Frenchman was close up, and ranging his long gun to
      sweep our decks; his crew were quite perceptible,&mdash;about twenty
      bronzed, stout-looking follows, stripped to the waist, and carrying
      pistols in broad flat belts slung over the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Come, my lads,' said I, raising my voice, as I drew a pistol from my
      side and cocked it, 'our time is short now; I may as well tell you that
      the first shot that strikes us amidship blows up the whole craft and every
      man on board. We are nothing less than a fireship, destined for Brest
      harbor to blow up the French fleet. If you are willing to make an effort
      for your lives, follow me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The men looked aghast. Whatever recklessness crime and drunkenness had
      given them, the awful feeling of inevitable death at once repelled. Short
      as was the time for reflection, they felt that there were many
      circumstances to encourage the assertion,&mdash;the nature of the vessel,
      her riotous, disorderly crew, the secret nature of the service, all
      confirmed it,&mdash;and they answered with a shout of despairing
      vengeance, 'We'll board her; lead us on!' As the cry rose up, the long
      swivel from the chase rang sharply in our ears, and a tremendous discharge
      of grape flew through our rigging. None of our men, however, fell; and
      animated now with the desire 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
      scarcely was the ammunition dealt out, and the boarding party drawn up,
      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
      and the poop upon the astonished Frenchmen, who thought that the victory
      was already their own; with death and ruin behind, their only hope before,
      they dashed forward like madmen to the fray.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The conflict was bloody and terrific, though not a long one. Nearly equal
      in number, but far superior in personal strength, and stimulated by their
      sense of danger, our fellows rushed onward, carrying all before them to
      the quarter-deck. Here the Frenchmen rallied, and for some minutes had
      rather the advantage, until the mate, turning one of their guns against
      them, prepared to sweep them down in a mass. Then it was that they ceased
      their fire and cried out for quarter,&mdash;all save their captain, a
      short, thick-set fellow, with a grizzly beard and mustache, who, seeing
      his men fall back, turned on them one glance of scowling indignation, and
      rushing forward, clove our boatswain to the deck with one blow. Before the
      example could have been followed, he lay a bloody corpse upon the deck;
      while our people, roused to madness by the loss of a favorite among the
      men, dashed impetuously forward, and dealing death on every side, left not
      one man living among their unresisting enemies. My story is soon told now.
      We brought our prize safe into Malta, which we reached in five days. In
      less than a week our men were drafted into different men-of-war on the
      station. I was appointed a warrant officer in the 'Sheerwater,' forty-four
      guns; and as the admiral opened the despatch, the only words he spoke
      puzzled me for many a day after.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You have accomplished your orders too well,' said he; 'that privateer is
      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
      false ones, intended to have fallen into the hands of the French and
      mislead them as to Lord Nelson's fleet, which at that time was cruising to
      the southward to catch them. This, of course, explained what fate was
      destined for us,&mdash;a French prison, if not death; and after all,
      either was fully good enough for the crew that sailed in the old 'Brian.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE LAND.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late when we separated for the night, and the morning was already
      far advanced ere I awoke; the monotonous tramp overhead showed me that the
      others were stirring, and I gently moved the shutter of the narrow window
      beside me to look out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sea, slightly rippled upon its surface, shone like a plate of fretted
      gold,&mdash;not a wave, not a breaker appeared; but the rushing sound
      close by showed that we were moving fast through the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Always calm hereabouts," said a gruff voice on deck, which I soon
      recognized as the skipper's; "no sea whatever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can make nothing of it," cried out Power, from the forepart of the
      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 there,&mdash;that's Cintra."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Land!" cried I, springing up, and rushing upon deck; "where, Skipper,&mdash;where
      is the land?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Charley," said Power, "I hope you mean to adopt a little more
      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
      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
      Highlanders landing at St. Lucie. They had never seen a Scotch regiment
      before, and were consequently somewhat puzzled at the costume; till at
      last, one more cunning than the rest explained it by saying: 'They are in
      such a hurry to kill the poor black men that they came away without their
      breeches.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, what say you?" cried the skipper, as he pointed with his telescope
      to 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
      deck beneath an awning. The vessel scarcely seemed to move as she cut her
      way through the calm water.
    </p>
    <p>
      The misty outline of the coast grew gradually more defined, and at length
      the blue mountains could be seen; at first but dimly, but as the day wore
      on, their many-colored hues shone forth, and patches of green verdure,
      dotted with sheep or sheltered by dark foliage, met the eye. The bulwarks
      were crowded with anxious faces; each looked pointedly towards the shore,
      and many a stout heart beat high, as the land drew near, fated to cover
      with its earth more than one among us.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that's Portingale, Mister Charles," said a voice behind me. I turned
      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 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 beat us all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my conscience, that's not right. There's an ould saying in
      Connaught, 'It's not fair for one to fall upon twenty.' Sergeant Haggarty
      says that 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
      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
      place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, then, musha for the safety! I don't think much of it. Sure, they
      might 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
      anything happens to you,&mdash;the Lord be betune us and harm," here he
      crossed himself piously,&mdash;"sure, I'd like to be able to tell the
      master how you died; and sure, there's Mr. Considine&mdash;God pardon him!
      He'll be beating my 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
      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 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.
      "Those army docthers isn't worth their salt. It's thruth I'm telling you.
      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 telling you,&mdash;devil a one o' them would stay on my
      stomach. So you see what a docther he is!"
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not help smiling at Mike's ideas of medicine, as I turned away to
      talk to the major, who was busily engaged beside me. His occupation
      consisted in furbishing up a very tarnished and faded uniform, whose white
      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
      small pride at the faded glories of his old vestment. "Astonish them at
      Lisbon, we flatter ourselves. I say, Power, what a bad style of dress
      they've got into latterly, with their tight waist and strapped trousers;
      nothing free, nothing easy, nothing <i>dégagé</i> about it. When in a
      campaign, a man ought to be able to stow prog for twenty-four hours about
      his person, and no one the wiser. A very good rule, I assure you, though
      it sometimes leads to awkward results. At Vimeira, I got into a sad scrape
      that way. Old Sir Harry, that commanded there, sent for the sick return. I
      was at dinner when the orderly came, so I packed up the eatables about me,
      and rode off. Just, however, as I came up to the quarters, my horse
      stumbled and threw me 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;
      but, the devil take it! they pulled out a roast hen. Well, the laugh was
      scarcely over at this, when another fellow dived into my coat behind, and
      lugged out three sausages; and so they went on, till the ground was
      covered with ham, pigeon-pie, veal, kidney, and potatoes; and the only
      thing like a paper was a mess-roll of the 4th, with a droll song about Sir
      Harry written in pencil on the back of it. Devil of a bad affair for me! I
      was nearly broke for it; but they only reprimanded me a little, and I was
      afterwards attached to the victualling department."
    </p>
    <p>
      What an anxious thing is the last day of a voyage! How slowly creep the
      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 days
      is at once abandoned; the chess-board and the new novel are alike
      forgotten, and the very quarter-deck walk, with its merry gossip and
      careless chit-chat, becomes distasteful. One blue and misty mountain, one
      faint outline of the far-off shore, has dispelled all thought of these;
      and 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
      forms of distant objects grow gradually clearer. Where before some tall
      and misty mountain peak was seen, we now descry patches of deepest blue
      and sombre olive; the mellow corn and the waving woods, the village spire
      and the lowly cot, come out of the landscape; and like some
      well-remembered voice, they speak of home. The objects we have seen, the
      sounds we have heard a hundred times before without interest, become to us
      now things that stir the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a time the bright glare of the noonday sun dazzles the view and
      renders indistinct the prospect; but as evening falls, once more is all
      fair and bright and rich before us. Rocked by the long and rolling swell,
      I lay beside the bowsprit, watching the shore-birds that came to rest upon
      the rigging, or following some long and tangled seaweed as it floated by;
      my thoughts now wandering back to the brown hills and the broad river of
      my 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;
      how valueless, how poor, in our estimation, those worldly distinctions we
      have so often longed and thirsted for, as with lowly heart and simple
      spirit we watch each humble cottage, weaving to ourselves some story of
      its inmates as we pass!
    </p>
    <p>
      The night at length closed in, but it was a bright and starry one, lending
      to the landscape a hue of sombre shadow, while the outlines of the objects
      were still sharp and distinct as before. One solitary star twinkled near
      the horizon. I watched it as, at intervals disappearing, it would again
      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
      down below and join us in a parting glass; that's the Lisbon light to
      leeward, and before two hours we drop our anchor in the Tagus."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MAJOR MONSOON.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of my travelling companions I have already told my readers something.
      Power is now an old acquaintance; to Sparks I have already presented them;
      of the adjutant they are not entirely ignorant; and it therefore only
      remains for me to introduce to their notice Major Monsoon. I should have
      some scruple for the digression which this occasions in my narrative, were
      it not that with the worthy major I was destined to meet subsequently; and
      indeed served under his orders for some months in the Peninsula. When
      Major Monsoon had entered the army or in what precise capacity, I never
      yet met the man who could tell. There were traditionary accounts of his
      having served in the East Indies and in Canada in times long past. His own
      peculiar reminiscences extended to nearly every regiment in the service,
      "horse, foot, and dragoons." There was not a clime he had not basked in;
      not an engagement he had not witnessed. His memory, or, if you will, his
      invention, was never at fault; and from the siege of Seringapatam to the
      battle of Corunna he was perfect. Besides this, he possessed a mind
      retentive of even the most trifling details of his profession,&mdash;from
      the formation of a regiment to the introduction of a new button, from the
      laying down of a parallel to the price of a camp-kettle, he knew it all.
      To be sure, he had served in the commissary-general's department for a
      number of years, and nothing instils such habits as this.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The commissaries are to the army what the special pleaders are to the
      bar," observed my friend Power,&mdash;"dry dogs, not over creditable on
      the whole, but devilish useful."
    </p>
    <p>
      The major had begun life a two-bottle man; but by a studious cultivation
      of his natural gifts, and a steady determination to succeed, he had, at
      the time I knew him, attained to his fifth. It need not be wondered at,
      then, that his countenance bore some traces of his habits. It was of a
      deep sunset-purple, which, becoming tropical, at the tip of the nose
      verged almost upon a plum-color; his mouth was large, thick-lipped, and
      good-humored; his voice rich, mellow, and racy, and contributed, with the
      aid of a certain dry, chuckling laugh, greatly to increase the effect of
      the stories which he was ever ready to recount; and as they most
      frequently bore in some degree against some of what he called his little
      failings, they were ever well received, no man being so popular with the
      world as he who flatters its vanity at his own expense. To do this the
      major was ever ready, but at no time more so than when the evening wore
      late, and the last bottle of his series seemed to imply that any caution
      regarding the nature of his communication was perfectly unnecessary.
      Indeed, from the commencement of his evening to the close, he seemed to
      pass through a number of mental changes, all in a manner preparing him for
      this final consummation, when he confessed anything and everything; and so
      well regulated had those stages become, that a friend dropping in upon him
      suddenly could at once pronounce from the tone of his conversation on what
      precise bottle the major was then engaged.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, in the outset he was gastronomic,&mdash;discussed the dinner from
      the soup to the Stilton; criticised the cutlets; pronounced upon the
      merits of the mutton; and threw out certain vague hints that he would one
      day astonish 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 upon the wine. Bordeaux, Burgundy, hock, and hermitage, all passed
      in review before him,&mdash;their flavor discussed, their treatment
      descanted upon, their virtues extolled; from humble port to imperial
      tokay, he was thoroughly conversant with all, and not a vintage escaped as
      to when the 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, lamented the various changes in equipments which modern
      innovation had introduced, and feared the loss of pigtails might sap the
      military spirit of the nation.
    </p>
    <p>
      With No. 4 his anecdotic powers came into play,&mdash;he recounted various
      incidents of the war with his own individual adventures and experience,
      told with an honest <i>naïveté</i>, that proved personal vanity; indeed,
      self-respect never marred the interest of the narrative, besides, as he
      had ever regarded a campaign something in the light of a foray, and
      esteemed war as little else than a pillage excursion, his sentiments were
      singularly amusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his last bottle, those feelings that seemed inevitably connected with
      whatever is last appeared to steal over him,&mdash;a tinge of sadness for
      pleasures fast passing and nearly passed, a kind of retrospective glance
      at the fallacy of all our earthly enjoyments, insensibly suggesting moral
      and edifying reflections, led him by degrees to confess that he was not
      quite satisfied with himself, though "not very bad for a commissary;" and
      finally, as the decanter waxed low, he would interlard his meditations by
      passages of Scripture, singularly perverted by his misconception from
      their true meaning, and alternately throwing out prospects of censure or
      approval. Such was Major Monsoon; and to conclude in his own words this
      brief sketch, he "would have been an excellent officer if Providence had
      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 good men and true here," cried Power, as we slowly came along upon the
      tide 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
      conversation. There is a certain freedom young men affect now a-days
      regarding morals that is not at all to my taste. When I was five or six
      and 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 twinkled maliciously,&mdash;"it was the ladies that spoiled me; I was
      always something of a favorite, just like our friend Sparks there. Not
      that we fared very much alike in our little adventures; for somehow, I
      believe I was generally in fault in most of mine, as many a good man and
      many an excellent man has been before." Here his voice dropped into a
      moralizing key, as he added, "David, you know, didn't behave well to old
      Uriah. Upon 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 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
      pledge."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, if you must have a story,&mdash;for most assuredly I must
      drink,&mdash;I have no objection to give you a leaf from my early
      reminiscences; and in 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
      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, and as I fear the time may not be very far distant, don't be
      impatient; besides a love-story&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite true," said Power, "a love-story claims precedence; <i>place aux
      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 though he would have no peculiar objection to sip once more, took a
      long pinch of snuff from a box nearly as long as, and something the shape
      of a child's coffin, looked around to see that we were all attention, and
      thus began:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I have been in a moralizing mood, as I very frequently am about this
      hour in the morning, I have often felt surprised by what little, trivial,
      and insignificant circumstances our lot in life seems to be cast; I mean
      especially as regards the fair sex. You are prospering, as it were,
      to-day; to-morrow a new cut of your whiskers, a novel tie of your cravat,
      mars your destiny and spoils your future, <i>varium et mutabile</i>, as
      Horace has it. On the other hand, some equally slight circumstance will do
      what all your ingenuity may have failed to effect. I knew a fellow who
      married the greatest fortune in Bath, from the mere habit he had of
      squeezing one's hand. The lady in question thought it particular, looked
      conscious, and all that; he followed up the blow; and, in a word, they
      were married in a week. So a friend of mine, who could not help winking
      his left eye, once opened a flirtation with a lively widow which cost him
      a special license and a settlement. In fact you are never safe. They are
      like the guerillas, and they pick you off when you least expect it, and
      when you think there is nothing to fear. Therefore, as young fellows
      beginning life, I would caution you. On this head you can never be too
      circumspect. Do you know, I was once nearly caught by so slight a habit as
      sitting thus, with my legs across."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the major rested his right foot on his left knee, in illustration,
      and continued:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "We were quartered in Jamaica. I had not long joined, and was about as raw
      a young gentleman as you could see; the only very clear ideas in my head
      being that we were monstrous fine fellows in the 50th, and that the
      planters' daughters were deplorably in love with us. Not that I was much
      wrong on either side. For brandy-and-water, sangaree, Manilla cigars, and
      the ladies of color, I'd have backed the corps against the service. Proof
      was, of eighteen only two ever left the island; for what with the
      seductions of the coffee plantations, the sugar canes, the new rum, the
      brown skins, the rainy season, and the yellow fever, most of us settled
      there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's very hard to leave the West Indies if once you've been quartered
      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
      unfit for living anywhere else. Preserved ginger, yams, flannel jackets,
      and grog won't bear exportation; and the free-and-easy chuck under the
      chin, cherishing, waist-pressing kind of way we get with the ladies would
      be quite misunderstood in less favored regions, and lead to very
      unpleasant consequences."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is a curious fact how much climate has to do with love-making. In our
      cold country the progress is lamentably slow. Fogs, east winds, sleet,
      storms, and cutting March weather nip many a budding flirtation; whereas
      warm, sunny days and bright moonlight nights, with genial air and balmy
      zephyrs, open the heart like the cup of a camelia, and let us drink in the
      soft dew of&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Devilish poetical, that," said Power, evolving a long blue line of smoke
      from the corner of his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Isn't it, though?" said the major, smiling graciously. "'Pon my life, I
      thought so myself. Where was I?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Out of my latitude altogether," said the poor skipper, who often found it
      hard to follow the thread of a story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I remember. I was remarking that sangaree and calipash, mangoes and
      guava jelly, dispose the heart to love, and so they do. I was not more
      than six weeks in Jamaica when I felt it myself. Now, it was a very
      dangerous symptom, if you had it strong in you, for this reason. Our
      colonel, the most cross-grained old crabstick that ever breathed, happened
      himself to be taken in when young, and resolving, like the fox who lost
      his tail and said it was not the fashion to wear one, to pretend he did
      the thing for fun, determined to make every fellow marry upon the
      slightest provocation. Begad, you might as well enter a powder magazine
      with a branch of candles in your hand, as go into society in the island
      with a leaning towards the fair sex. Very hard this was for me
      particularly; for like poor Sparks there, my weakness was ever for the
      petticoats. I had, besides, no petty, contemptible prejudices as to
      nation, habits, language, color, or complexion; black, brown, or fair,
      from the Muscovite to the Malabar, from the voluptuous <i>embonpoint</i>
      of the adjutant's widow,&mdash;don't be angry old boy,&mdash;to the fairy
      form of Isabella herself, I loved them all round. But were I to give a
      preference anywhere I should certainly do so to the West Indians, if it
      were only for the sake of the planters' daughters. I say it fearlessly,
      these colonies are the brightest jewels in the crown. Let's drink their
      health, for I'm as husky as a lime-kiln."
    </p>
    <p>
      This ceremony being performed with suitable enthusiasm, the major cried
      out, "Another cheer for Polly Hackett, the sweetest girl in Jamaica. By
      Jove, Power, if you only saw her as I did five and forty years ago, with
      eyes black as jet, twinkling, ogling, leering, teasing, and imploring, all
      at once, do you mind, and a mouthful of downright pearls pouting and
      smiling at you, why, man, you'd have proposed for her in the first
      half-hour, and shot yourself the next, when she refused you. She was,
      indeed, a perfect little beauty, <i>rayther</i> dark, to be sure,&mdash;a
      little upon the rosewood tinge, but beautifully polished, and a very nice
      piece of furniture for a cottage <i>orné</i>, as the French call it. Alas,
      alas, how these vanities do catch hold of us! My recollections have made
      me quite feverish and thirsty. Is there any cold punch in the bowl? Thank
      you, O'Malley, that will do,&mdash;merely to touch my lips. Well, well,
      it's all past and gone now; but I was very fond of Tolly Hackett, and she
      was of me. We used to take our little evening walks together through the
      coffee plantation: very romantic little strolls they were, she in white
      muslin with a blue sash and blue shoes; I in a flannel jacket and
      trousers, straw hat and cravat, a Virginia cigar as long as a
      walking-stick in my mouth, puffing and courting between times; then we'd
      take a turn to the refining-house, look in at the big boilers, quiz the
      niggers, and come back to Twangberry Moss to supper, where old Hackett,
      the father, sported a glorious table at eleven o'clock. Great feeding it
      was; you were always sure of a preserved monkey, a baked land-crab, or
      some such delicacy. And 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. There
      is nothing to compare with the perfect free-and-easy,
      devil-may-care-kind-of-a-take-yourself way that every one has there. If it
      would be any peculiar comfort for you to sit in the saddle of mutton, and
      put your legs in a soup tureen at dinner, there would be found very few to
      object to it. There is no nonsense of any kind about etiquette. You eat,
      drink, and are merry, or, if you prefer, are sad; just as you please. You
      may wear uniform, or you may not, it's your own affair; and consequently,
      it may be imagined how insensibly such privileges gain upon one, and how
      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
      to have been invented for my peculiar convenience, and not a man in the
      island enjoyed a more luxurious existence than myself, not knowing all the
      while how dearly I was destined to pay for my little comforts. Among my
      plenary after-dinner indulgences I had contracted an inveterate habit of
      sitting cross-legged, as I showed you. Now, this was become a perfect
      necessity of existence to me. I could have dispensed with cheese, with my
      glass of port, my pickled mango, my olive, my anchovy toast, my nutshell
      of curaçoa, but not my favorite lounge. You may smile; but I've read of a
      man who could never dance except in a room with an old hair-brush. Now,
      I'm certain my stomach would not digest if my legs were perpendicular. I
      don't mean to defend the thing. The attitude was not graceful, it was not
      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 exercised but little control over my favorite practice, which I
      indulged in every evening of my life. Well, one day old Hackett gave us a
      great blow-out,&mdash;a dinner of two-and-twenty souls; six days' notice;
      turtle from St. Lucie, guinea-fowl, claret of the year forty, Madeira <i>à
      discrétion</i>, and all that. Very well done the whole thing; nothing
      wrong, nothing wanting. As for me, I was in great feather. I took Polly in
      to dinner, greatly to the discomfiture of old Belson, our major, who was
      making up in that quarter; for you must know, she was an only daughter,
      and had a very nice thing of it in molasses and niggers. The papa
      preferred the major, but Polly looked sweetly upon me. Well, down we went,
      and really a most excellent feed we had. Now, I must mention here that
      Polly had a favorite Blenheim spaniel the old fellow detested; it was
      always tripping him up and snarling at him,&mdash;for it was, except to
      herself, a beast of rather vicious inclinations. With a true Jamaica
      taste, it was her pleasure to bring the animal always into the
      dinner-room, where, if papa discovered him, there was sure to be a row.
      Servants sent in one direction to hunt him out, others endeavoring to hide
      him, and so on; in fact, a tremendous hubbub always followed his
      introduction and accompanied his exit, upon which occasions I invariably
      exercised my gallantry by protecting the beast, 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
      began to slacken, and as evening closed in, a sense of peaceful repose
      seemed to descend upon our labors. Pastels shed an aromatic vapor through
      the room. The well-iced decanters went with measured pace along;
      conversation, subdued to the meridian of after-dinner comfort, just
      murmured; the open <i>jalousies</i> displayed upon the broad veranda the
      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
      when, opening the last two buttons of your white waistcoat (remember we
      were in Jamaica), you stretch your legs to the full extent, throw your arm
      carelessly over the back of your chair, look contemplatively towards the
      ceiling, and wonder, within yourself, why it is not all 'after dinner' in
      this same world of ours. Such, at least, were my reflections as I assumed
      my attitude of supreme comfort, and inwardly ejaculated a health to Sneyd
      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
      the major she means?' For old Belson, with his bag wig and rouged cheeks,
      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
      passion at the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I wish I could take one look at him,' said she, laying down her head as
      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
      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
      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
      will be such a piece of work. Though I'm sure, Major, you would not betray
      me.' The major smiled till he cracked the paint upon his cheeks. 'And I am
      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,
      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
      is so timid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Scarcely had these words borne balm and comfort to my heart,&mdash;for I
      now knew that to the dog, and not to my rival, were all the flattering
      expressions applied,&mdash;when a slight scream from Polly, and a
      tremendous 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
      laughter, mingled with suggestions for my personal maltreatment, I never
      heard. All my attempts at explanation were in vain. I was not listened to,
      much less believed; and the old colonel finished the scene by ordering me
      to my quarters, in a voice I shall never forget, the whole room being, at
      the time I made my exit, one scene of tumultuous laughter from one end to
      the other. Jamaica after this became too hot for me. The story was
      repeated on every side; for, it seems, I had been sitting with my foot on
      Polly's lap; but so occupied was I with my jealous vigilance of the major
      I was not aware of the fact until she herself discovered it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I need not say how the following morning brought with it every possible
      offer of <i>amende</i> upon my part; anything from a written apology to a
      proposition to marry the lady I was ready for, and how the matter might
      have ended I know not; for in the middle of the negotiations, we were
      ordered off to Halifax where, be assured, I abandoned my Oriental attitude
      for many a long day after."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE LANDING.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a contrast to the dull monotony of our life at sea did the scene
      present which awaited us on landing in Lisbon. The whole quay was crowded
      with hundreds of people eagerly watching the vessel which bore from her
      mast the broad ensign of Britain. Dark-featured, swarthy, mustached faces,
      with red caps rakishly set on one side, mingled with the Saxon faces and
      fair-haired natives of our own country. Men-of-war boats plied unceasingly
      to and fro across the tranquil river, some slender reefer in the
      stern-sheets, while behind him trailed the red pennon of some "tall
      admiral."
    </p>
    <p>
      The din and clamor of a mighty city mingled with the far-off sounds of
      military music; and in the vistas of the opening street, masses of troops
      might be seen in marching order; and all betokened the near approach of
      war.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our anchor had scarcely been dropped, when an eight-oar gig, with a
      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
      command of the detachment?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Power; very much at your service," said Fred, returning the
      salute.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Douglas requests that you will do him the favor
      to 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;
      "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
      been drubbed again; but our people have not been engaged. I say, we had
      better get under way; there's our first lieutenant with his telescope up;
      he's looking straight at us. So, come along. Good-evening, gentlemen." And
      in another moment the sharp craft was cutting the clear water, while Power
      gayly waved us a good-by.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who's for shore?" said the skipper, as half-a-dozen boats swarmed around
      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
      with tarnished braiding, and a cocked hat that might have roofed a pagoda.
      "Who is not, my old boy? Is not every man among us delighted with the
      prospect of fresh prog, cool wine, and a bed somewhat longer than four
      feet six? I say, O'Malley! Sparks! Where's the adjutant? Ah, there he is!
      We'll not mind the doctor,&mdash;he's a very jovial little fellow, but a
      damned bore, <i>entre nous</i>; and we'll have a cosy little supper at the
      Rue di Toledo. I know the place well. Whew, now! Get away, boy. Sit
      steady, Sparks; she's only a cockleshell. There; that's the Plaza de la
      Regna,&mdash;there, to the left. There's the great cathedral,&mdash;you
      can't see it now. Another seventy-four! Why there's a whole fleet here! I
      wish old Power joy of his 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 this river once. A great shame it was; but I'll tell you the story
      another time. There, gently now; that's it. Thank God! once more upon
      land. How I do hate a ship; upon my life, a sauce-boat is the only boat
      endurable in this world."
    </p>
    <p>
      We edged our way with difficulty through the dense crowd, and at last
      reached the Plaza. Here the numbers were still greater, but of a different
      class: several pretty and well-dressed women, with their dark eyes
      twinkling above their black mantillas as they held them across their
      faces, watched with an intense curiosity one of the streets that opened
      upon the square.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few moments the band of a regiment was heard, and very shortly after
      the regular tramp of troops followed, as the Eighty-seventh marched into
      the Plaza, and formed a line.
    </p>
    <p>
      The music ceased; the drums rolled along the line; and the next moment all
      was still. It was really an inspiriting sight to one whose heart was
      interested in the career, to see those gallant fellows, as, with their
      bronzed faces and stalwart frames, they stood motionless as a rock. As I
      continued to look, the band marched into the middle of the square, and
      struck up, "Garryowen." Scarcely was the first part played, when a
      tremendous cheer burst from the troop-ship in the river. The welcome notes
      had reached the poor fellows there; the well-known sounds that told of
      home and country met their ears; and the loud cry of recognition bespoke
      their hearts' fulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There they go. Your wild countrymen have heard their <i>Ranz des vaches</i>,
      it seems. Lord! how they frightened the poor Portuguese; look how they're
      running!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was actually the case. The loud cheer uttered from the river was
      taken up by others straggling on shore, and one universal shout betokened
      that fully one-third of the red-coats around came from the dear island,
      and in 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 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 meet you out here once more. Why, we've been as dull as a
      veteran battalion without you. These your friends? Pray present me." The
      ceremony of introduction over, the major invited Ferguson to join our
      party at supper. "No, not to-night, Major," said he, "you must be my
      guests this evening. My quarters are not five minutes' walk from this; I
      shall not promise you very luxurious fare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A carbonade with olives, a roast duck, a bowl of bishop, and, if you
      will, a few bottles of Burgundy," said the major; "don't put yourself out
      for us,&mdash;soldier's fare, eh?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not help smiling at the <i>naïve</i> notion of simplicity so
      cunningly suggested by old Monsoon. As I followed the party through the
      streets, my step was light, my heart not less so; for what sensations are
      more delightful than those of landing after a voyage? The escape from the
      durance vile of shipboard, with its monotonous days and dreary nights, its
      ill-regulated appointments, its cramped accommodation, its uncertain
      duration, its eternal round of unchanging amusements, for the freedom of
      the shore, with a land breeze, and a firm footing to tread upon; and
      certainly, not least of all, the sight of that brightest part of creation,
      whose soft eyes and tight ankles are, perhaps, the greatest of all
      imaginable pleasures to him who has been the dweller on blue water for
      several weeks long.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here we are," cried out Ferguson, as we stopped at the door of a large
      and handsome house. We follow up a spacious stair into an ample room,
      sparingly, but not uncomfortably furnished: plans of sieges, maps of the
      seat of war, pistols, sabres, and belts decorated the white walls, and a
      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
      commenced a congratulation to the party upon the good fortune that had
      befallen them. "Capital fellow is Joe; never without something good, and a
      rare one to pass the bottle. Oh, here he comes. Be alive there, Sparks,
      take a corner of the cloth; how deliciously juicy that ham looks. Pass the
      Madeira down there; what's under that cover,&mdash;stewed kidneys?" While
      Monsoon went on thus we took our places at the table, and set to with an
      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
      faring over well latterly?" said the major.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a word of truth in the report. Our people have not been engaged. The
      only thing lately was a smart brush we had at the Tamega. Poor Patrick, a
      countryman of ours, and myself were serving with the Portuguese brigade,
      when Laborde drove us back upon the town and actually routed us. The
      Portuguese general, caring little for anything save his own safety, was
      making at once for the mountains when Patrick called upon his battalion to
      face about and charge; and nobly they did it, too. Down they came upon the
      advancing masses of the French, and literally hurled them back upon the
      main body. The other regiments, seeing this gallant stand, wheeled about
      and poured in a volley, and then, fixing bayonets, stormed a little mount
      beside the hedge, which commanded the whole suburb of Villa Real. The
      French, who soon recovered their order, now prepared for a second attack,
      and came on in two dense columns, when Patrick, who had little confidence
      in the steadiness of his people for any lengthened resistance, resolved
      upon once more charging with the bayonet. The order was scarcely given
      when the French were upon us, their flank defended by some of La
      Houssaye's heavy dragoons. For an instant the conflict was doubtful, until
      poor Patrick fell mortally wounded upon the parapet; when the men, no
      longer hearing his bold cheer, nor seeing his noble figure in the advance,
      turned and fled, pell-mell, back upon the town. As for me, blocked up
      amidst the mass, I was cut down from the shoulder to the elbow by a young
      fellow of about sixteen, who galloped about like a schoolboy on a holiday.
      The wound was only dangerous from the loss of blood, and so I contrived to
      reach Amacante without much difficulty; from whence, with three or four
      others, I 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
      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,
      Major? Donna Maria de Tormes will be inconsolable. By-the-bye, their house
      is just opposite us. Have you never heard Monsoon mention his friends
      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
      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 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;
      "so here goes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I was acting commissary-general to the Portuguese forces some few
      years ago, I obtained great experience of the habits of the people; for
      though naturally of an unsuspecting temperament myself, I generally
      contrive to pick out the little foibles of my associates, even upon a
      short acquaintance. Now, my appointment pleased me very much on this
      score,&mdash;it gave me little opportunities of examining the world. 'The
      greatest study of 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
      Portuguese, with a beautiful climate, delicious wines, and very delightful
      wives and daughters, were the most infernal rogues and scoundrels ever met
      with. 'Make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the leading features of
      the natives,' said old Sir Harry to me in a despatch from head-quarters;
      and, faith, it was not difficult,&mdash;such open, palpable, undisguised
      rascals never were heard of. I thought I knew a thing or two myself, when
      I landed; but, Lord love you! I was a babe, I was an infant in swaddling
      clothes, compared with them; and they humbugged me,&mdash;ay, <i>me!</i>&mdash;till
      I began to suspect that I was only walking in my sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, Monsoon,' said the general, 'they told me you were a sharp fellow,
      and yet the people here seem to work round you every day. This will never
      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, here&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I understand,' said he; 'you don't know the Portuguese; there's but one
      way with them,&mdash;strike quickly, and strike home. Never give them time
      for roguery,&mdash;for if they have a moment's reflection, they'll cheat
      the devil himself; but when you see the plot working, come slap down and
      decide the thing your own way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, now, there never was anything so true as this advice, and for the
      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
      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,
      while the forces were eating short allowance and half rations elsewhere,
      our brigade were plump as aldermen.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When we lay in Andalusia this was easy enough. What a country, to be
      sure! Such vineyards, such gardens, such delicious valleys, waving with
      corn and fat with olives; actually, it seemed a kind of dispensation of
      Providence to make war in. There was everything you could desire; and
      then, the people, like all your wealthy ones, were so timid, and so easily
      frightened, you could get what you pleased out of them by a little terror.
      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;
      he may refuse them, but make the effort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ha!" said the major, with a long-drawn sigh, "those were pleasant times;
      alas, that they should ever come to an end! Well, among the old hidalgos I
      met there was one Don Emanuel Selvio de Tormes, an awful old miser, rich
      as Croesus, and suspicious as the arch-fiend himself. Lord, how I melted
      him down! I quartered two squadrons of horse and a troop of flying
      artillery upon him. How the fellows did eat! Such a consumption of wines
      was never heard of; and as they began to slacken a little, I took care to
      replace them by fresh arrivals,&mdash;fellows from the mountains, <i>caçadores</i>
      they call them. At last, my friend Don Emanuel could stand it no longer,
      and he sent me a diplomatic envoy to negotiate terms, which, upon the
      whole, I must say, were fair enough; and in a few days after, the <i>caçadores</i>
      were withdrawn, and I took up my quarters at the château. I have had
      various chances and changes in this wicked world, but I am free to confess
      that I never passed a more agreeable time than the seven weeks I spent
      there. Don Emanuel, when properly managed, became a very pleasant little
      fellow; Donna Maria, his wife, was a sweet creature. You need not be
      winking that way. Upon my life she was: rather fat, to be sure, and her
      age something verging upon the fifties; but she had such eyes, black as
      sloes, and luscious as ripe grapes; and she was always smiling and ogling,
      and looking so sweet. Confound me, if I think she wasn't the most
      enchanting being in this world, with about ten thousand pounds' worth of
      jewels upon her fingers and in her ears. I have her before me at this
      instant, as she used to sit in the little arbor in the garden, with a
      Manilla cigar in her mouth, and a little 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 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
      his hand to his face, for hours, calculating interest and cent per cent,
      till he fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, he labored under a very singular malady,&mdash;not that I ever knew
      it at the time,&mdash;a kind of luxation of the lower jaw, which, when it
      came on, happened somehow to press upon some vital nerve or other, and
      left him perfectly paralyzed till it was restored to its proper place. In
      fact, during the time the agony lasted, he was like one in a trance; for
      though he could see and hear, he could neither speak nor move, and looked
      as if he 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
      circumstance made it known to me. I was seated one evening in the little
      arbor I mentioned, with Donna Maria. There was a little table before us
      covered with wines and fruits, a dish of olives, some Castile oranges, and
      a fresh pine. I remember it well: my eye roved over the little dessert set
      out in old-fashioned, rich silver dishes, then turned towards the lady
      herself, with rings and brooches, earrings and chains enough to reward one
      for sacking a town; and I said to myself, 'Monsoon, Monsoon, this is
      better than long marches in the Pyrenees, with a cork-tree for a
      bed-curtain, and wet grass for a mattress. How pleasantly one might jog on
      in this world with this little country-house for his abode, and Donna
      Maria for a companion!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tasted the port; it was delicious. Now, I knew very little Portuguese,
      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,
      perhaps Providence might remove Don Emanuel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I finished the bottle as I thus meditated. The next was, if possible,
      more 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,
      too.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes,' said I, in broken Portuguese, 'one ought to be very happy here,
      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
      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
      enough to express what he feels?' This was true, for my Portuguese was
      fast 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
      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>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0331.jpg" alt="Major Monsoon and Donna Maria. "
      width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "She pressed my hand, I kissed hers; she hurriedly snatched it from me,
      and pointed towards a lime-tree near, beneath which, in the cool enjoyment
      of 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 it not for him, I should not be long before I became possessor of
      this excellent old château, with a most indiscretionary power over the
      cellar. Don Mauricius Monsoon would speedily assume his place among the
      grandees of Portugal.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not how long my revery lasted, nor, indeed, how the evening
      passed; but I remember well the moon was up, and a sky, bright with a
      thousand stars was shining, as I sat beside the fair Donna Maria,
      endeavoring, with such Portuguese as it had pleased fate to bestow on me,
      to instruct her touching my warlike services and deeds of arms. The fourth
      bottle of port was ebbing beneath my eloquence, as responsively her heart
      beat, when I heard a slight rustle in the branches near. I looked, and,
      Heavens, what a sight did I behold! There was little Don Emanuel stretched
      upon the grass with his mouth wide open, his face pale as death, his arms
      stretched out at either side, and his legs stiffened straight out. I ran
      over and asked if he were ill, but no answer came. I lifted up an arm, but
      it fell heavily upon the ground as I let it go; the leg did likewise. I
      touched his nose; it was cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Hollo,' thought I, 'is it so? This comes of mixing water with your
      sherry. I saw where it would end.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, upon my life! I felt sorry for the little fellow; but somehow, one
      gets so familiarized with this sort of thing in a campaign that one only
      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 shines. Now for the Donna Maria,'&mdash;for the poor thing was asleep
      in the arbor all this while.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Donna,' said I, shaking her by the elbow,&mdash;'Donna, don't be shocked
      at what I'm going to say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ah, General,' said she, with a sigh, 'say no more; I must not listen to
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You don't know that,' said I, with a knowing look,&mdash;'you don't know
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Why, what can you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'The little fellow is done for.' For the port was working strong now, and
      destroyed all my fine sensibility. 'Yes, Donna,' said I, 'you are free,'&mdash;here
      I threw myself upon my knees,&mdash;'free to make me the happiest 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 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
      world, where there are neither inspections nor arrears.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Before the words were well out, she sprang from the bench and rushed over
      to the spot where the little don lay. What she said or did I know not, but
      the next moment he sat bolt upright on the grass, and as he held his jaw
      with one hand and supported himself on the other, vented such a torrent of
      abuse and insult at me, that, for want of Portuguese enough to reply, I
      rejoined in English, in which I swore pretty roundly for five minutes.
      Meanwhile the donna had summoned the servants, who removed Don Emanuel to
      the house, where on my return I found my luggage displayed before the
      door, 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
      note from Donna Maria, that the don at length began to understand the
      joke, and begged that I would return to the château, and that he would
      expect me 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 Christian-like; and really, we lived very happily ever after. The
      donna was 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 good-night, we took our leave, and retired for the night to our
      quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      LISBON.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tramp of horses' feet and the sound of voices beneath my window roused
      me from a deep sleep. I sprang up and drew aside the curtain. What a
      strange confusion beset me as I looked forth! Before me lay a broad and
      tranquil river whose opposite shore, deeply wooded and studded with villas
      and cottages, rose abruptly from the water's edge; vessels of war lay
      tranquilly in the stream, their pennants trailing in the tide. The loud
      boom of a morning gun rolled along the surface, awaking a hundred echoes
      as it passed, and the lazy smoke rested for some minutes on the glassy
      water 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
      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
      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.
      Here's old Douglas has been sitting up all night writing despatches; and I
      must hasten on to headquarters without a moment's delay. There's work
      before us, that's certain; but when, where, and how, of that I know
      nothing. You may expect the route every moment; the French are still
      advancing. Meanwhile I have a couple of commissions for you to execute.
      First, here's a packet for Hammersley; you are sure to meet him with the
      regiment in a day or two. I have some scruples about asking you this; but,
      confound it! you're too sensible a fellow to care&mdash;" Here he
      hesitated; and as I colored to the eyes, for some minutes he seemed
      uncertain how to proceed. At length, recovering himself, he went on: "Now
      for the other. This is a most loving epistle from a poor devil of a
      midshipman, written last night by a tallow candle, in the cock-pit,
      containing vows of eternal adoration and a lock of hair. I promised
      faithfully to deliver it myself; for the 'Thunderer' sails for Gibraltar
      next tide, and he cannot go ashore for an instant. However, as Sir
      Arthur's billet may be of more importance than the reefer's, I must
      intrust its safe keeping to your hands. Now, then, don't look so devilish
      sleepy, but seem to understand what I am saying. This is the address: 'La
      Senhora Inez da Silviero, Rua Nuova, opposite the barber's.' You'll not
      neglect it. So now, my dear boy, till 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
      of the torturing agony of the lover, for which I can vouch. The boy is
      only fifteen. Swear that he is to return in a month, first lieutenant of
      the '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
      vinegar; the girl, I hear, is a devilish pretty one, the house pleasant,
      and I sincerely wish I could exchange duties with you, leaving you to make
      your bows to his Excellency the C. O. F., and myself free to make mine to
      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,
      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 we had been inseparable companions; and notwithstanding the reckless
      and wild gayety of his conduct, I had ever found him ready to assist me in
      every difficulty, and that with an address and dexterity a more
      calculating adviser might not have possessed. I was now utterly alone; for
      though Monsoon and the adjutant were still in Lisbon, as was also Sparks,
      I never could make intimates of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      I ate my breakfast with a heavy heart, my solitary position again
      suggesting thoughts of home and kindred. Just at this moment my eyes fell
      upon the packet destined for Hammersley; I took it up and weighed it in my
      hand. "Alas!" thought I, "how much of my destiny may lie within that
      envelope! How fatally may my after-life be influenced by it!" It felt
      heavy as though there was something besides letters. True, too true; there
      was a picture, Lucy's portrait! The cold drops of perspiration stood upon
      my forehead as my fingers traced the outline of a miniature-case in the
      parcel. I became deadly weak, and sank, half-fainting, upon a chair. And
      such is the end of my first dream of happiness! How have I duped, how have
      I deceived myself! For, alas, though Lucy had never responded to my
      proffered vows of affection, yet had I ever nurtured in my heart a secret
      hope that I was not altogether uncared for. Every look she had given me,
      every word she had spoken, the tone of her voice, her step, her every
      gesture, were before me, all confirming my delusion, and yet,&mdash;I
      could bear 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
      long past noon when I rallied myself. My charger was already awaiting me;
      and a second blast of the trumpet told that the inspection in the Plaza
      was about to commence.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I continued to dress, I gradually rallied from my depressing thoughts;
      and ere I belted my sabretasche, the current of my ideas had turned from
      their train of sadness to one of hardihood and daring. Lucy Dashwood had
      treated me like a wilful schoolboy. Mayhap, I may prove myself as gallant
      a 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
      the saddle, and hastened towards the Plaza. As I dashed along the streets,
      my horse, maddened with the impulse that stirred my own heart, curvetted
      and plunged unceasingly. As I reached the Plaza, the crowd became dense,
      and I was obliged to pull up. The sound of the music, the parade, the
      tramp of the infantry, and the neighing of the horses, were, however, too
      much for my mettlesome steed, and he became nearly unmanageable; he
      plunged fearfully, and twice reared as though he would have fallen back.
      As I scattered the foot passengers right and left with terror, my eye fell
      upon one lovely girl, who, tearing herself from her companion, rushed
      wildly towards an open doorway for shelter; suddenly, however, changing
      her intention, she came forward a few paces, and then, as if overcome by
      fear, stood stock-still, her hands clasped upon her bosom, her eyes
      upturned, her features deadly pale, while her knees seemed bending beneath
      her. Never did I behold a more beautiful object. Her dark hair had fallen
      loose upon her shoulder, and she stood the very <i>idéal</i> of the
      "Madonna Supplicating." My glance was short as a lightning flash; for the
      same instant my horse swerved, and dashed forward right at the place where
      she was standing. One terrific cry rose from the crowd, who saw her
      danger. Beside her stood a muleteer who had drawn up his mule and cart
      close beside the footway for safety; she made one effort to reach it, but
      her outstretched arms alone moved, and paralyzed by terror, she sank
      motionless upon the pavement. There was but one course open to me now; so
      collecting myself for the effort, I threw my horse upon his haunches, and
      then, dashing the spurs into his flanks, breasted him at the mule cart.
      With one spring he rose, and cleared it at a bound, while the very air
      rang with the acclamations of the multitude, and a thousand bravos saluted
      me as I alighted upon the opposite side.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well done, O'Malley!" sang out the little adjutant, as I flew past and
      pulled up in the middle of the Plaza.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Something devilish like Galway in that leap," said a very musical voice
      beside me; and at the same instant a tall, soldier-like man, in an undress
      dragoon frock, touched his cap, and said, "A 14th man, I perceive, sir.
      May 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, 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
      particularly to meet you. We dine to-day at the 'Quai de Soderi,' and if
      you're not engaged&mdash;Yes, this is the person," said he, turning at the
      moment towards a servant, who, with a card in his hand, seemed to search
      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
      Nuova."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, that's the great Portuguese contractor, the intendant of half the
      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!
      I'll wager a fifty it was his daughter you took in the flying leap a while
      ago. I hear she is a beautiful creature."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," thought I, "that must be it; and yet, strange enough, I think the
      name and address are familiar to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ten to one, you've heard Monsoon speak of him; he's most intimate there.
      But here comes the major."
    </p>
    <p>
      And as he spoke, the illustrious commissary came forward holding a vast
      bundle of papers in one hand, and his snuff-box in the other, followed by
      a long string of clerks, contractors, assistant-surgeons, paymasters,
      etc., all eagerly pressing forward to be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's quite impossible; I can't do it to-day. Victualling and physicking
      are very good things, but must be done in season. I have been up all night
      at the accounts,&mdash;haven't I, O'Malley?" here he winked at me most
      significantly; "and then I have the forage and stoppage fund to look
      through ['we dine at six, sharp,' said he, <i>sotto voce</i>], which will
      leave me without one minute unoccupied for the next twenty-four hours.
      Look to 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
      the Plaza," said a deep voice among the crowd; and in obedience to the
      order I rode forward and placed myself with a number of others, apparently
      newly joined, in the open square. A short, gray-haired old colonel, with a
      dark, eagle look, proceeded to inspect us, reading from a paper as he came
      along,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Hepton, 6th Foot; commission bearing date 11th January; drilled,
      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
      commanding the cavalry brigade.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Sparks,&mdash;where is Mr. Sparks? Mr. Sparks absent from parade;
      make a note of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. O'Malley, 14th Light Dragoons. Mr. O'Malley,&mdash;oh, I remember! I
      have received a letter from Sir George Dashwood concerning you. You will
      hold yourself in readiness to march. Your friends desire that before you
      may obtain any staff appointment, you should have the opportunity of
      seeing 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
      Monsoon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With Major Monsoon? Ah, indeed! Perhaps it might be as well I should
      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
      dinner engagement had not raised me in his estimation, though why, I could
      not exactly determine.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE RUA NUOVA.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our dinner was a long and uninteresting one, and as I found that the major
      was likely to prefer his seat as chairman of the party to the seductions
      of ladies' society, I took the first opportunity of escaping and left the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a rich moonlight night as I found myself in the street. My way,
      which led along the banks of the Tagus, was almost as light as in daytime,
      and crowded with walking parties, who sauntered carelessly along in the
      enjoyment of the cool, refreshing night-air. On inquiring, I discovered
      that the Rua Nuova was at the extremity of the city; but as the road led
      along by the river I did not regret the distance, but walked on with
      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
      and less crowded. A solitary party passed me now and then; the buzz of
      distant voices succeeded to the gay laughter and merry tones of the
      passing groups, and at length my own footsteps alone awoke the echoes
      along the deserted pathway. I stopped every now and then to gaze upon the
      tranquil river, whose eddies were circling in the pale silver of the
      moonlight. I listened with attentive ear as the night breeze wafted to me
      the far-off sounds of a guitar, and the deep tones of some lover's
      serenade; while again the tender warbling of the nightingale came borne
      across the stream 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
      ere I had roused myself from the revery surrounding objects had thrown
      about me. I stopped suddenly, and for some minutes I struggled with myself
      to discover if I was really awake. As I walked along, lost in my
      reflections, I had entered a little garden beside the river. Fragrant
      plants and lovely flowers bloomed on every side; the orange, the camelia,
      the cactus, and the rich laurel of Portugal were blending their green and
      golden hues around me, while the very air was filled with delicious music.
      "Was it a dream? Could such ecstasy be real?" I asked myself, as the rich
      notes swelled upwards in their strength, and sank in soft cadence to tones
      of melting harmony; now bursting forth in the full force of gladness, the
      voices blended together in one stream of mellow music, and suddenly
      ceasing, the soft but thrilling shake of a female voice rose upon the air,
      and in its plaintive beauty stirred the very heart. The proud tramp of
      martial music succeeded to the low wailing cry of agony; then came the
      crash of battle, the clang of steel; the thunder of the fight rolled on in
      all its majesty, increasing in its maddening excitement till it ended in
      one loud shout of victory.
    </p>
    <p>
      All was still; not a breath moved, not a leaf stirred, and again was I
      relapsing into my dreamy scepticism, when again the notes swelled upwards
      in concert. But now their accents were changed, and in low, subdued tones,
      faintly and slowly uttered, the prayer of thanksgiving rose to Heaven and
      spoke their gratefulness. I almost fell upon my knees, and already the
      tears filled my eyes as I drank in the sounds. My heart was full to
      bursting, and even now as I write it my pulse throbs as I remember the
      hymn of the Abencerrages.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I rallied from my trance of excited pleasure, my first thought was,
      where was I, and how came I there? Before I could resolve my doubts upon
      the question, my attention was turned in another direction, for close
      beside me the branches moved forward, and a pair of arms were thrown
      around my neck, while a delicious voice cried out in an accent of
      childish, delight, "<i>Trovado!</i>" At the same instant a lovely head
      sank upon my shoulder, covering it with tresses of long brown hair. The
      arms pressed me 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 hair and patted my temples.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a situation mine! I well knew that some mistaken identity had been
      the cause, but still I could not repress my inclination to return the
      embrace, as I pressed my lips upon the fair forehead that leaned upon my
      bosom; at the same moment she threw back her head, as if to look me more
      fully in the face. One glance sufficed; blushing deeply over her cheeks
      and neck, she sprang from my arms, and uttering a faint cry, staggered
      against a tree. In an instant I saw it was the lovely girl I had met in
      the morning; and without losing a second I poured out apologies for my
      intrusion with all the eloquence I was master of, till she suddenly
      interrupted me by asking if I spoke French. Scarcely had I recommenced my
      excuses in that language, when a third party appeared upon the stage. This
      was a short, elderly man, in a green uniform, with several decorations
      upon his breast, and a cocked 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
      very excellent English, as he advanced with a look of very ceremonious and
      distant politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      I immediately explained that, presuming upon the card which his servant
      had presented me, I had resolved on paying my respects when a mistake had
      led me accidentally into his garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      My apologies had not come to an end when he folded me in his arms and
      overwhelmed me with thanks, at the same time saying a few words in
      Portuguese to his daughter. She stooped down, and taking my hand gently
      within her own, touched it with her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      This piece of touching courtesy,&mdash;which I afterwards found meant
      little or nothing,&mdash;affected me deeply at the time, and I felt the
      blood rush to my face and forehead, half in pride, half in a sense of
      shame. My confusion was, however, of short duration; for taking my arm,
      the old gentleman led me along a few paces, and turning round a small
      clump of olives, entered a little summer-house. Here a considerable party
      were assembled, which for their picturesque effect could scarcely have
      been better managed on the stage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beneath the mild lustre of a large lamp of stained glass, half hid in the
      overhanging boughs, was spread a table covered with vessels of gold and
      silver plate of gorgeous richness; drinking cups and goblets of antique
      pattern shone among cups of Sèvres china or Venetian glass; delicious
      fruit, looking a thousand times more tempting for being contained in
      baskets of silver foliage, peeped from amidst a profusion of fresh
      flowers, whose odor was continually shed around by a slight <i>jet d'eau</i>
      that played among the leaves. Around upon the grass, seated upon cushions
      or reclining on Genoa carpets, were several beautiful girls in most
      becoming costumes, their dark locks and darker eyes speaking of "the soft
      South," while their expressive gestures and animated looks betokened a
      race whose temperament is glowing as their clime. There were several men
      also, the greater number of whom appeared in uniform,&mdash;bronzed,
      soldier-like fellows, who had the jaunty air and easy carriage of their
      calling,&mdash;among whom was one Englishman, or at least so I guessed
      from his wearing the uniform of a heavy dragoon regiment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is my daughter's <i>fête</i>," said Don Emanuel, as he ushered me
      into the assembly,&mdash;"her birthday; a sad day it might have been for
      us had it not been for your courage and forethought." So saying, he
      commenced a recital of my adventure to the bystanders, who overwhelmed me
      with civil speeches and a shower of soft looks that completed the
      fascination of the fairy scene. Meanwhile the fair Inez had made room for
      me beside her, and I found myself at once the lion of the party, each
      vying with her neighbor who should show me most attention, La Senhora
      herself directing her conversation exclusively to me,&mdash;a circumstance
      which, considering the awkwardness of our first meeting, I felt no small
      surprise at, and which led me, somewhat maliciously I confess, to make a
      half allusion to it, feeling some interest in ascertaining for whom the
      flattering reception was 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
      that made me half wish I were <i>her</i> Charles. Whether my look evinced
      as much or not, I cannot tell, but she speedily added,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is my brother; he is a captain in the caçadores, and I expected him
      here this evening. Some one saw a figure pass the gate and conceal himself
      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
      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
      officer fixed steadfastly upon me. He was a tall, fine-looking fellow, of
      about two or three and thirty, with marked and handsome features, which,
      however, conveyed an expression of something sneering and sinister that
      struck me the moment I saw him. His glass was fixed in his eye, and I
      perceived that he regarded us both with a look of no common interest. My
      attention did not, however, dwell long upon the circumstance, for Don
      Emanuel, coming behind my shoulder, asked me if I would not take out his
      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;
      and while I continued to express my resolve to correct the errors of my
      education, the Englishman came up and asked the senhora to be his partner.
      This put the very keystone upon my annoyance, and I half turned angrily
      away from the spot, when I heard her decline his invitation, and avow her
      determination not to dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something which pleased me so much at this refusal, that I could
      not help turning upon her a look of most grateful acknowledgment; but as I
      did so, I once more encountered the gaze of the Englishman, whose knitted
      brows and compressed lips were bent upon me in a manner there was no
      mistaking. This was neither the fitting time nor place to seek any
      explanation of the circumstance, so, wisely resolving to wait a better
      occasion, I turned away and resumed my attentions towards my fair
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you don't care for the bolero?" said I, as she reseated herself upon
      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
      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,
      coloring slightly, she said: "I have already made one rude speech to you
      this evening; I fear lest I should make a second. Tell me, is Captain
      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 to
      any one else, invites him here daily, and, in fact, instals him as his
      first favorite. But still, I cannot like him; and yet I have done my best
      to do so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed!" said I, pointedly. "What are his chief demerits? Is he not
      agreeable? Is he not clever?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, on the contrary, most agreeable, fascinating, I should say, in
      conversation; has travelled, seen a great deal of the world, is very
      accomplished, and has distinguished himself on several occasions. He
      wears, 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
      duellist. My brother, too, knows more of him, and avoids him. But let us
      not speak further. I see his eyes are again fixed on us; and somehow, I
      fear him, without well knowing wherefore."
    </p>
    <p>
      A movement among the party, shawls and mantillas were sought for on all
      sides; and the preparations for leave-taking appeared general. Before,
      however, I had time to express my thanks for my hospitable reception, the
      guests had assembled in a circle around the senhora, and toasting her with
      a parting bumper, they commenced in concert a little Portuguese song of
      farewell, each verse concluding with a good-night, which, as they
      separated and held their way homewards, might now and then be heard rising
      upon the breeze and wafting their last thoughts back to her. The
      concluding verse, which struck me much, I have essayed to translate. It
      ran somehow thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "The morning breezes chill
      Now close our joyous scene,
    And yet we linger still,
      Where we've so happy been.
    How blest were it to live
      With hearts like ours so light,
    And only part to give
      One long and last good-night!
                        Good-night!"
</pre>
    <p>
      With many an invitation to renew my visit, most kindly preferred by Don
      Emanuel and warmly seconded by his daughter, I, too, wished my good-night
      and turned my steps homeward.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE VILLA.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first object which presented itself to my eye the next morning was the
      midshipman's packet intrusted to my care by Power. I turned it over to
      read the address more carefully, and what was my surprise to find that the
      name was that of my fair friend Donna Inez.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This certainly thickens the plot," thought I. "And so I have now fallen
      upon the real Simon Pure, and the reefer has had the good fortune to
      distance the dragoon. Well, thus far, I cannot say that I regret it. Now,
      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
      accepted an invitation for you to-day. We dine across the river. Be at my
      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 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
      Valencia. A better thing than the Dalrymple affair. Don't blush. I know it
      all. But stay; here they come."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, the general commanding, with a numerous staff, rode forward.
      As they passed, I recognized a face which I had certainly seen before, and
      in a moment remembered it was that of the dragoon of the evening before.
      He passed quite close, and fixing his eyes steadfastly on me, evinced no
      sign of recognition.
    </p>
    <p>
      The parade lasted above two hours; and it was with a feeling of impatience
      I mounted a fresh horse to canter out to the villa. When I arrived, the
      servant informed me that Don Emanuel was in the city, but that the senhora
      was in the garden, offering, at the same time, to escort me. Declining
      this honor, I intrusted my horse to his keeping and took my way towards
      the 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 listened. It was the senhora's voice. She was singing a Venetian
      canzonetta in a low, soft, warbling tone, as one lost in a revery; as
      though the music was a mere accompaniment to some pleasant thought. I
      peeped through the dense leaves, and there she sat upon a low garden seat,
      an open book on the rustic table before her, beside her, embroidery, which
      seemed only lately abandoned. As I looked, she placed her guitar upon the
      ground and began to play with a small spaniel that seemed to have waited
      with impatience for some testimony of favor. A moment more, and she grew
      weary of this; then, heaving a long but gentle sigh, leaned back upon her
      chair and seemed lost in thought. I now had ample time to regard her, and
      certainly never beheld anything more lovely. There was a character of
      classic beauty, and her brow, though fair and ample, was still strongly
      marked upon the temples; the eyes, being deep and squarely set, imparted a
      look of intensity to her features which their own softness subdued; while
      the short upper lip, which trembled with every passing thought, spoke of a
      nature tender and impressionable, and yet impassioned. Her foot and ankle
      peeped from beneath her dark robe, and certainly nothing could be more
      faultless; while her hand, fair as marble, blue-veined and dimpled, played
      amidst the long tresses of her hair, that, as if in the wantonness of
      beauty, fell carelessly upon her shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was some time before I could tear myself away from the fascination of
      so much beauty, and it needed no common effort to leave the spot. As I
      made a short <i>détour</i> in the garden before approaching the arbor, she
      saw me as I 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
      myself by her side, "for I am the bearer of a letter to you. How far it
      may interest you, I know not, but to the writer's feelings I am bound to
      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;
      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
      surprised if it's from Howard; that's his name, I think."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Howard! from little Howard!" exclaimed she, enthusiastically; and tearing
      open the letter, she pressed it to her lips, her eyes sparkling with
      pleasure and her cheek glowing as she read. I watched her as she ran
      rapidly over the lines; and I confess that, more than once, a pang of
      discontent shot through my heart that the midshipman's letter could call
      up such interest,&mdash;not that I was in love with her myself, but yet, I
      know not how it was, I had fancied her affections unengaged; and without
      asking myself wherefore, I wished as much.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poor dear boy!" said she, as she came to the end. How these few and
      simple words sank into my heart, as I remembered how they had once been
      uttered to 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
      dumfounded at this, and could not remember whether I had received it from
      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
      a means of making my visit an agreeable one, I shall certainly not omit
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are quite right," said she, either not noticing or not caring for the
      tone of my reply. "You will, indeed, be a welcome messenger. Do you know,
      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 so
      many absent,&mdash;some on leave, some deserters, perhaps,&mdash;that I
      might be reckoning among my troops, but who, possibly, form part of the
      forces of the enemy. Do you know little Howard?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot say that we are personally acquainted, but I am enabled through
      the medium of a friend to say that his sentiments are not strange to me.
      Besides, I have really pledged myself to support the prayer of his
      petition."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How very good of you! For which reason you've forgotten, if not lost, the
      lock of hair."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That you shall have to-morrow," said I, pressing my hand solemnly to my
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, don't forget it. But hush; here comes Captain Trevyllian. So
      you say Lisbon really pleases you?" said she, in a tone of voice totally
      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
      unavoidably obliged to bow, with every wish on either side to avoid
      acquaintance. So, at least, I construed his bow; so I certainly intended
      my own.
    </p>
    <p>
      It requires no common tact to give conversation the appearance of
      unconstraint and ease when it is evident that each person opposite is
      laboring under excited feelings; so that, notwithstanding the senhora's
      efforts to engage our attention by the commonplaces of the day, we
      remained almost silent, and after a few observations of no interest, took
      our several leaves. Here again a new source of awkwardness arose; for as
      we walked together towards the house, where our horses stood, neither
      party 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
      bowed once more, and turned away in an opposite direction; while I, glad
      to be relieved of an unsought-for companionship, returned alone to the
      town.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XL
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DINNER.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with no peculiar pleasure that I dressed for our dinner party.
      Major O'Shaughnessy, our host, was one of that class of my countrymen I
      cared least for,&mdash;a riotous, good-natured, noisy, loud-swearing,
      punch-drinking western; full of stories of impossible fox hunts, and
      unimaginable duels, which all were acted either by himself or some member
      of his family. The company consisted of the adjutant, Monsoon, Ferguson,
      Trevyllian, and some eight or ten officers with whom I was acquainted. As
      is usual on such occasions, the wine circulated freely, and amidst the din
      and clamor of excited conversation, the fumes of Burgundy, and the vapor
      of cigar smoke, we most of us became speedily mystified. As for me, my
      evil destiny would have it that I was placed exactly opposite Trevyllian,
      with whom upon more than one occasion I happened to differ in opinion, and
      the question was in itself some trivial and unimportant one; yet the tone
      which he assumed, and of which, I too could not divest myself in reply,
      boded anything rather than an amicable feeling between us. The noise and
      turmoil about prevented the others remarking the circumstance; but I could
      perceive in his manner what I deemed a studied determination to promote a
      quarrel, while I felt 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
      have rarely sojourned with," cried the major; "look if they haven't got
      eight decanters between them, and here we are in a state of African
      thirst."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How can you expect him to think of thirst when such perfumed billets as
      that come showering upon him?" said the adjutant, alluding to a
      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 it!" said O'Shaughnessy, striking the table with, his clinched fist;
      "show 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 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 of opening my note, which merely contained the following
      words: "Come to 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
      said attracted my attention. I looked up, and perceived Trevyllian's eyes
      bent upon me with the fierceness of a tiger; the veins in his forehead
      were swollen and distorted, and the whole expression of his face betokened
      rage and passion. Resolved no longer to submit to such evident
      determination to insult, I was rising from my place at table, when, as if
      anticipating my intention, he pushed back his chair and left the room.
      Fearful of attracting attention by immediately following him, I affected
      to join in the conversation around me, while my temples throbbed, and my
      hands tingled with impatience to get away.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poor McManus," said O'Shaughnessy, "rest his soul! he'd have puzzled the
      bench of bishops for hard words. Upon my conscience, I believe he spent
      his mornings looking for them in the Old Testament. Sure ye might have
      heard what happened to him at Banagher, when he commanded the Kilkennys,&mdash;ye
      never heard the story? Well, then, ye shall. Push the sherry along first,
      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 remark, <i>en passant</i>, as the French say, were the
      neediest-looking devils in the whole service,&mdash;he never let them
      alone from morning till night, drilling and pipe-claying and polishing
      them up. 'Nothing will make soldiers of you,' said Peter, 'but, by the
      rock of Cashel! I'll keep you as clean as a new musket!' Now, poor Peter
      himself was not a very warlike figure,&mdash;he measured five feet one in
      his tallest boots; but certainly if Nature denied him length of stature,
      she compensated for it in another way, by giving him a taste of the
      longest words in the language. An extra syllable or so in a word was
      always a strong recommendation; and whenever he could not find one to his
      mind, he'd take some quaint, outlandish one that more than once led to
      very awkward results. Well, the regiment was one day drawn up for parade
      in the town of Banagher, and as M'Manus came down the lines he stopped
      opposite one of the men whose face, hands, and accoutrements exhibited a
      most woeful contempt of his orders. The fellow 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,
      inspect this individual.' Now, the sergeant was rather a favorite with
      Mac; for he always pretended to understand his phraseology, and in
      consequence was pronounced by the colonel a very superior man for his
      station in life. 'Sergeant,' said he, 'we shall make an exemplary
      illustration of our system here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, sir,' said the sergeant, sorely puzzled at the meaning of what he
      spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Bear him to the Shannon, and lave him there.' This he said in a kind of
      Coriolanus tone, with a toss of his head and a wave of his right arm,&mdash;signs,
      whenever he made them, incontestibly showing that further parley was out
      of the question, and that he had summed up and charged the jury for good
      and all.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'<i>Lave</i> him in the river?' said O'Toole, his eyes starting from the
      sockets, and his whole face working in strong anxiety; 'is it <i>lave</i>
      him in the river yer honor means?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I have spoken,' said the little man, bending an ominous frown upon the
      sergeant, which, whatever construction he may have put upon his words,
      there was no mistaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Well, well, av it's God's will he's drowned, it will not be on my head,'
      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
      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>
      [leave] him there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "And faith so they did; and if he wasn't a good swimmer and got over to
      Moystown, there's little doubt but he'd have been drowned, and all because
      Peter McManus could not express himself like a Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the laughter which followed O'Shaughnessy's story I took the
      opportunity of making my escape from the party, and succeeded in gaining
      the street unobserved. Though the note I had just read was not signed, I
      had no doubt from whom it came; so I hastened at once to my quarters, to
      make search for the lock of Ned Howard's hair to which the senhora
      alluded. What was my mortification, however, to discover that no such
      thing could be found anywhere. I searched all my drawers; I tossed about
      my papers and letters; I hunted every likely, every unlikely spot I could
      think of, but in vain,&mdash;now cursing my carelessness for having lost
      it, now swearing most solemnly to myself that I never could have received
      it. What was to be done? It was already late; my only thought was how to
      replace it. If I only knew the color, any other lock of hair would,
      doubtless, do just as well. The chances were, as Howard was young and an
      Englishman, that his hair was light; light-brown, probably, something like
      my own. Of course it was; why didn't that thought occur to me before? How
      stupid I was. So saying, I seized a pair of scissors, and cut a long lock
      beside my temple; this in a calm moment I might have hesitated about.
      "Yes," thought I, "she'll never discover the cheat; and besides, I do
      feel,&mdash;I know not exactly why,&mdash;rather gratified to think that I
      shall have left this <i>souvenir</i> behind me, even though it call up
      other recollections than of me." So thinking, I wrapped my cloak about me
      and hastened towards the Casino.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ROUTE.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had scarcely gone a hundred yards from my quarters when a great tramp of
      horses' feet attracted my attention. I stopped to listen, and soon heard
      the jingle of dragoon accoutrements, as the noise came near. The night was
      dark but perfectly still; and before I stood many minutes I heard the
      tones 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 voice,&mdash;"Power!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, Charley, is that you? Come along to the adjutant-general's quarters.
      I'm charged with some important despatches, and can't stop till I've
      delivered them. Come along, I've glorious news for you!" So saying, he
      dashed spurs to his horse, and followed by two mounted dragoons, galloped
      past. Power's few and hurried words had so excited my curiosity that I
      turned at once to follow him, questioning myself, as I walked along, to
      what he could possibly allude. He knew of my attachment to Lucy Dashwood,&mdash;could
      he mean anything of her? But what could I expect there; by what flattery
      could I picture to myself any chance of success in that quarter; and yet,
      what other news could I care for or value than what bore upon her fate
      upon whom my own depended? Thus ruminating, I reached the door of the
      spacious building in which the adjutant-general had taken up his abode,
      and soon found myself among a crowd of persons whom the rumor of some
      important event had assembled there, though no one could tell what had
      occurred. Before many minutes the door opened, and Power came out; bowing
      hurriedly to a few, and whispering a word or two as he passed down the
      steps, he seized me by the arm and led me across the street. "Charley,"
      said he, "the curtain's rising; the piece is about to begin; a new
      commander-in-chief is sent out,&mdash;Sir Arthur Wellesley, my boy, the
      finest fellow in England is to lead us on, and we march to-morrow. There's
      news for you!" A raw boy, unread, uninformed as I was, I knew but little
      of his career whose name had even then shed such lustre upon our army; but
      the buoyant tone of Power as he spoke, the kindling energy of his voice
      roused me, and I felt every inch a soldier. As I grasped his hand in
      delightful enthusiasm I lost all memory of my disappointment, and in the
      beating throb that shook my head; I felt how deeply slept the ardor of
      military glory 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
      that shot up into the sky, and as it broke into ten thousand stars,
      illuminated the broad stream where the ships of war lay darkly resting. In
      another moment the whole air shone with similar fires, while the deep roll
      of the drum sounded along the silent streets, and the city so lately sunk
      in sleep became, as if by magic, thronged with crowds of people; the sharp
      clang of the cavalry trumpet blended with the gay carol of the
      light-infantry bugle, and the heavy tramp of the march was heard in the
      distance. All was excitement, all bustle; but in the joyous tone of every
      voice was spoken the longing anxiety to meet the enemy. The gay, reckless
      tone of an Irish song would occasionally reach us, as some Connaught
      Ranger or some 78th man passed, his knapsack on his back; or the low
      monotonous pibroch of the Highlander, swelling into a war-cry, as some
      kilted corps drew up their ranks together. We turned to regain our
      quarters, when at the corner of a street we came suddenly upon a merry
      party seated around a table before a little inn; a large street lamp,
      unhung for the occasion, had been placed in the midst of them, and showed
      us the figures of several soldiers in undress; at the end, and raised a
      little above his compeers, sat one whom, by the unfair proportion he
      assumed of the conversation, not less than by the musical intonation of
      his voice, I soon recognized as my man, Mickey Free.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll be hanged if that's not your fellow there, Charley," said Power, as
      he came to a dead stop a few yards off. "What an impertinent varlet he is;
      only to think of him there, presiding among a set of fellows that have
      fought all the battles in the Peninsular war. At this moment I'll be
      hanged if he is not going to sing."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a tremendous thumping upon the table announced the fact, and after a
      few preliminary observations from Mike, illustrative of his respect to the
      service in which he had so often distinguished himself, he began, to the
      air of the "Young May Moon," a ditty of which I only recollect the
      following verses:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "The pickets are fast retreating, boys,
    The last tattoo is beating, boys,
      So let every man
      Finish his can,
    And drink to our next merry meeting, boys.

    The colonel so gayly prancing, boys,
    Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys,
      When he sings out so large,
      'Fix bayonets and charge!'
    He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys.

    Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys,
    Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys?
      When we play 'Garryowen,'
      He'd rather go home;
    For somehow, he's no taste for a jig, my boys."
</pre>
    <p>
      This admirable lyric seemed to have perfect success, if one were only to
      judge from the thundering of voices, hands, and drinking vessels which
      followed; while a venerable, gray-haired sergeant rose to propose Mr.
      Free's health, and speedy promotion to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      We stood for several minutes in admiration of the party, when the loud
      roll of the drums beating to arms awakened us to the thought that our
      moments were numbered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good-night, Charley!" said Power, as he shook my hand warmly,
      "good-night! It will be your last night under a curtain for some months to
      come; make the most of it. Adieu!"
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, we parted; he to his quarters, and I to all the confusion of my
      baggage, which lay in most admired disorder about my room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE FAREWELL.
    </p>
    <p>
      The preparations for the march occupied me till near morning; and, indeed,
      had I been disposed to sleep, the din and clamor of the world without
      would have totally prevented it. Before daybreak the advanced guard was
      already 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
      time ere leaving, and bethought me if I had not forgotten anything.
      Apparently all was remembered; but stay,&mdash;what is this? To be sure,
      how forgetful I had become! It was the packet I destined for Donna Inez,
      and which, in the confusion of the night before, I had omitted to bring to
      the Casino.
    </p>
    <p>
      I immediately despatched Mike to the commissary with my luggage and orders
      to ascertain when we were expected to march. He soon returned with the
      intelligence that our corps was not to move before noon, so that I had yet
      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 common attention upon my toilet that morning. The senhora was nothing
      to me. It is true she had, as she lately most candidly informed me, a
      score of admirers, among whom I was not even reckoned; she was evidently a
      coquette whose greatest pleasure was to sport and amuse herself with the
      passions she excited in others. And even if she were not,&mdash;if her
      heart were to be won to-morrow,&mdash;what claim, what right, had I to
      seek it? My affections were already pledged; promised, it is true, to one
      who gave nothing in return, and who, perhaps, even loved another. Ah,
      there was the rub; that one confounded suspicion, lurking in the rear,
      chilled my courage and wounded my spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      If there be anything more disheartening to an Irishman, in his little <i>affaires
      de coeur</i>, than another, it is the sense of rivalry. The obstinacy of
      fathers, the ill-will of mothers, the coldness, the indifference of the
      lovely object herself,&mdash;obstacles though they be,&mdash;he has tact,
      spirit, and perseverance to overcome them. But when a more successful
      candidate for the fair presents himself; when the eye that remains
      downcast at <i>his</i> suit, lights up with animation at <i>another's</i>
      coming; when the features whose cold and chilling apathy to him have
      blended in one smile of welcome to another,&mdash;it is all up with him;
      he sees the game lost, and throws his cards upon the table. And yet, why
      is this? Why is it that he whose birthright it would seem to be sanguine
      when others despond, to be confident when all else are hopeless,&mdash;should
      find his courage fail him here? The reason is simply&mdash;But, in good
      sooth, I am ashamed to confess it!
    </p>
    <p>
      Having jogged on so far with my reader, in all the sober seriousness which
      the matter-of-fact material of these memoirs demands, I fear lest a
      seeming paradox may cause me to lose my good name for veracity; and that
      while merely maintaining a national trait of my country, I may appear to
      be asserting some unheard-of and absurd proposition,&mdash;so far have
      mere vulgar 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
      Irishman is essentially bashful. Well, laugh if you wish, for I conclude
      that, by this time, you have given way to a most immoderate excess of
      risibility; but still, when you have perfectly recovered your composure, I
      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
      unexpected situation, that from any unforeseen conjuncture of events, the
      Irishman would feel confused or abashed, more than any other,&mdash;far
      from it. The cold and habitual reserve of the Englishman, the studied
      caution of the North Tweeder himself, would exhibit far stronger evidences
      of awkwardness in such circumstances as these. But on the other hand, when
      measuring his capacity, his means of success, his probabilities of being
      preferred, with those of the natives of any other country, I back the
      Irishman against the world for distrust of his own powers, for an
      under-estimate of his real 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.
      Several officers were also present, among whom I was not sorry to
      recognize my friend Monsoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, Charley!" cried he, as I seated myself beside him, "what a pity all
      our fun is so soon to have an end! Here's this confounded Soult won't be
      quiet and peaceable; but he must march upon Oporto, and Heaven knows where
      besides, just as we were really beginning to enjoy life! I had got such a
      contract for blankets! And now they've ordered me to join Beresford's
      corps in the mountains; and you," here he dropped his voice,&mdash;"and
      you were getting on so devilish well in this quarter; upon my life, I
      think you'd have carried the day. Old Don Emanuel&mdash;you know he's a
      friend of 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,
      O'Shaughnessy and a set of them. They tried him by court-martial
      yesterday, and sentenced him to mount guard with a wooden sword and a
      shooting jacket, which he did. Old Colbourne, it seems, saw him; and
      faith, there would be the devil to pay if the route had not come! Some of
      them would certainly 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
      that cold pie down here. Sherry, if you please. You didn't see Power
      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 looks out upon the flower-garden; she usually passes the morning
      there. Leap the little wooden paling round the corner, and the chances are
      ten to one you find her."
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw from the occupied air of Don Antonio that there was little fear of
      interruption on his part; so taking an early moment to escape unobserved,
      I rose and left the room. When I sprang over the oak fence, I found myself
      in a delicious little garden, where roses, grown to a height never seen in
      our 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
      beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing but my fears of not bidding you farewell could palliate my thus
      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
      departure, I have not forgotten my trust; this is the packet I promised
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, I placed the paper with the lock of hair within her hand, and
      bending downwards, pressed my lips upon her taper fingers. She hurriedly
      snatched her hand away, and tearing open the enclosure, took out the lock.
      She looked steadily for a moment at it, then at me, and again at it, and
      at length, bursting into a fit of laughing, threw herself upon a chair in
      a very ecstasy of mirth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, you don't mean to impose this auburn ringlet upon me for one of poor
      Howard's jetty curls? What downright folly to think of it! And then, with
      how little taste the deception was practised,&mdash;upon your very
      temples, too! One comfort is, you are utterly spoiled by it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here she again relapsed into a fit of laughter, leaving me perfectly
      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, 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
      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
      faithful admirers. Kneel down, Sir Knight&mdash;in token of which you will
      wear this scarf&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden start which the donna gave at these words brought me to my feet.
      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,
      no voice came forth. I sprang through the open window; I rushed into the
      copse, the only one which might afford concealment for a figure, but no
      one was there. After a few minutes' vain endeavor to discover any trace of
      an intruder, I returned to the chamber. The donna was there still, but how
      changed; her gayety and animation were gone, her pale cheek and trembling
      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 beside the window."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Impossible!" said I. "I have searched every walk and alley. It was
      nothing but imagination,&mdash;believe me, no more. There, be assured;
      think no more of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      While I endeavored thus to reassure her, I was very far from feeling
      perfectly at ease myself; the whole bearing and conduct of this man had
      inspired me with a growing dislike of him, and I felt already
      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 hand within mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course I do; but speak no more of it. You must not forget how few my
      moments are here. Already I have heard the tramp of horses without. Ah!
      there they are. In a moment more I shall be missed; so, once more, fairest
      Inez&mdash;Nay, I beg pardon if I have dared to call you thus; but think,
      if it 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
      shoulder, her long and heavy hair falling upon my neck and across my
      bosom. I felt her heart almost beat against my side; I muttered some
      words, I know not what; I felt them like a prayer; I pressed her cold
      forehead to my lips, rushed from the room, cleared the fence at a spring,
      and was far upon the road to Lisbon ere I could sufficiently collect my
      senses to know whither I was going. Of little else was I conscious; my
      mind was full to bursting; and in the confusion of my excited brain,
      fiction and reality were so inextricably mingled as to defy every endeavor
      at discrimination. But little time had I for reflection. As I reached the
      city, the brigade to which I was attached was already under arms, and Mike
      impatiently waiting my arrival with the horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXLIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE MARCH.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a strange spectacle did the road to Oliveira present upon the morning
      of the 7th of May! A hurried or incautious observer might, at first sight,
      have pronounced the long line of troops which wended their way through the
      valley as the remains of a broken and routed army, had not the ardent
      expression and bright eye that beamed on every side assured him that men
      who looked thus could not be beaten ones. Horse, foot, baggage, artillery,
      dismounted dragoons, even the pale and scarcely recovered inhabitants of
      the hospital, might have been seen hurrying on; for the order, "Forward!"
      had been given at Lisbon, and those whose wounds did not permit their
      joining, were more pitied for their loss than its cause. More than one
      officer was seen at the head of his troop with an arm in a sling, or a
      bandaged forehead; while among the men similar evidences of devotion were
      not unfrequent. As for me, long years and many reverses have not
      obliterated, scarcely blunted, the impression that sight made on me. The
      splendid spectacle of a review had often excited and delighted me, but
      here there was the glorious reality of war,&mdash;the bronzed faces, the
      worn uniforms, the well-tattered flags, the roll of the heavy guns
      mingling with the wild pibroch of the Highlander, or scarcely less wild
      recklessness of the Irish quick-step; while the long line of cavalry,
      their helmets and accoutrements shining in the morning sun, brought back
      one's boyish dreams of joust and tournament, and made the heart beat high
      with chivalrous enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said I, half aloud, "this is indeed a realization of what I longed
      and thirsted for," the clang of the music and the tramp of the cavalry
      responding to my throbbing pulses as we moved along.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Close up, there; trot!" cried out a deep and manly voice; and immediately
      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,
      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 upon Oporto; and the chances are, Sir Arthur intends to hasten
      on to its 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 been peaceably settled down in Lisbon for the next six months, and he
      has received orders to set out for Beresford's headquarters immediately;
      and 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,
      eh?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, do you know, these hurried movements put me out confoundedly. I
      found 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 transparent skins and liquid eyes. Why, you'd have been over head
      and ears 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,
      over their fans,&mdash;just one glance, short and fleeting, but so
      melting, by Jove&mdash;Then their walk,&mdash;if it be not profane to call
      that springing, elastic gesture by such a name,&mdash;why, it's regular
      witchcraft. Sparks, my man, I tremble for you. Do you know, by-the-bye,
      that same pace of theirs is a devilish hard thing to learn. I never could
      come it; and yet, somehow, I was formerly rather a crack fellow at a
      ballet. Old Alberto used to select me for a <i>pas de zéphyr</i> among a
      host; but there's a kind of a hop and a slide and a spring,&mdash;in fact
      you must have been wearing petticoats for eighteen years, and have an
      Andalusian instep and an india-rubber sole to your foot, or it's no use
      trying it. How I used to make them laugh at 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 a similar office for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True; but I never heard of a man that performed a <i>pas seul</i> before
      the enemy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not exactly; but still you're not very wide of the mark. If you'll only
      wait till we reach Pontalegue, I'll tell you the story; not that it's
      worth 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
      hastily up; "and General Cotton requests you will send a subaltern and two
      sergeants forward towards Berar to reconnoitre the pass. Franchesca's
      cavalry are reported in that quarter." So speaking, he dashed spurs to his
      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
      an instant, accompanied by three well-mounted light dragoons. "Sparks,"
      said he, "now for an occasion of distinguishing yourself. You heard the
      order, lose no time; and as your horse is an able one, and fresh, lose not
      a second, but forward."
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner was Sparks despatched on what it was evident he felt to be
      anything but a pleasant duty, than I turned towards Power, and said, with
      some tinge of disappointment in the tone, "Well, if you really felt there
      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
      Sparks simply to spare you one of the most unpleasant duties that can be
      imposed upon a man; a duty which, let him discharge it to the uttermost,
      will never be acknowledged, and the slightest failure in which will be
      remembered for many a day against him, besides the pleasant and very
      probable prospect of being selected as a bull's eye for a French rifle, or
      carried off a prisoner; eh, Charley? There's no glory in that, devil a ray
      of it! Come, come, old fellow, Fred Power's not the man to keep his friend
      out of the <i>mêlée</i>, if only anything can be made by being in it. Poor
      Sparks, I'd swear, is as little satisfied with the arrangement as
      yourself, if one knew but all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, Power," said a tall, dashing-looking man of about five-and-forty,
      with a Portuguese order on his breast,&mdash;"I say, Power, dine with us
      at the 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 Ireland of your name, a certain Godfrey O'Malley, member for some
      county or other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My uncle," said I, blushing deeply, with a pleasurable feeling at even
      this slight praise of my oldest friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your uncle! give me your hand. By Jove, his nephew has a right to good
      treatment at my hands; he saved my life in the year '98. And how is old
      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
      gout that merely jogs his memory in the morning of the good wine he has
      drank over night. By-the-bye, what became of a friend of his, a devilish
      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
      you know Sir Harry Boyle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure I did; shall I ever forget him, and his capital blunders, that
      kept me laughing the whole time I spent in Ireland? I was in the house
      when he concluded a panegyric upon a friend, by calling him, 'the father
      to the poor, and uncle to Lord Donoughmore.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was the only man who could render by a bull what it was impossible to
      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 was a person with whom he had a serious row in Cork. Dick, on the
      other hand, mistook Boyle for old Caples, whom he had been pursuing with
      horse-whipping intentions for some months. They met in Kildare Street
      Club, and very little colloquy satisfied them that they were right in
      their conjectures, each party being so eagerly ready to meet the views of
      the other. It never was a difficult matter to find a friend in Dublin; and
      to do them justice, Irish seconds, generally speaking, are perfectly free
      from any imputation upon the score of mere delay. No men have less
      impertinent curiosity as to the cause of the quarrel; wisely supposing
      that the principals know their own affairs best, they cautiously abstain
      from indulging any prying spirit, but proceed to discharge their functions
      as best they may. Accordingly, Sir Harry and Dick were 'set up,' as the
      phrase is, at twelve paces, and to use Boyle's own words, for I have heard
      him relate the story,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "We blazed away, sir, for three rounds. I put two in his hat and one in
      his 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
      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
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By this time we were so near that we had full opportunity to scan each
      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
      faith, sir, so it appeared, we were fighting away all the morning for
      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
      place. That poor Sir Harry's eccentricities should turn up for discussion
      on a march in Portugal was singular enough; but after all, life is full of
      such incongruous accidents. I remember once supping with King Calzoo on
      the Blue Mountains, in Jamaica. By way of entertaining his guests, some
      English officers, he ordered one of his suite to sing. We were of course
      pleased at the opportunity of hearing an Indian war-chant, with a skull
      and thigh-bone accompaniment; but what was our astonishment to hear the
      Indian,&mdash;a ferocious-looking dog, with an awful scalp-lock, and two
      streaks of red paint across his chest,&mdash;clear his voice well for a
      few seconds, and then begin, without discomposing a muscle of his gravity,
      "The Laird of Cockpen!" I need not say that the "Great Raccoon" was a
      Dumfries man who had quitted Scotland forty years before, and with
      characteristic prosperity had attained his present rank in a foreign
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Halt! halt!" cried a deep-toned, manly voice in the leading column, and
      the word was repeated from mouth to mouth to the rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      We dismounted, and picketing our horses beneath the broad-leaved foliage
      of the cork-trees, stretched ourselves out at full length upon the grass,
      while our messmen prepared the dinner. Our party at first consisted of
      Hixley, Power, the adjutant, and myself; but our number was soon increased
      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
      picnics as campaigning presents. The charms of scenery are greatly
      enhanced by their coming unexpectedly on you. Your chance good fortune in
      the prog has an interest that no ham-and-cold-chicken affair, prepared by
      your servants beforehand, and got ready with a degree of fuss and worry
      that converts the whole party into an assembly of cooks, can ever afford;
      and lastly, the excitement that this same life of ours is never without,
      gives a zest&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There you've hit it," cried Hixley; "it's that same feeling of
      uncertainty that those who meet now may ever do so again, full as it is of
      sorrowful reflection, that still teaches us, as we become inured to war,
      to economize our pleasures, and be happy when we may. Your health,
      O'Malley, and your 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
      valley stretches out there, undulating in its richness; and look at those
      dark trees, where just one streak of soft sunlight is kissing their tops,
      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
      pastoral. Apropos of kissing, I understand Sir Arthur won't allow the
      convents to be occupied by troops."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And apropos of convents," said I, "let's hear your story; you promised it
      a while ago."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dear Charley, it's far too early in the evening for a story. I should
      rather indulge my poetic fancies here, under the shade of melancholy
      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
      capital port! Have you much of it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only three dozen. We got it late last night; forged an order from the
      commanding officer and sent it up to old Monsoon,&mdash;'for hospital
      use.' He gave it with a tear in his eye, saying, as the sergeant marched
      away, 'Only think of such wine for fellows that may be in the next world
      before 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 whole mass rose up, when the scene, late so tranquil, became one of
      excited bustle and confusion. An aide-de-camp galloped past towards the
      river, followed by two orderly sergeants; and the next moment Sparks rode
      up, his whole equipment giving evidence of a hurried ride, while his cheek
      was deadly pale and haggard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Power presented to him a goblet of sherry, which, having emptied at a
      draught, he drew a long breath, and said, "They are coming,&mdash;coming
      in 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
      one of the orderlies and took the other prisoner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Forward!" said a hoarse voice in the front. "March! trot!" And before we
      could obtain any further information from Sparks, whose faculties seemed
      to have received a terrific shock, we were once more in the saddle, and
      moving at a brisk pace onward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sparks had barely time to tell us that a large body of French cavalry
      occupied the pass of Berar, when he was sent for by General Cotton to
      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
      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
      column, which, leaving the high road upon the left, entered the forest by
      a 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 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
      passed, "what's going on?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Soult has carried Oporto," cried he, "and Franchesca's cavalry have
      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 of which were occupied by two cavalry regiments advancing to the
      main army; and what was my delight to find that one of them was our own
      corps, the 14th Light Dragoons!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hurra!" cried Power, waving his cap as he came up. "How are you,
      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
      cordially by the hand, and welcomed me to the regiment with most
      gratifying warmth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of us," said Power, with a knowing look, as he introduced me; and the
      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
      minutes we were once more stretched upon the grass, beneath the deep and
      mellow moonlight, while the bright stream ran placidly beside us,
      reflecting on its calm surface the varied groups as they lounged or sat
      around the blazing fires of the bivouac.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE BIVOUAC.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I contrasted the gay and lively tone of the conversation which ran on
      around our bivouac fire, with the dry monotony and prosaic tediousness of
      my first military dinner at Cork, I felt how much the spirit and adventure
      of a soldier's life can impart of chivalrous enthusiasm to even the
      dullest and least susceptible. I saw even many who under common
      circumstances, would have possessed no interest nor excited any curiosity,
      but now, connected as they were with the great events occurring around
      them, absolutely became heroes; and it was with a strange, wild throbbing
      of excitement I listened to the details of movements and marches, whose
      objects I knew not, but in which the magical words, Corunna, Vimeira, were
      mixed up, and gave to the circumstances an interest of the highest
      character. How proud, too, I felt to be the companion-in-arms of such
      fellows! Here they sat, the tried and proved soldiers of a hundred fights,
      treating me as their brother and their equal. Who need wonder if I felt a
      sense of excited pleasure? Had I needed such a stimulant, that night
      beneath the cork-trees had been enough to arouse a passion for the army in
      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
      after, the aide-de-camp appeared with a mounted orderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Colonel Merivale?" said he, touching his cap to the stalwart,
      soldier-like figure before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel bowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Stapleton Cotton desires me to request that at an early hour
      to-morrow you will occupy the pass, and cover the march of the troops. It
      is his wish that all the reinforcements should arrive at Oporto by noon. I
      need 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
      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.
      "Lucy Dashwood or Westminster Abbey!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The regiment was never in finer condition, that's certain," said the
      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.
      "Gallant fellow he was."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come," cried Power, "here's a fresh bowl coming. Let's drink the ladies,
      wherever they be; we most of us have some soft spot on that score."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said the adjutant, singing,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Here's to the maiden of blushing fifteen;
      Here's to the damsel that's merry;
    Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean&mdash;"
</pre>
    <p>
      "And," sang Power, interrupting,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      "Here's to the 'Widow of Derry.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "Come, come, Fred, no more quizzing on that score. It's the only thing
      ever gives me a distaste to the service,&mdash;the souvenir of that
      adventure. When I reflect what I might have been, and think what I am;
      when I contrast a Brussels carpet with wet grass, silk hangings with a
      canvas tent, Sneyd's claret with ration brandy, and Sir Arthur for a
      Commander-in-Chief <i>vice</i> Boggs, a widow&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop there!" cried Hixley. "Without disparaging the fair widow, there's
      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
      across his shako, commenced inditing his lyric, saying, as he did so, "I'm
      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
      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
      of having all the general orders set to popular tunes, and sung at every
      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,
      with much gravity. "They'll have to brush up their <i>sol mi fas</i>. All
      the 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
      well, as that's the whole force of the chant. Take the time from me. Now
      for it. Air, 'Garryowen,' with spirit, but not too quick.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Now that we've pledged each eye of blue,
    And every maiden fair and true,
    And our green island home,&mdash;to you
      The ocean's wave adorning,
    Let's give one Hip-hip-hip-hurra!
    And, drink e'en to the coming day,
          When, squadron square,
          We'll all be there,
      To meet the French in the morning.

    "May his bright laurels never fade,
    Who leads our fighting fifth brigade,
    Those lads so true in heart and blade,
      And famed for danger scorning.
    So join me in one Hip-hurra!
    And drink e'en to the coming day,
          When, squadron square,
          We'll all be there,
      To meet the French in the morning.

    "And when with years and honors crowned,
    You sit some homeward hearth around,
    And hear no more the stirring sound
          That spoke the trumpet's warning,
    You'll fill and drink, one Hip-hurra!
    And pledge the memory of the day,
          When, squadron square,
          They all were there,
      To meet the French in the morning."
</pre>
    <p>
      "Gloriously done, Fred!" cried Hixley. "If I ever get my deserts in this
      world, I'll make you Laureate to the Forces, with a hogshead of your own
      native whiskey for every victory of the army."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A devilish good chant," said Merivale, "but the air surpasses anything I
      ever heard,&mdash;thoroughly Irish, I take it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Irish! upon my conscience, I believe you!" shouted O'Shaughnessy, with an
      energy of voice and manner that created a hearty laugh on all sides. "It's
      few people ever mistook it for a Venetian melody. Hand over the punch,&mdash;the
      sherry, I mean. When I was in the Clare militia, we always went in to
      dinner to 'Tatter Jack Walsh,' a sweet air, and had 'Garryowen' for a
      quick-step. Ould M'Manus, when he got the regiment, wanted to change: he
      said, they were damned vulgar tunes, and wanted to have 'Rule Britannia,'
      or the 'Hundredth Psalm;' but we would not stand it; there would have been
      a mutiny in the corps."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The same fellow, wasn't he, that you told the story of, the other
      evening, in Lisbon?" said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The same. Well, what a character he was! As pompous and conceited a
      little fellow as ever you met with; and then, he was so bullied by his
      wife, he always came down to revenge it on the regiment. She was a fine,
      showy, vulgar woman, with a most cherishing affection for all the good
      things in this life, except her husband, whom she certainly held in due
      contempt. 'Ye little crayture,' she'd say to him with a sneer, 'it ill
      becomes you to drink and sing, and be making a man of yourself. If you
      were like O'Shaughnessy there, six foot three in his stockings&mdash;'Well,
      well, it looks 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
      quartered in Limerick."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May be you heard, too, how I paid off Mac, when he came down on a visit
      to 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, and liquor plenty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm <i>convanient</i>," said O'Shaughnessy, as depositing his enormous
      legs on each side of the burning fagots, and placing a bottle between his
      knees he began his story:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was a cold rainy night in January, in the year '98, I took my place in
      the Limerick mail, to go down for a few days to the west country. As the
      waiter of the Hibernian came to the door with a lantern, I just caught a
      glimpse of the other insides; none of whom were known to me, except
      Colonel M'Manus, that I met once in a boarding-house in Molcsworth Street.
      I did not, at the time, think him a very agreeable companion; but when
      morning broke, and we began to pay our respects to each other in the
      coach, I leaned over, and said, 'I hope you're well, Colonel M'Manus,'
      just by way of civility like. He didn't hear me at first; so that I said
      it again, a little louder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish you saw the look he gave me; he drew himself up to the height of
      his cotton umbrella, put his chin inside his cravat, pursed up his dry,
      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
      then over at him, at which the other travellers burst out a laughing,&mdash;'I
      think there's few will dispute that point.' When the laugh was over, I
      resumed,&mdash;for I was determined not to let him off so easily. 'Sure I
      met you at Mrs. Cayle's,' said I; 'and, by the same token, it was a
      Friday, I remember it well,&mdash;may be you didn't pitch into the salt
      cod? I hope it 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;
      may be you wasn't in a passion for losing seven-and-sixpence at loo with
      Mrs. Moriarty; may be you didn't break the lamp in the hall with your
      umbrella, pretending you touched it with your head, and wasn't within
      three foot of it; may be Counsellor Brady wasn't going to put you in the
      box of 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;
      and the next stage the bold colonel got outside with the guard and never
      came in till we reached Limerick. I'll never forget his face, as he got
      down at Swinburne's Hotel. 'Good-by, Colonel,' said I; but he wouldn't
      take the least notice of my politeness, but with a frown of utter
      defiance, he 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
      O'Grady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Shaugh, my boy,' says he,&mdash;he called me that way for shortness,&mdash;'dine
      with me to-day at Mosey's; a green goose and gooseberries; six to a
      minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Who have you?' says I.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Tom Keane and the Wallers, a counsellor or two, and one M'Manus, from
      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
      this day I spent a considerable time at my toilet; and when I looked in my
      glass at its completion, was well satisfied that I had done myself
      justice. A waistcoat of brown rabbit-skin with flaps, a red worsted
      comforter round my neck, an old gray shooting-jacket with a brown patch on
      the arm, corduroys, and leather gaiters, with a tremendous oak cudgel in
      my hand, 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. 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
      room, in a suit of most accurate sable, stockings, and pumps. Down-stairs
      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
      recognized some ladies. Darby had not told me about them. 'But no matter,'
      said I; 'it's all as well;' so I gave a gentle tap at the door with my
      knuckles.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Come in,' said Darby.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I opened the door slowly, and putting in only my head and shoulders took
      a cautious look round the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I beg pardon, gentlemen,' said I, 'but I was only looking for one
      Colonel 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 is
      here. There's no intrusion whatever. I say, Colonel,' said he turning
      round, 'a gentleman here desires to&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never mind it now,' said I, as I stepped cautiously into the room, 'he's
      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
      this gentleman's visit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'It is a little affair I have to settle with him,' said I, with a fierce
      look that I saw produced its effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Then perhaps you would do me the very great favor to join him at
      dinner,' 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
      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
      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
      O'Gradys. I'm Mr. O'Shaughnessy, from Ennis; won't you introduce me to the
      ladies?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "While the ceremony of presentation was going on I caught one glance at
      M'Manus, and had hard work not to roar out laughing. Such an expression of
      surprise, amazement, indignation, rage, and misery never was mixed up in
      one face before. Speak he could not; and I saw that, except for myself, he
      had neither eyes, ears, nor senses for anything around him. Just at this
      moment dinner was announced, and in we went. I never was in such spirits
      in my life; the trick upon M'Manus had succeeded perfectly; he believed in
      his heart that I had never met O'Grady in my life before, and that upon
      the faith of our friendship, I had received my invitation. As for me, I
      spared him but little. I kept up a running fire of droll stories, had the
      ladies in fits of laughing, made everlasting allusions to the colonel;
      and, in a word, ere the soup had disappeared, except himself, the company
      was entirely with me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'O'Grady,' said I, 'forgive the freedom, but I feel as if we were old
      acquaintances.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'As Colonel M'Manus's friend,' said he, 'you can take no liberty here to
      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 I called him Mac,&mdash;'Mac and I were schoolfellows
      five-and-thirty years ago; though he forgets me, I don't forget him,&mdash;to
      be sure it would be hard for me. I'm just thinking of the day Bishop
      Oulahan came over to visit the college. Mac was coming in at the door of
      the refectory as the bishop was going out. "Take off your caubeen, you
      young scoundrel, and kneel down for his reverence to bless you," said one
      of the masters, giving his hat a blow at the same moment that sent it
      flying to the other end of the room, and with it, about twenty ripe pears
      that Mac had just stolen in the orchard, and had in his hat. I wish you
      only saw the bishop; and Mac himself, he was a picture. Well, well, you
      forget it all now, but I remember it as if it was only yesterday. Any
      champagne, Mr. O'Grady? I'm mighty dry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Of course,' said Darby. 'Waiter, some champagne here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0381.jpg" alt="The Salutation. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "'Ah, it's himself was the boy for every kind of fun and devilment, quiet
      and demure as he looks over there. Mac, your health. It's not every day of
      the week we get champagne.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "He laid down his knife and fork as I said this; his face and temples grew
      deep purple; his eyes started as if they would spring from his head; and
      he put both his hands to his forehead, as if trying to assure himself that
      it was not some horrid dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'A little slice more of the turkey,' said I, 'and then, O'Grady, I'll try
      your hock. It's a wine I'm mighty fond of, and so is Mac there. Oh, it's
      seldom, to tell you the truth, it troubles us. There, fill up the glass;
      that's it. Here now, Darby,&mdash;that's your name, I think,&mdash;you'll
      not think I'm taking a liberty in giving a toast? Here then, I'll give
      M'Manus's health, with all the honors; though it's early yet, to be sure,
      but we'll do it again, by-and-by, when the whiskey comes. Here's M'Manus's
      good health; and though his wife, they say, does not treat him well, and
      keeps him down&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The roar of laughing that interrupted me here was produced by the
      expression of poor Mac's face. He had started up from the table, and
      leaning with both his hands upon it, stared round upon the company like a
      maniac,&mdash;his mouth and eyes wide open, and his hair actually
      bristling with amazement. Thus he remained for a full minute, gasping like
      a fish in a landing-net. It seemed a hard struggle for him to believe he
      was not deranged. At last his eyes fell upon me; he uttered a deep groan,
      and with 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
      laughter was over he had secured post-horses, and was galloping towards
      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
      of my name in the army list, and sold out the next morning; be that as it
      may, we never met since."
    </p>
    <p>
      I have related O'Shaughnessy's story here, rather from the memory I have
      of how we all laughed at it at the time, than from any feeling as to its
      real desert; but when I think of the voice, look, accent, and gesture of
      the narrator, I can scarcely keep myself from again giving way to
      laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DOURO.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never did the morning break more beautifully than on the 12th of May,
      1809. Huge masses of fog-like vapor had succeeded to the starry, cloudless
      night, but one by one, they moved onwards towards the sea, disclosing as
      they passed long tracts of lovely country, bathed in a rich golden glow.
      The broad Douro, with its transparent current, shone out like a
      bright-colored ribbon, meandering through the deep garment of fairest
      green; the darkly shadowed mountains which closed the background loomed
      even larger than they were; while their summits were tipped with the
      yellow glory of the morning. The air was calm and still, and the very
      smoke that arose from the peasant's cot labored as it ascended through the
      perfumed air, and save the 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
      beside the river, and to obtain a shorter path, had entered the skirts of
      a dark pine wood; our pace was a sharp one; an orderly had been already
      despatched to hasten our arrival, and we pressed on at a brisk trot. In
      less than an hour we reached the verge of the wood, and as we rode out
      upon the plain, what a spectacle met our eyes! Before us, in a narrow
      valley separated from the river by a low ridge, were picketed three
      cavalry regiments; their noiseless gestures and perfect stillness
      be-speaking at once that they were intended for a surprise party. Farther
      down the stream, and upon the opposite side, rose the massive towers and
      tall spires of Oporto, displaying from their summits the broad ensign of
      France; while far as the eye could reach, the broad dark masses of troops
      might be seen; the intervals between their columns glittering with the
      bright equipments of their cavalry, whose steel caps and lances were
      sparkling in the sun-beams. The bivouac fires were still smouldering, and
      marking where some part of the army had passed the night; for early as it
      was, it was evident that their position had been changed; and even now,
      the heavy masses of dark infantry might be seen moving from place to
      place, while the long line of the road to Vallonga was marked with a vast
      cloud of dust. The French drum and the light infantry bugle told, from
      time to time, that orders were passing among the troops; while the
      glittering uniform of a staff officer, 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 the grass. "Let the men have their breakfast."
    </p>
    <p>
      The little amphitheatre we occupied hid us entirely from all observation
      on the part of the enemy, but equally so excluded us from perceiving their
      movements. It may readily be supposed then, with what impatience we waited
      here, while the din and clangor of the French force, as they marched and
      countermarched so near us, were clearly audible. The orders were, however,
      strict that none should approach the bank of the river, and we lay
      anxiously awaiting the moment when this inactivity should cease. More than
      one orderly had arrived among us, bearing despatches from headquarters;
      but where our main body was, or what the nature of the orders, no one
      could guess. As for me, my excitement was at its height, and I could not
      speak for the very tension of my nerves. The officers stood in little
      groups of two and three, whispering anxiously together; but all I could
      collect was, that Soult had already begun his retreat upon Amarante, and
      that, with the 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
      have given us the slip this time; they are already in march, and even if
      we dared force a passage in the face of such an enemy, it seems there is
      not a 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.
      Don't blush, man; I'd rather back your chance than his, notwithstanding
      the long letter that Lucy sends him. Poor fellow, he has been badly
      wounded, but, it seems, declines going back to England."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Power," said an orderly, touching his cap, "General Murray
      desires 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
      ordered to try where the stream is fordable. I've mentioned your name to
      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
      around me; when suddenly a dragoon pulled his horse short up, and asked a
      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,
      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 to where Colonel Merivale was standing talking to the colonel of
      a heavy 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, with a most forbidding look. "You'll soon see the troops;
      you'd better stir 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
      dashed spurs into my horse, and turned towards the river. I had not gained
      the bank above a minute, when the loud ringing of a rifle struck upon my
      ear; bang went another, and another. I hurried on, however, at the top of
      my speed, thinking only of my mission and its pressing haste. As I turned
      an angle of the stream, the vast column of the British came in sight, and
      scarcely had my eye rested upon them when my horse staggered forwards,
      plunged twice with his head nearly to the earth, and then, rearing madly
      up, fell backwards to the ground. Crushed and bruised as I felt by my
      fall, I was soon aroused to the necessity of exertion; for as I disengaged
      myself from the poor beast, I discovered he had been killed by a bullet in
      the counter; and scarcely had I recovered my legs when a shot struck my
      shako and grazed my temples. I quickly threw myself to the ground, and
      creeping on for some yards, reached at last some rising ground, from which
      I rolled gently downwards into a little declivity, sheltered by the bank
      from the French fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I arrived at headquarters, I was dreadfully fatigued and heated; but
      resolving not to rest till I had delivered my despatches, I hastened
      towards the convent of La Sierra, where I was told the commander-in-chief
      was.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I came into the court of the convent, filled with general officers and
      people of the staff, I was turning to ask how I should proceed, when
      Hixley 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
      gloomy stair, introduced me into a room, whore about a dozen persons in
      uniform were writing at a long deal table.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Gordon," said he, addressing one of them, "despatches requiring
      immediate attention have just been brought by this officer."
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the sentence was finished the door opened, and a short, slight man,
      in a gray undress coat, with a white cravat and a cocked hat, entered. The
      dead silence that ensued was not necessary to assure me that he was one in
      authority,&mdash;the look of command his bold, stern features presented;
      the sharp, piercing eye, the compressed lip, the impressive expression of
      the whole face, told plainly that he was one who held equally himself and
      others in mastery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Send General Sherbroke here," said he to an aide-de-camp. "Let the light
      brigade march into position;" and then turning suddenly to me, "Whose
      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 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
      the paper in his hand. Just as he did so, a spot of blood upon the
      envelope 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.
      Well, Waters, what news?"
    </p>
    <p>
      This question was addressed to an officer in a staff uniform, who entered
      at the moment, followed by the short and bulky figure of a monk, his
      shaven crown and large cassock strongly contrasting with the gorgeous
      glitter of 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
      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
      Arthur, interrupting. "The boats will be brought round to the small creek
      beneath the orchard. You, sir," turning to me, "will convey to General
      Murray&mdash;but you appear weak. You, Gordon, will desire Murray to
      effect a crossing at Avintas with the Germans and the 14th. Sherbroke's
      division 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 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
      carelessly behind his back, he walked towards the window, and looked out
      upon the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      All was still as death in the chamber; not a lip murmured. The feeling of
      respect for him in whose presence we were standing checked every thought
      of utterance; while the stupendous gravity of the events before us
      engrossed every mind and occupied every heart. I was standing near the
      window; the effect of my fall had stunned me for a time, but I was
      gradually recovering, and watched with a thrilling heart the scene before
      me. Great and absorbing as was my interest in what was passing without, it
      was nothing compared with what I felt as I looked at him upon whom our
      destiny was then hanging. I had ample time to scan his features and
      canvass their every lineament. Never before did I look upon such perfect
      impassibility; the cold, determined expression was crossed by no show of
      passion or impatience. All was rigid and motionless, and whatever might
      have been the workings of the spirit within, certainly no external sign
      betrayed them; and yet what a moment for him must that have been! Before
      him, separated by a deep and rapid river, lay the conquering legions of
      France, led on by one second alone to him whose very name had been the <i>prestige</i>
      of victory. Unprovided with every regular means of transport, in the broad
      glare of day, in open defiance of their serried ranks and thundering
      artillery, he dared the deed. What must have been his confidence in the
      soldiers he commanded! What must have been his reliance upon his own
      genius! As such thoughts rushed through my mind, the door opened and an
      officer entered 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
      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
      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
      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
      gladly have remained at the convent, when I received an order to join my
      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 the river; but as yet no boats had been discovered, and such was
      the impatience of the men to cross, it was with difficulty they were
      prevented trying the passage by swimming, when suddenly Power appeared
      followed by several fishermen. Three or four small skiffs had been found,
      half sunk in mud, among the rushes, and with such frail assistance we
      commenced to cross.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There will be something to write home to Galway soon, Charley, or I'm
      terribly mistaken," said Fred, as he sprang into the boat beside me. "Was
      I 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
      across the stream below us, and the loud boom of a large gun resounded
      through the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came a deafening shout, followed by a rattling volley of small arms,
      gradually swelling into a hot sustained fire, through which the cannon
      pealed at intervals. Several large meadows lay along the river-side, where
      our brigade was drawn up as the detachments landed from the boats; and
      here, although nearly a league distant from the town, we now heard the din
      and crash of battle, which increased every moment. The cannonade from the
      Sierra convent, which at first was merely the fire of single guns, now
      thundered away in one long roll, amidst which the sounds of falling walls
      and crashing roofs were mingled. It was evident to us, from the continual
      fire kept up, that the landing had been effected; while the swelling tide
      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
      for two light four-pounders to be landed, when an officer galloped up in
      haste, and called out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "The French are in retreat!" and pointing at the same moment to the
      Vallonga road, we saw a long line of smoke and dust leading from the town,
      through which, as we gazed, the colors of the enemy might be seen as they
      defiled, while the unbroken lines of the wagons and heavy baggage proved
      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
      voice of our leader, and the heavy tramp of our squadrons shook the very
      ground as we advanced towards the road to Vallonga.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we came on, the scene became one of overwhelming excitement; the masses
      of the enemy that poured unceasingly from the town could now be
      distinguished more clearly; and amidst all the crash of gun-carriages and
      caissons, the voices of the staff officers rose high as they hurried along
      the retreating battalions. A troop of flying artillery galloped forth at
      top speed, and wheeling their guns into position with the speed of
      lightning, prepared, by a flanking fire, to cover the retiring column. The
      gunners sprang from their seats, the guns were already unlimbered, when
      Sir 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
      sound, and the same instant the long line of shining helmets passed with
      the speed of a whirlwind; the pace increased at every stride, the ranks
      grew closer, and like the dread force of some mighty engine we fell upon
      the foe. I have felt all the glorious enthusiasm of a fox-hunt, when the
      loud cry of the hounds, answered by the cheer of the joyous huntsman,
      stirred the very heart within, but never till now did I know how far
      higher the excitement reaches, when man to man, sabre to sabre, arm to
      arm, we ride forward to the battle-field. On we went, the loud shout of
      "Forward!" still ringing in our ears. One broken, irregular discharge from
      the French guns shook the head of our advancing column, but stayed us not
      as we galloped madly on.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remember no more. The din, the smoke, the crash, the cry for quarter,
      mingled with the shout of victory, the flying enemy, the agonizing shrieks
      of the wounded,&mdash;all are commingled in my mind, but leave no trace of
      clearness or connection between them; and it was only when the column
      wheeled to reform behind the advancing squadrons, that I awoke from my
      trance of maddening excitement, and perceived that we had carried the
      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
      line,&mdash;"gallantly done, lads!" The blood trickled from a sabre cut on
      his temple, along his cheek, as he spoke; but he either knew it not or
      heeded it not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There go the Germans!" said Power, pointing to the remainder of our
      brigade, as they charged furiously upon the French infantry, and rode
      them, down in masses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our guns came up at this time, and a plunging fire was opened upon the
      thick and retreating ranks of the enemy. The carnage must have been
      terrific, for the long breaches in their lines showed where the squadrons
      of the cavalry had passed, or the most destructive tide of the artillery
      had swept through them. The speed of the flying columns grew momentarily
      more; the road became blocked up, too, by broken carriages and wounded;
      and to add to their discomfiture, a damaging fire now opened from the town
      upon the retreating column, while the brigade of Guards and the 29th
      pressed hotly on their rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene was now beyond anything maddening in its interest. From the
      walls of Oporto the English infantry poured forth in pursuit, while the
      whole river was covered with boats as they still continued to cross over.
      The artillery thundered from the Sierra to protect the landing, for it was
      even still contested in places; and the cavalry, charging in flank, swept
      the 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 were ordered to retire from the road. Column after column passed before
      us, unmolested and unassailed, and not even a cannon-shot arrested their
      steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some unaccountable timidity of our leader directed this movement; and
      while before our very eyes the gallant infantry were charging the retiring
      columns, we remained still and inactive.
    </p>
    <p>
      How little did the sense of praise we had already won repay us for the
      shame and indignation we experienced at this moment, as with burning check
      and compressed lip we watched the retreating files. "What can he mean?"
      "Is there not some mistake?" "Are we never to charge?" were the muttered
      questions around, as a staff officer galloped up with the order to take
      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
      general, dashed impetuously up; he held his plumed cap high above his
      head, 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
      moment at the narrowest part of the road, which opened by a bridge upon a
      large open space; so that, forming with a narrow front and favored by a
      declivity in the ground, we actually rode them down. Twice the French
      formed, and twice were they broken. Meanwhile the carnage was dreadful on
      both sides, our fellows dashing madly forward where the ranks were
      thickest, the enemy resisting with the stubborn courage of men fighting
      for their last spot of ground. So impetuous was the charge of our
      squadrons, that we stopped not till, piercing the dense column of the
      retreating mass, we reached the open ground beyond. Here we wheeled and
      prepared once more to meet them, when suddenly some squadrons of
      cuirassiers debouched from the road, and supported by a field-piece,
      showed front against us. This was the moment that the remainder of our
      brigade should have come to our aid, but not a man appeared. However,
      there was not an instant to be lost; already the plunging fire of the
      four-pounder had swept through our files, and every moment increased our
      danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Once more, my lads, forward!" cried out our gallant leader, Sir Charles
      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.
      And here ensued a terrific struggle; for as the cavalry of the enemy gave
      way before us, we came upon the close ranks of the infantry at half-pistol
      distance, who poured a withering volley into us as we approached. But what
      could arrest the sweeping torrent of our brave fellows, though every
      moment falling in numbers?
    </p>
    <p>
      Harvey, our major, lost his arm near the shoulder. Scarcely an officer was
      not wounded. Power received a deep sabre-cut in the cheek from an
      aide-de-camp of General Foy, in return for a wound he gave the general;
      while I, in my endeavor to save General Laborde when unhorsed, was cut
      down through the helmet, and so stunned that I remembered no more around
      me. I kept my saddle, it is true, but I lost every sense of consciousness,
      my first glimmering of reason coming to my aid as I lay upon the river
      bank and felt my faithful follower Mike bathing my temples with water, as
      he kept up a running fire of lamentations for my being <i>murthered</i> so
      young.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0393.jpg" alt="The Skirmish. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Are you better, Mister Charles? Spake to me, alanah! Say that you're not
      kilt, darling; do now. Oh, wirra! what'll I ever say to the master? and
      you doing so beautiful! Wouldn't he give the best baste in his stable to
      be looking at you to-day? There, take a sup; it's only water. Bad luck to
      them, but it's hard work beatin' them. They 're only gone now. That's
      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,
      as, his face swathed in bandages and covered with blood, he lay down on
      the grass beside me. "It was a gallant thing while it lasted, but has cost
      us 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
      came out upon the road. I lifted him up in my arms and bore him along
      above fifty yards; but he was stone dead. Not a sigh, not a word escaped
      him; shot through the forehead." As he spoke, his lips trembled, and his
      voice sank to a mere whisper at the last words: "You remember what he said
      last 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
      guns and broken wagons alone marked the spot; while far in the distance,
      the dust of the retreating columns showed the beaten enemy as they hurried
      towards the frontiers of Spain.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE MORNING.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are few sadder things in life than the day after a battle. The
      high-beating hope, the bounding spirits, have passed away, and in their
      stead comes the depressing reaction by which every overwrought excitement
      is followed. With far different eyes do we look upon the compact ranks and
      glistening files,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      With helm arrayed,
      And lance and blade,
    And plume in the gay wind dancing!
</pre>
    <p>
      and upon the cold and barren heath, whose only memory of the past is the
      blood-stained turf, a mangled corpse, the broken gun, the shattered wall,
      the well-trodden earth where columns stood, the cut-up ground where
      cavalry 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
      beautiful I ever remember. There was that kind of freshness and elasticity
      in the air which certain days possess, and communicate by some magic their
      properties to ourselves. The thrush was singing gayly out from every grove
      and wooded dell; the very river had a sound of gladness as it rippled on
      against its sedgy banks; the foliage, too, sparkled in the fresh dew, as
      in 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
      the view extended for miles in every direction. Above us, the stream came
      winding down amidst broad and fertile fields of tall grass and waving
      corn, backed by deep and mellow woods, which were lost to the view upon
      the distant hills; below, the river, widening as it went, pursued a
      straighter course, or turned with bolder curves, till, passing beneath the
      town, it spread into a large sheet of glassy water as it opened to the
      sea. The sun was just rising as I looked upon this glorious scene, and
      already the tall spires of Oporto were tipped with a bright rosy hue,
      while the massive 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
      sound was heard save the tramp of a patrol or the short, quick cry of the
      sentry. I sat lost in meditation, or rather in that state of dreamy
      thoughtfulness in which the past and present are combined, and the absent
      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 day before, pointing out where we stood, and how we charged; then
      again I was at home, beside the broad, bleak Shannon, and the brown hills
      of Scariff. I watched with beating heart the tall Sierra, where our path
      lay for the future, and then turned my thoughts to him whose name was so
      soon to be received in England with a nation's pride and gratitude, and
      panted for a soldier's glory.
    </p>
    <p>
      As thus I followed every rising fancy, I heard a step approach; it was a
      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
      aware of the general order, that while in pursuit of an enemy, all
      military honors to the dead are forbidden; but we wish to place our poor
      comrade in the earth before we leave."
    </p>
    <p>
      I followed down a little path, through a grave of tall beech-trees, that
      opened upon a little grassy terrace beside the river. A stunted olive-tree
      stood by itself in the midst, and there I found five of our brother
      officers standing, wrapped in their wide cloaks. As we pressed each
      other's hands, not a word was spoken. Each heart was full; and hard
      features that never quailed before the foe were now shaken with the
      convulsive spasm of 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
      grave was already dug beside it; and in the deathlike stillness around,
      the service for the dead was read. The last words were over. We stooped
      and placed the corpse, wrapped up in the broad mantle, in the earth; we
      replaced the mould, and stood silently around the spot. The trumpet of our
      regiment at this moment sounded the call; its clear notes rang sharply
      through the thin air,&mdash;it was the soldier's requiem! and we turned
      away without speaking, and returned to our quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had never known poor Hixley till a day or two before; but, somehow, my
      grief for him was deep and heartfelt. It was not that his frank and manly
      bearing, his bold and military air, had gained upon me. No; these were
      indeed qualities to attract and delight me, but he had obtained a stronger
      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
      life, what can equal this one? What a claim upon your love has he who can,
      by some passing word, some fast-flitting thought, bring back the days of
      your youth! What interest can he not excite by some anecdote of your
      boyish days, some well-remembered trait of youthful daring, or early
      enterprise! Many a year of sunshine and of storm have passed above my
      head; I have not been without my moments of gratified pride and rewarded
      ambition; but my heart has never responded so fully, so thankfully, so
      proudly to these, such as they were, as to the simple, touching words of
      one who knew my early home, and loved its inmates.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Fitzroy, what news?" inquired I, roused from my musing, as an
      aide-de-camp galloped up at full speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell Merivale to get the regiment under arms at once. Sir Arthur
      Wellesley will be here in less than half an hour. You may look for the
      route 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
      soon out of sight. Meanwhile the plain beneath me presented an animated
      and splendid spectacle. The different corps were falling into position to
      the enlivening sounds of their quick-step, the trumpets of the cavalry
      rang loudly through the valley, and the clatter of sabres and sabretasches
      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
      waiting with my horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Power's before you, sir," said he, "and you'll have to make
      haste. The regiments are under arms already."
    </p>
    <p>
      From the little mound where I stood, I could see the long line of cavalry
      as they deployed into the plain, followed by the horse artillery, which
      brought up the rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This looks like a march," thought I, as I pressed forward to join my
      companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not advanced above a hundred yards through a narrow ravine when the
      measured tread of infantry fell upon my ears. I pulled up to slacken my
      pace, just as the head of a column turned round the angle of the road, and
      came in view. The tall caps of a grenadier company was the first thing I
      beheld, as they came on without roll of drum and sound of fife. I watched
      with a soldier's pride the manly bearing and gallant step of the dense
      mass as they defiled before me. I was struck no less by them than by a
      certain 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, the next moment solved my doubt; for as the last files of the
      grenadiers wheeled round, a dense mass behind came in sight, whose unarmed
      hands, and 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,
      erect in frame and firm in step, his gray mustache scarcely concealing the
      scowl that curled his lip, side by side with the young and daring
      conscript, even yet a mere boy; their march was regular, their gaze
      steadfast,&mdash;no look of flinching courage there. On they came, a long
      unbroken line. They looked not less proudly than their captors around
      them. As I looked with heavy heart upon them, my attention was attracted
      to one who marched alone behind the rest. He was a middle-sized but
      handsome youth of some eighteen years at most; his light helmet and waving
      plume bespoke him a <i>chasseur à cheval</i>, and I could plainly
      perceive, in his careless half-saucy air, how indignantly he felt the
      position to which the fate of war had reduced him. He caught my eyes fixed
      upon him, and for an instant turned upon me a gaze of open and palpable
      defiance, drawing himself up to his full height, and crossing his arms
      upon his breast; but probably perceiving in my look more of interest than
      of triumph, his countenance suddenly changed, a deep blush suffused his
      cheek, his eye beamed with a softened and kindly expression, and carrying
      his hand to his helmet, he saluted me, saying, in a voice of singular
      sweetness,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>"Je vous souhaite un meilleur sort, camarade."</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed, and muttering something in return, was about to make some inquiry
      concerning him, when the loud call of the trumpet rang through the valley,
      and apprised me that, in my interest for the prisoners, I had forgotten
      all else, and was probably incurring censure for my absence.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE REVIEW.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I joined the group of my brother officers, who stood gayly chatting
      and laughing together before our lines, I was much surprised&mdash;nay
      almost shocked&mdash;to find how little seeming impression had been made
      upon them, by 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 him we had lost from among us forever, mingling with the awful sense
      of our own uncertain tenure here, had laid its impress on each brow; but
      now, scarcely an hour elapsed, and all were cheerful and elated. The last
      shovelful of earth upon the grave seemed to have buried both the dead and
      the mourning. And such is war, and such the temperament it forms! Events
      so strikingly opposite in their character and influences succeed so
      rapidly one upon another that the mind is kept in one whirl of excitement,
      and at length accustoms itself to change with every phase of
      circumstances; and between joy and grief, hope and despondency, enthusiasm
      and depression, there is neither breadth nor interval,&mdash;they follow
      each other as naturally as morning succeeds to night.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not much time for such reflections; scarcely had I saluted the
      officers about me, when the loud prolonged roll of the drums along the
      line of infantry in the valley, followed by the sharp clatter of muskets
      as they were raised to the shoulder, announced the troops were under arms,
      and the review begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have you seen the general order this morning, Power?" inquired an old
      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
      our party.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take ground to the left!" sung out the clear voice of the colonel, as he
      rode along in front. "Fourteenth, I am happy to inform you that your
      conduct has met approval in the highest quarter. I have just received the
      general orders, in which this occurs:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'THE TIMELY PASSAGE OF THE DOURO, AND SUBSEQUENT MOVEMENTS UPON THE
      ENEMY'S FLANK, BY LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SHERBROKE, WITH THE GUARDS AND 29TH
      REGIMENT, AND THE BRAVERY OF THE TWO SQUADRONS OF THE 14TH LIGHT DRAGOONS,
      UNDER THE COMMAND OF MAJOR HARVEY, AND LED BY THE HONORABLE
      BRIGADIER-GENERAL CHARLES STEWART, OBTAINED THE VICTORY'&mdash;Mark that,
      my lads! obtained the victory&mdash;'WHICH HAS CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH TO THE
      HONOR OF THE TROOPS ON THIS DAY.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The words were hardly spoken, when a tremendous cheer burst from the whole
      line at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Steady, Fourteenth! steady, lads!" said the gallant old colonel, as he
      raised his hand gently; "the staff is approaching."
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment, the white plumes appeared, rising above the brow of
      the hill. On they came, glittering in all the splendor of aignillettes and
      orders; all save one. He rode foremost, upon a small, compact, black
      horse; his dress, a plain gray frock fastened at the waist by a red sash;
      his cocked hat alone bespoke, in its plume, the general officer. He
      galloped rapidly on till he came to the centre of the line; then turning
      short 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, 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
      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 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
      who saved General Laborde's life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe I have mentioned it, Sir Arthur," said the colonel: "Mr.
      O'Malley."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, I beg pardon; so you have&mdash;Mr. O'Malley; a very young officer
      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
      in your own regiment. By-the-bye, Merivale," here his voice changed into a
      half-laughing tone, "ere I forget it, pray let me beg of you to look into
      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
      consternation, beheld my man Mickey Free standing among the staff, the
      position he occupied, and the presence he stood in, having no more
      perceptible effect upon his nerves than if he were assisting at an Irish
      wake; but so completely was I overwhelmed with shame at the moment, that
      the staff were already far down the lines ere I recovered my
      self-possession, to which, certainly, I was in some degree recalled by
      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
      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
      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
      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
      and myself to follow him down the slope to the clump of trees I have
      mentioned. As we came near, the very distinct denunciations that issued
      from the thicket proved pretty clearly the nature of the affair. It was
      nothing less than a French officer of cavalry that Mike had unhorsed in
      the <i>mêlée</i>, and wishing, probably, to preserve some testimony of his
      prowess, 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 sauvages!</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Av it's making your sowl ye are," said Mike, "you're right; for may be
      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 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,"
      said he, addressing the prisoner, with a poke in the ribs at the same
      moment. "But sure, Master Charles, he might tache me French."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something so irresistibly ludicrous in his tone and look as he
      said these words, that both Power and myself absolutely roared with
      laughter. We began, however, to feel not a little ashamed of our position
      in the business, and explained to the Frenchman that our worthy countryman
      had but little experience in the usages of war, while we proceeded to
      unbind him and liberate him from his miserable bondage.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's letting him loose, you are, Captain? Master Charles, take care.
      Be-gorra, av you had as much trouble in catching him as I had, you'd think
      twice about letting him out. Listen to me, now," here he placed his closed
      fist within an inch of the poor prisoner's nose,&mdash;"listen to me! Av
      you say 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
      leading to his promotion, might, if known in another quarter, procure him
      an acquaintance with the provost-marshal; a fact which, it was plain to
      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
      I'll take again!"
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he slowly returned to the regiment; while Power and I, having
      conducted the Frenchman to the rear, cantered towards the town to learn
      the news of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The city on that day presented a most singular aspect. The streets, filled
      with the town's-people and the soldiery, were decorated with flags and
      garlands; the cafés were crowded with merry groups, and the sounds of
      music and laughter resounded on all sides. The houses seemed to be quite
      inadequate to afford accommodation to the numerous guests; and in
      consequence, bullock cars and forage; wagons were converted into temporary
      hotels, and many a jovial party were collected in both. Military music,
      church bells, drinking choruses, were all commingled in the din and
      turmoil; processions in honor of "Our Lady of Succor" were jammed up among
      bacchanalian orgies, and their very chant half drowned in the cries of the
      wounded as they passed on to the hospitals. With difficulty we pushed our
      way through the dense mob, as we turned our steps towards the seminary. We
      both felt naturally curious to see the place where our first detachment
      landed, and to examine the opportunities of defence it presented. The
      building itself was a large and irregular one of an oblong form,
      surrounded by a high wall of solid masonry, the only entrance being by a
      heavy iron gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this spot the battle appeared to have raged with violence; one side of
      the massive gate was torn from its hinges and lay flat upon the ground;
      the walls were breached in many places; and pieces of torn uniforms,
      broken bayonets, and bruised shakos attested that the conflict was a close
      one. The seminary itself was in a falling state; the roof, from which
      Paget had given his orders, and where he was wounded, had fallen in. The
      French cannon had fissured the building from top to bottom, and it seemed
      only awaiting the slightest impulse to crumble into ruin. When we regarded
      the spot, and examined the narrow doorway which opening upon a flight of a
      few steps to the river, admitted our first party, we could not help
      feeling struck anew with the gallantry of that mere handful of brave
      fellows who thus threw themselves amidst the overwhelming legions of the
      enemy, and at once, without waiting for a single reinforcement, opened a
      fire upon their ranks. Bold as the enterprise unquestionably was, we still
      felt with what consummate judgment it had been planned; a bend of the
      river concealed entirely the passage of the troops, the guns of the
      Sierras covered their landing and completely swept one approach to the
      seminary. The French, being thus obliged to attack by the gate, were
      compelled to make a considerable <i>détour</i> before they reached it, all
      of which gave time for our divisions to cross; while the brigade of
      Guards, under General Sherbroke, profiting by the confusion, passed the
      river below the town, and took the enemy unexpectedly in the rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Brief as was the struggle within the town, it must have been a terrific
      one. The artillery were firing at musket range; cavalry and infantry were
      fighting hand to hand in narrow streets, a destructive musketry pouring
      all the while from windows and house-tops.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the Amarante gate, where the French defiled, the carnage was also
      great. Their light artillery unlimbered some guns here to cover the
      columns as they deployed, but Murray's cavalry having carried these, the
      flank of the infantry became entirely exposed to the galling fire of
      small-arms from the seminary, and the far more destructive shower of grape
      that poured unceasingly from the Sierra.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our brigade did the rest; and in less than one hour from the landing of
      the first man, the French were in full retreat upon Vallonga.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A glorious thing, Charley," said Power, after a pause, "and a proud
      souvenir for hereafter."
    </p>
    <p>
      A truth I felt deeply at the time, and one my heart responds to not less
      fully as I am writing.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE QUARREL.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the evening of the 12th, orders were received for the German brigade
      and three squadrons of our regiment to pursue the French upon the
      Terracinthe road by daybreak on the following morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was busily occupied in my preparations for a hurried march when Mike
      came up to say that an officer desired to speak with me; and the moment
      after Captain Hammersley appeared. A sudden flush colored his pale and
      sickly 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
      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,
      indistinct remembrance of warding off a sabre-cut from the head of a
      wounded and unhorsed officer in the <i>mêlée</i> of yesterday, but more I
      know not. In fact, it was my first duty under fire. I've a tolerably clear
      recollection of all the events of the morning, but the word 'Charge!' once
      given, I remember very little more. But you, where have you been? How have
      we not met before?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I've exchanged into a heavy dragoon regiment, and am now employed upon
      the 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 him much.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for me, my agitation was scarcely less, as fumbling for some seconds in
      my portmanteau, I drew forth the long destined packet. As I placed it in
      his hands, he grew deadly pale, and a slight spasmodic twitch in his upper
      lip bespoke some unnatural struggle. He broke the seal suddenly, and as he
      did so, the morocco case of a miniature fell upon the ground; his eyes ran
      rapidly across the letter; the livid color of his lips as the blood forced
      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,"
      said he, in an altered voice, whose tones, half in anger, half in
      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.
      "Then, perhaps, you will tell me, too, that your very success is a secret
      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 where the affections of others are concerned. I've heard of you,
      sir. Your 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 calm,&mdash;"stop!
      You have said enough, quite enough, to convince me of what your object was
      in seeking me here to-day. You shall not be disappointed. I 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
      apprehension; and I shall now take my leave. Good-evening, Mr. O'Malley. I
      wish you much joy; you have my very fullest congratulations upon <i>all</i>
      your good fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      The sneering emphasis the last words were spoken with remained fixed in my
      mind long after he took his departure; and, indeed, so completely did the
      whole seem like a dream to me that were it not for the fragments of the
      miniature that lay upon the ground where he had crushed them with his
      heel, I could scarcely credit myself that I was awake.
    </p>
    <p>
      My first impulse was to seek Power, upon whose judgment and discretion I
      could with confidence rely.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not long to wait; for scarcely had I thrown my cloak around me, when
      he rode up. He had just seen, Hammersley, and learned something of our
      interview.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Charley, my dear fellow, what is this? How have you treated poor
      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
      which Power listened with great composure; while I could perceive, from
      the questions he asked, that some very different impression had been
      previously 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 some ridiculous speech there about your successful rivalry of him in
      Ireland. Lucy Dashwood, I suppose, is referred to. Some one has been
      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
      ill. Poor Hammersley has never recovered a sabre-wound he received some
      months since upon the head; his intellect is really affected by it. Leave
      it all to me. Promise not to leave your quarters till I return, and I'll
      put everything right again."
    </p>
    <p>
      I gave the required pledge; while Power, springing into the saddle, left
      me to my own reflections.
    </p>
    <p>
      My frame of mind as Power left me was by no means an enviable one. A
      quarrel is rarely a happy incident in a man's life, still less is it so
      when the difference arises with one we are disposed to like and respect.
      Such was Hammersley. His manly, straightforward character had won my
      esteem and regard, and it was with no common scrutiny I taxed my memory to
      think what could have given rise to the impression he labored under of my
      having injured him. His chance mention of Trevyllian suggested to me some
      suspicion that his dislike of me, wherefore arising I knew not, might have
      its share in the matter; and in this state of doubt and uncertainty I
      paced impatiently up and down, anxiously watching for Power's return in
      the hope 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
      appearance of him could I detect, when suddenly the tramp of a horse came
      rapidly up the hill. I looked out and saw a rider coming forward at a very
      fast pace. Before I had time for even a guess as to who it was, he drew
      up, and I recognized Captain Trevyllian. There was a certain look of easy
      impertinence and half-smiling satisfaction about his features I had never
      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
      arm, walked on beside me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My friend Captain Hammersley has commissioned me to wait upon you about
      this unpleasant affair&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I beg pardon for the interruption, Captain Trevyllian, but as I have yet
      to learn to what you or your friend alludes, perhaps it may facilitate
      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
      unmoved, he continued,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not sufficiently in my friend's confidence to know the whole of the
      affair in question, nor have I his permission to enter into any of it, he
      probably presuming, as I certainly did myself, that your sense of honor
      would have deemed further parley and discussion both unnecessary and
      unseasonable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In fact, then, if I understand, it is expected that I should meet Captain
      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
      grounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And such I am to report as your answer?" said he, looking at me at the
      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
      they were spoken, that sunk deeply in my heart. Was it that by some trick
      of diplomacy he was endeavoring to compromise my honor and character? Was
      it possible that my refusal might be construed into any other than the
      real cause? I was too young, too inexperienced in the world to decide the
      question for myself, and no time was allowed me to seek another's counsel.
      What a trying moment was that for me; my temples throbbed, my heart beat
      almost audibly, and I stood afraid to speak; dreading on the one hand lest
      my compliance might involve me in an act to embitter my life forever, and
      fearful on the other, that my refusal might be reported as a trait of
      cowardice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw, he read my difficulty at a glance, and with a smile of most
      supercilious expression, repeated coolly his former question. In an
      instant all thought of Hammersley was forgotten. I remembered no more. I
      saw him before me, he who had, since my first meeting, continually
      contrived to pass some inappreciable slight upon me. My eyes flashed, my
      hands tingled with ill-repressed rage, as I said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "With Captain Hammersley I am conscious of no quarrel, nor have I ever
      shown by any act or look an intention to provoke one. Indeed, such
      demonstrations are not always successful; there are persons most rigidly
      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 as insulting as I could make it,&mdash;"you mistake. I have sworn a
      solemn oath never to <i>send</i> a challenge."
    </p>
    <p>
      The emphasis upon the word "send," explained fully his meaning, when I
      said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you will not decline&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most certainly not," said he, again interrupting, while with sparkling
      eye 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
      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
      triumph, he sprang into his saddle; then, "<i>Au revoir</i>, Mr.
      O'Malley," said he, gathering up his reins. "Beaufort is on the staff, and
      quartered at Oporto." So saying, he cantered easily down the slope, and
      once more I was alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ROUTE CONTINUED.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was leisurely examining my pistols,&mdash;poor Considine's last present
      to me on leaving home,&mdash;when an orderly sergeant rode up, and
      delivered into my hands the following order:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    Lieutenant O'Malley will hold himself in immediate readiness to
    proceed on a particular service. By order of his Excellency the
    Commander of the Forces.
    [Signed]    S. GORDON, Military Secretary.
</pre>
    <p>
      "What can this mean?" thought I. "It is not possible that any rumor of my
      intended meeting could have got abroad, and that my present destination
      could be intended as a punishment?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I walked hurriedly to the door of the little hut which formed my quarters;
      below me in the plain, all was activity and preparation, the infantry were
      drawn up in marching order, baggage wagons, ordnance stores, and artillery
      seemed all in active preparation, and some cavalry squadrons might be
      already seen with forage allowances behind the saddle, as if only waiting
      the order to set out. I strained my eyes to see if Power was coming, but
      no horseman approached in the direction. I stood, and I hesitated whether
      I should not rather seek him at once, than continue to wait on in my
      present uncertainty; but then, what if I should miss him? And I had
      pledged myself to remain till he returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      While I deliberated thus with myself, weighing the various chances for and
      against each plan, I saw two mounted officers coming towards me at a brisk
      trot. As they came nearer, I recognized one as my colonel, the other was
      an officer of the staff.
    </p>
    <p>
      Supposing that their mission had some relation to the order I had so
      lately received, and which until now I had forgotten, I hastily returned
      and 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
      counter, but he's never the worse this morning, and the black horse is
      capering like a filly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Get ready my pack, feed the cattle, and be prepared to set out at a
      moment's warning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good advice, O'Malley," said the colonel, as he overheard the last
      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 my friend; Captain Beaumont, Mr. O'Malley. I think we had better
      be seated."
    </p>
    <p>
      "These are your instructions, Mr. O'Malley," said Captain Beaumont,
      unfolding a map as he spoke. "You will proceed from this with half a troop
      of our regiment by forced marches towards the frontier, passing through
      the town of Calenco and Guarda and the Estrella pass. On arriving at the
      headquarters of the Lusitanian Legion, which you will find there, you are
      to put yourself under the orders of Major Monsoon, commanding that force.
      Any Portuguese cavalry he may have with him will be attached to yours and
      under your command; your rank for the time being that of captain. You
      will, as far as possible, acquaint yourself with the habits and
      capabilities of the native cavalry, and make such report as you judge
      necessary thereupon to his Excellency the commander of the forces. I think
      it only fair to add that you are indebted to my friend Colonel Merivale
      for the very flattering 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 can
      count upon your not disappointing my expectations of you. Sir Arthur
      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
      pledged myself for you. And now I must say adieu; the regiments are about
      to take up a more advanced position, so good-by. I hope you'll have a
      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
      your immediate departure. Your written instructions and despatches will be
      here within a quarter of an hour."
    </p>
    <p>
      I muttered something,&mdash;what, I cannot remember; I bowed my thanks to
      my worthy colonel, shook his hand warmly, and saw him ride down the hill
      and disappear in the crowd of soldiery beneath, before I could recall my
      faculties and think over my situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then all at once did the full difficulty of my position break upon me. If
      I accepted my present employment I must certainly fail in my engagement to
      Trevyllian. But I had already pledged myself to its acceptance. What was
      to be done? No time was left for deliberation. The very minutes I should
      have spent in preparation were fast passing. Would that Power might
      appear! Alas, he came not! My state of doubt and uncertainty increased
      every moment; I saw nothing but ruin before me, even at a moment when
      fortune promised most fairly for the future, and opened a field of
      enterprise my heart had so often and so ardently desired. Nothing was left
      me but to hasten to Colonel Merivale and decline my appointment; to do so
      was to prejudice my character in his estimation forever, for I dared not
      allege my reasons, and in all probability my conduct might require my
      leaving the 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
      absence should he come while I was away, and leaped into the saddle. As I
      reached the plain my pace became a gallop, and I pressed my horse with all
      the impatience my heart was burning with. I dashed along the lines towards
      Oporto, neither hearing nor seeing aught around me, when suddenly the
      clank of cavalry accoutrements behind induced me to turn my head, and I
      perceived an orderly dragoon at full gallop in pursuit. I pulled up till
      he came alongside.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lieutenant O'Malley, sir," said the man, saluting, "these despatches are
      for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      I took them hurriedly, and was about to continue my route, when the
      attitude of the dragoon arrested my attention. He had reined in his horse
      to the side of the narrow causeway, and holding him still and steadily,
      sat motionless as a statue. I looked behind and saw the whole staff
      approaching 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
      Excellency is coming up."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Get along, I advise you," said another, "or you'll catch it, as some of
      us have done this morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All is right, Charley; you can go in safety," said a whispering voice, as
      Power passed in a sharp canter.
    </p>
    <p>
      That one sentence was enough; my heart bounded like a deer, my cheek
      beamed with the glow of delighted pleasure, I closed my spurs upon my
      gallant gray and dashed across the plain.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I arrived at my quarters the men were drawn up in waiting, and
      provided with rations for three days' march; Mike was also prepared for
      the 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 few
      words he had spoken that my present step involved me in no ill
      consequences; so giving the word to wheel into column, I rode to the front
      and set out upon my march to Alcantara.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER L.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE WATCH-FIRE.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are few things so inspiriting to a young soldier as the being
      employed with a separate command; the picket and outpost duty have a charm
      for him no other portion of his career possesses. The field seems open for
      individual boldness and heroism; success, if obtained, must redound to his
      own credit; and what can equal, in its spirit-stirring enthusiasm, that
      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
      upon my march. The notice the commander-in-chief had bestowed upon me had
      already done much; it had raised me in my own estimation, and implanted
      within me a longing desire for further distinction. I thought, too, of
      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
      uncle, with tearful eye and quivering lip, was before me, as I saw him
      read the despatch, then wipe his glasses, and read on, till at last, with
      one long-drawn breath, his manly voice, tremulous with emotion, would
      break forth: "My boy! my own Charley!" Then I pictured Considine, with
      port erect and stern features, listening silently; not a syllable, not a
      motion betraying that he felt interested in my fate, till as if impatient,
      at length he would break in: "I knew it,&mdash;I said so; and yet you
      thought to make him a lawyer!" And then old Sir Harry, his warm heart
      glowing with pleasure, and his good-humored face beaming with happiness,
      how many a blunder he would make in retailing the news, and how many a
      hearty laugh his version of it would give rise to!
    </p>
    <p>
      I passed in review before me the old servants, as they lingered in the
      room to hear the story. Poor old Matthew, the butler, fumbling with his
      corkscrew to gain a little time; then looking in my uncle's face, half
      entreatingly, as he asked: "Any news of Master Charles, sir, from the
      wars?"
    </p>
    <p>
      While thus my mind wandered back to the scenes and faces of my early home,
      I feared to ask myself how <i>she</i> would feel to whom my heart was now
      turning. Too deeply did I know how poor my chances were in that quarter to
      nourish hope, and yet I could not bring myself to abandon it altogether.
      Hammersley's strange conduct suggested to me that he, at least, could not
      be <i>my</i> rival; while I plainly perceived that he regarded me as <i>his</i>.
      There was a mystery in all this I could not fathom, and I ardently longed
      for my next meeting with Power, to learn the nature of his interview, and
      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
      for themselves than their horses, came rapidly along; and ere evening, we
      had accomplished twelve leagues of our journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The country through which we journeyed, though wild and romantic in its
      character, was singularly rich and fertile,&mdash;cultivation reaching to
      the very summits of the rugged mountains, and patches of wheat and Indian
      corn peeping amidst masses of granite rock and tangled brushwood. The vine
      and the olive grew wild on every side; while the orange and the arbutus,
      loading the air with perfume, were mingled with prickly pear-trees and
      variegated hollies. We followed no regular track, but cantered along over
      hill and valley, through forest and prairie, now in long file through some
      tall field of waving corn, now in open order upon some level plain,&mdash;our
      Portuguese guide riding a little in advance of us, upon a jet-black mule,
      carolling merrily some wild Gallician melody as he went.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the sun was setting, we arrived beside a little stream that flowing
      along a rocky bed, skirted a vast forest of tall cork-trees. Here we
      called a halt, and picketing our horses, proceeded to make our
      arrangements for a bivouac.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never do I remember a more lovely night. The watch-fires sent up a
      delicious odor from the perfumed shrubs; while the glassy water reflected
      on its still surface the starry sky that, unshadowed and unclouded,
      stretched above us. I wrapped myself in my trooper's mantle, and lay down
      beneath a tree,&mdash;but not to sleep. There was a something so exciting,
      and withal so tranquillizing, that I had no thought of slumber, but fell
      into a musing revery. There was a character of adventure in my position
      that charmed me much. My men were gathered in little groups beside the
      fires; some sunk in slumber, others sat smoking silently, or chatting, in
      a low undertone, of some bygone scene of battle or bivouac; here and there
      were picketed the horses; the heavy panoply and piled carbines flickering
      in the red glare of the watch-fires, which ever and anon threw a flitting
      glow upon the stern and swarthy faces of my bold troopers. Upon the trees
      around, sabres and helmets, holsters and cross-belts, were hung like
      armorial bearings in some antique hall, the dark foliage spreading its
      heavy shadow around us. Farther off, upon a little rocky ledge, the erect
      figure of the sentry, with his short carbine resting in the hollow of his
      arm, was seen slowly pacing in measured tread, or standing for a moment
      silently, as he looked upon the fair and tranquil sky,&mdash;his thoughts
      doubtless far, far away, beyond the sea, to some humble home, where,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "The hum of the spreading sycamore,
    That grew beside his cottage door,"
</pre>
    <p>
      was again in his ears, while the merry laugh of his children stirred his
      bold heart. It was a Salvator-Rosa scene, and brought me back in fancy to
      the bandit legends I had read in boyhood. By the uncertain light of the
      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,
      and all was still. As the hours rolled by a drowsy feeling crept gradually
      over me. I placed my pistols by my side, and having replenished the fire
      by some fresh logs, disposed myself comfortably before it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was during that half-dreamy state that intervenes between waking and
      sleep that a rustling sound of the branches behind attracted my attention.
      The air was too calm to attribute this to the wind, so I listened for some
      minutes; but sleep, too long deferred, was over-powerful, and my head sank
      upon my grassy pillow, and I was soon sound asleep. How long I remained
      thus, I know not; but I awoke suddenly. I fancied some one had shaken me
      rudely by the shoulder; but yet all was tranquil. My men were sleeping
      soundly as I saw them last. The fires were becoming low, and a gray streak
      in the sky, as well as a sharp cold feeling of the air, betokened the
      approach of day. Once more I heaped some dry branches together, and was
      again about to stretch myself to rest, when I felt a hand upon my
      shoulder. I turned quickly round, and by the imperfect light of the fire,
      saw the figure of a man standing motionless beside me; his head was bare,
      and his hair fell in long curls upon his shoulders; one hand was pressed
      upon his bosom, and with the other he motioned me to silence. My first
      impression was that our party were surprised by some French patrol; but as
      I looked again, I recognized, to my amazement, that the individual before
      me was the 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 the Douro, received a musket-ball through my arm, lost my shako, and
      here I 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
      that made my very heart creep. "I thought you were a party of Lorge's
      Dragoons, scouring the country for forage; tracked you the entire day, and
      have only now come up with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor fellow, who had neither eaten nor drunk since daybreak, wounded
      and footsore, had accomplished twelve leagues of a march only once more to
      fall into the hands of his enemies. His years could scarcely have numbered
      nineteen; his countenance was singularly prepossessing; and though
      bleeding and torn, with tattered uniform, and without a covering to his
      head, there was no mistaking for a moment that he was of gentle blood.
      Noiselessly and cautiously I made him sit down beside the fire, while I
      spread before him the sparing remnant of my last night's supper, and
      shared my solitary bottle of sherry with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the moment he spoke, I never entertained a thought of making him a
      prisoner; but as I knew not how far I was culpable in permitting, if not
      actually facilitating, his escape, I resolved to keep the circumstance a
      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 all
      memory of his past misfortune, all thoughts of his present destitute
      condition, seemed to have fled; and while I dressed his wound and bound up
      his shattered arm, he chattered away as unconcernedly about the past and
      the future as though seated beside the fire of his own bivouac, and
      surrounded by his own brother officers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You took us by surprise the other day," said he. "Our marshal looked for
      the attack from the mouth of the river; we received information that your
      ships were expected there. In any case, our retreat was an orderly one,
      and must have been effected with slight loss."
    </p>
    <p>
      I smiled at the self-complacency of this reasoning, but did not contradict
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your loss must indeed have been great; your men crossed under the fire of
      a whole battery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not exactly," said I; "our first party were quietly stationed in Oporto
      before you knew anything about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Ah, sacré Dieu!</i> Treachery!" cried he, striking his forehead with
      his clinched fist.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so; mere daring,&mdash;nothing more. But come, tell me something of
      your own adventures. How were you taken?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Simply thus,&mdash;I was sent to the rear with orders to the artillery to
      cut their traces, and leave the guns; and when coming back, my horse grew
      tired in the heavy ground, and I was spurring him to the utmost, when one
      of your heavy dragoons&mdash;an officer, too&mdash;dashed at me, and
      actually rode me down, horse and all. I lay for some time bruised by the
      fall, when an infantry soldier passing by seized me by the collar, and
      brought me to the rear. No matter, however, here I am now. You will not
      give me up; and perhaps I may 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,
      though they do look a little <i>passés</i> to-day. You are advancing, I
      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
      away upon me; for if I rejoined my regiment to-morrow, I should have
      forgotten all you told me,&mdash;all but your great kindness." These last
      words 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 à cheval</i>, a sous-lieutenant, in the
      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 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
      with all his heart and soul he had never sought glory under such very
      excellent auspices. You look surprised, <i>mon cher</i>; but let me tell
      you, my military ardor is considerably abated in the last three days.
      Hunger, thirst, imprisonment, and this"&mdash;lifting his wounded limb as
      he spoke&mdash;"are sharp lessons in so short a campaign, and for one too,
      whose life hitherto had much more of ease than adventure to boast of.
      Shall I tell you how I became a soldier?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By all means; give me your glass first; and now, with a fresh log to the
      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
      succeeded in stanching. He drank off his wine hastily, held out his glass
      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 grenadiers, than meet his eye. When in a passion, he does not say
      much, it is true; but what he does, comes with a kind of hissing, rushing
      sound, while the very fire seems to kindle in his look. I have him before
      me this instant, and though you will confess that my present condition has
      nothing very pleasing in it, I should be sorry indeed to change it for the
      last time I stood in his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two months ago I sported the gay light-blue and silver of a page to the
      Emperor, and certainly, what with balls, <i>bonbons</i>, flirtation,
      gossip, and champagne suppers, led a very gay, reckless, and indolent life
      of it. Somehow,&mdash;I may tell you more accurately at another period, if
      we ever meet,&mdash;I got myself into disgrace, and as a punishment, was
      ordered to absent myself from the Tuileries, and retire for some weeks to
      Fontainebleau. Siberia to a Russian would scarcely be a heavier infliction
      than was this banishment to me. There was no court, no levee, no military
      parade, no ball, no opera. A small household of the Emperor's chosen
      servants quietly kept house there. The gloomy walls re-echoed to no music;
      the dark alleys of the dreary garden seemed the very impersonation of
      solitude and decay. Nothing broke the dull monotony of the tiresome day,
      except when occasionally, near sunset, the clash of the guard would be
      heard turning out, and the clank of presenting arms, followed by the roll
      of a heavy carriage into the gloomy courtyard. One lamp, shining like a
      star, in a small chamber on the second floor, would remain till near four,
      sometimes five o'clock in the morning. The same sounds of the guard and
      the same dull roll of the carriage would break the stillness of the early
      morning; and the Emperor&mdash;for it was he&mdash;would be on his road
      back to Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We never saw him,&mdash;I say we, for like myself some half-dozen others
      were 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
      various misdeeds which had consigned us to exile, when some one proposed,
      by way of passing the time, that we should visit the small flower-garden
      that was parted off from the rest, and reserved for the Emperor alone. It
      was already beyond the hour he usually came; besides that, even should he
      arrive, there was abundant time to get back before he could possibly reach
      it. The garden we had often seen, but there was something in the fact that
      our going there was a transgression that so pleased us all that we agreed
      at once and set forth. For above an hour we loitered about the lonely and
      deserted walks, where already the Emperor's foot-tracks had worn a marked
      pathway, when we grew weary and were about to return, just as one of the
      party suggested, half in ridicule of the sanctity of the spot, that we
      should have a game of leap-frog ere we left it. The idea pleased us and
      was at once adopted. Our plan was this,&mdash;each person stationed
      himself in some by-walk or alley, and waited till the other, whose turn it
      was, came and leaped over him; so that, besides the activity displayed,
      there was a knowledge of the <i>locale</i> necessary; for to any one
      passed over a forfeit was to be paid. Our game began at once, and
      certainly I doubt if ever those green alleys and shady groves rang to such
      hearty laughter. Here would be seen a couple rolling over together on the
      grass; there some luckless wight counting out his pocket-money to pay his
      penalty. The hours passed quietly over, and the moon rose, and at last it
      came to my turn to make the tour of the garden. As I was supposed to know
      all its intricacies better than the rest, a longer time was given for them
      to conceal themselves; at length the word was given, and I started.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Anxious to acquit myself well, I hurried along at top speed, but guess my
      surprise to discover that nowhere could I find one of my companions. Down
      one walk I scampered, up another, across a third, but all was still and
      silent; not a sound, not a breath, could I detect. There was still one
      part of the garden unexplored; it was a small open space before a little
      pond which usually contained the gold fish the Emperor was so fond of.
      Thither I bent my steps, and had not gone far when in the pale moonlight I
      saw, at length, one of my companions waiting patiently for my coming, his
      head bent forward and his shoulders rounded. Anxious to repay him for my
      own disappointment, I crept silently forward on tiptoe till quite near
      him, when, rushing madly on, I sprang upon his back; just, however, as I
      rose to leap over, he raised his head, and, staggered by the impulse of my
      spring, he was thrown forward, and after an ineffectual effort to keep his
      legs fell flat upon his face in the grass. Bursting with laughter, I fell
      over him on the ground, and was turning to assist him, when suddenly he
      sprang upon his feet, and&mdash;horror of horrors!&mdash;it was Napoleon
      himself; his usually pale features were purple with rage, but not a word,
      not a syllable escaped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'<i>Qui êtes vous</i>?' said he, at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'St. Croix, Sire,' said I, still kneeling before him, while my very heart
      leaped into my mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'St. Croix! <i>toujours</i> St. Croix! Come here; approach me,' cried he,
      in a voice of stifled passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I rose; but before I could take a step forward he sprang at me, and
      tearing off my epaulettes trampled them beneath his feet, and then he
      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
      spring, was many a mile from Fontainebleau before daybreak."
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE MARCH.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice the <i>réveil</i> sounded; the horses champed impatiently their
      heavy bits; my men stood waiting for the order to mount, ere I could
      arouse myself from the deep sleep I had fallen into. The young Frenchman
      and his story were in my dreams, and when I awoke, his figure, as he lay
      sleeping beside the wood embers, was the first object I perceived. There
      he lay, to all seeming as forgetful of his fate as though he still
      inhabited the gorgeous halls and gilded saloons of the Tuileries; his pale
      and handsome features wore even a placid smile as, doubtless, some dream
      of other days flitted across him; his long hair waved in luxurious curls
      upon his neck, and his light-brown mustache, slightly curled at the top,
      gave to his mild and youthful features an air of saucy <i>fierté</i> that
      heightened their effect. A narrow blue ribbon which he wore round his
      throat gently peeped from his open bosom. I could not resist the curiosity
      I felt to see what it meant, and drawing it softly forth, I perceived that
      a small miniature was attached to it. It was beautifully painted, and
      surrounded with brilliants of some value. One glance showed me,&mdash;for
      I had seen more than one engraving before of her,&mdash;that it was the
      portrait of the Empress Josephine. Poor boy! he doubtless was a favorite
      at court; indeed, everything in his air and manner bespoke him such. I
      gently replaced the precious locket and turned from the spot to think over
      what was best to be done for him. Knowing the vindictive feeling of the
      Portuguese towards their invaders, I feared to take Pietro, our guide,
      into my confidence. I accordingly summoned my man Mike to my aid, who,
      with all his country's readiness, soon found out an expedient. It was to
      pretend to Pietro that the prisoner was merely an English officer who had
      made his escape from the 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
      led horses, set out upon his march beside me, none was more profuse of his
      attentions than the dark-brown guide whose hatred of a Frenchman was
      beyond belief.
    </p>
    <p>
      By thus giving him safe conduct through Portugal, I knew that when we
      reached the frontier he could easily manage to come up with some part of
      Marshal Victor's force, the advanced guard of which lay on the left bank
      of the Tagus.
    </p>
    <p>
      To me the companionship was the greatest boon; the gay and buoyant spirit
      that no reverse of fortune, no untoward event, could subdue, lightened
      many an hour of the journey; and though at times the gasconading tone of
      the Frenchman would peep through, there was still such a fund of
      good-tempered raillery in all he said that it was impossible to feel angry
      with him. His implicit faith in the Emperor's invincibility also amused
      me. Of the unbounded confidence of the nation in general, and the army
      particularly, in Napoleon, I had till then no conception. It was not that
      in the profound skill and immense resources of the general they trusted,
      but they actually regarded him as one placed above all the common
      accidents of fortune, and revered him as something more than human.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Il viendra et puis</i>&mdash;" was the continued exclamation of the
      young Frenchman. Any notion of our successfully resisting the overwhelming
      might of the Emperor, he would have laughed to scorn, and so I let him go
      on prophesying our future misfortunes till the time when, driven back upon
      Lisbon, we should be compelled to evacuate the Peninsula, and under favor
      of a convention be permitted to return to England. All this was
      sufficiently ridiculous, coming from a youth of nineteen, wounded, in
      misery, a prisoner; but further experience of his nation has shown me that
      St. Croix was not the exception, but the rule. The conviction in the
      ultimate success of their army, whatever be the merely momentary mishap,
      is the one present thought of a Frenchman; a victory with them is a
      conquest; a defeat,&mdash;if they are by any chance driven to acknowledge
      one,&mdash;a <i>fatalité</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was too young a man, and still more, too young a soldier, to bear with
      this absurd affectation of superiority as I ought, and consequently was
      glad to wander, whenever I could, from the contested point of our national
      superiority to other topics. St. Croix, although young, had seen much of
      the world as a page in the splendid court of the Tuileries; the scenes
      passing before his eyes were calculated to make a strong impression; and
      by many an anecdote of his former life, he lightened the road as we passed
      along.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0427.jpg" alt="A Touch at Leap-frog With Napoleon. "
      width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "You promised, by-the-bye, to tell me of your banishment. How did that
      occur, St. Croix?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Ah, par Dieu!</i> that was an unfortunate affair for me; then began
      all my mishaps. But for that, I should never have been sent to
      Fontainebleau; never have played leap-frog with the Emperor; never have
      been sent a soldier into Spain. True," said he, laughing, "I should never
      have had the happiness of your acquaintance. But still, I'd much rather
      have met you 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
      said,&mdash;she was my godmother,&mdash;'Jules will be a <i>Maréchal de
      France yet</i>.' But certainly, it must be confessed, I have made a bad
      beginning. However, you wish to hear of my disgrace at court. <i>Allans
      donc</i>. But had we not better wait for a halt?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Agreed," said I; "and so let us now press forward."
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE PAGE.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the deep shade of some tall trees, sheltered from the noonday sun,
      we lay down to rest ourselves and enjoy a most patriarchal dinner,&mdash;some
      dry biscuits, a few bunches of grapes, and a little weak wine, savoring
      more of the borachio-skin than the vine-juice, were all we boasted; yet
      they were not ungrateful at such a time and place.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whose health did you pledge then?" inquired St. Croix, with a
      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; "and now, if you feel disposed, I'll tell you my story. In good
      truth, it 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
      of that functionary, from having seen Cherubino, give but a faint notion
      of 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 Countess Almaviva; we met but the cold, impassive look of
      Talleyrand, the piercing and penetrating stare of Savary, or the ambiguous
      smile, half menace, half mockery, of Monsieur Fouché. While on service,
      our days were passed in the antechamber, beside the <i>salle d'audience</i>
      of the Emperor, reclining against the closed door, watching attentively
      for the gentle tinkle of the little bell which summoned us to open for the
      exit of some haughty diplomate, or the <i>entrée</i> of some redoubted
      general. Thus passed we the weary hours; the illustrious visitors by whom
      we were surrounded had no novelty, consequently no attraction for us, and
      the names already historical were but household words with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We often remarked, too, the proud and distant bearing the Emperor assumed
      towards those of his generals who had been his former companions-in-arms.
      Whatever familiarity or freedom may have existed in the campaign or in the
      battle-field, the air of the Tuileries certainly chilled it. I have often
      heard that the ceremonious observances and rigid etiquette of the old
      Bourbon court were far preferable to the stern reserve and unbending
      stiffness of the imperial one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The antechamber is but the reflection of the reception-room; and whatever
      be the whims, the caprices, the littleness of the Great Man, they are
      speedily assumed by his inferiors, and the dark temper of one casts a
      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
      of the Emperor; and I doubt much if the impertinence of the waiting-room
      was not more dreaded and detested than the abrupt speech and searching
      look of Napoleon himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a malicious pleasure have I not felt in arresting the step of M. de
      Talleyrand, as he approached the Emperor's closet! With what easy
      insolence have I lisped out, 'Pardon, Monsieur, but his Majesty cannot
      receive you,' or 'Monsieur le Due, his Majesty has given no orders for
      your admission.' How amusing it was to watch the baffled look of each, as
      he retired once more to his place among the crowd, the wily diplomate
      covering his chagrin with a practised smile, while the stern marshal would
      blush to his very eyes with indignation! This was the great pleasure our
      position afforded us, and with a boyish spirit of mischief, we cultivated
      it to perfection, and became at last the very horror and detestation of
      all who frequented the levees; and the ambassador whose fearless voice was
      heard among the councils of kings became soft and conciliating in his
      approaches to us; and the hardy general who would have charged upon a
      brigade of artillery was timid as a girl in addressing us a mere question.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Among the amiable class thus characterized I was most conspicuous,
      preserving cautiously a tone of civility that left nothing openly to
      complain of. I assumed an indifference and impartiality of manner that no
      exigency of affairs, no pressing haste, could discompose or disturb; and
      my bow of recognition to Soult or Massena was as coolly measured as my
      monosyllabic answer was accurately conned over.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon ordinary occasions the Emperor at the close of each person's
      audience rang his little bell for the admission of the next in order as
      they arrived in the waiting-room; yet when anything important was under
      consideration, a list was given us in the morning of the names to be
      presented in rotation, 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
      placed within my hands. His Majesty was just then occupied with an inquiry
      into the naval force of the kingdom; and as I cast my eyes carelessly over
      the names, I read little else than Vice-Admiral So-and-so, Commander
      Such-a-one, and Chef d'Escardron Such-another, and the levee presented
      accordingly, instead of its usual brilliant array of gorgeous uniform and
      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 of these unfrequent visitors was anything but flattering. The
      early part of the morning was, as usual, occupied by the audience of the
      Minister of Police, and the Duc de Bassano, who evidently, from the length
      of time they remained, had matter of importance to communicate. Meanwhile
      the antechamber filled rapidly, and before noon was actually crowded. It
      was just at this moment that the folding-door slowly opened, and a figure
      entered, such as I had never before seen in our brilliant saloon. He was a
      man of five or six and fifty, short, thickset, and strongly built, with a
      bronzed and weather-beaten face, and a broad open forehead deeply scarred
      with a sabre-cut; a shaggy gray mustache curled over and concealed his
      mouth, while eyebrows of the same color shaded his dark and piercing eyes.
      His dress was a coarse cut of blue cloth such as the fishermen wear in
      Bretagne, fastened at the waist by a broad belt of black leather, from
      which hung a short-bladed cutlass; his loose trousers, of the same
      material, were turned up at the ankles to show a pair of strong legs
      coarsely cased in blue stockings and thick-soled shoes. A broad-leaved
      oil-skin hat was held in one hand, and the other stuck carelessly in his
      pocket, as he entered. He came in with a careless air, and familiarly
      saluting one or two officers in the room, he sat himself down near the
      door, appearing lost in his own reflections.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Who can you be, my worthy friend?' was my question to myself as I
      surveyed this singular apparition. At the same time, casting my eyes down
      the list, I perceived that several pilots of the coast of Havre, Calais,
      and Boulogne had been summoned to Paris to give some information upon the
      soundings and depth of water along the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Ha,' thought I, 'I have it. The good man has mistaken his place, and
      instead of remaining without, has walked boldly forward to the
      antechamber.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "There was something so strange and so original in the grim look of the
      old fellow, as he sat there alone, that I suffered him to remain quietly
      in his delusion, rather than order him back to the waiting-room without;
      besides, I perceived that a kind of sensation was created among the others
      by his appearance there, which amused me greatly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As the day wore on, the officers formed into little groups of three or
      four, chatting together in an undertone,&mdash;all save the old pilot. He
      had taken a huge tobacco-box from his capacious breast-pocket, and
      inserting an immense piece of the bitter weed in his mouth, began to chew
      it as leisurely as though he were walking the quarter-deck. The cool <i>insouciance</i>
      of such a proceeding amused me much, and I resolved to draw him out a
      little. His strong, broad Breton features, his deep voice, his 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 better tell the Emperor that I am waiting? It's now past noon, and I
      must eat something.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Have a little patience,' said I; 'his Majesty is going to invite you to
      dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Be it so,' said he, gravely; 'provided the hour be an early one, I'm his
      man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "With difficulty did I keep down my laughter as he said this, and
      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
      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
      plenty to do besides spending our time and money among all you fine folks
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'And not a bad life of it, either,' added I, 'fishing for cod and
      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 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
      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
      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
      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 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
      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
      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
      wild beast. 'Yes, Truguet, so I am; you shall dine with me to-day. And
      you, sir,' said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, as he came closer
      towards me,&mdash;'and you have dared to speak thus? Call in a guard
      there. Capitaine, put this person under arrest; he is disgraced. He is no
      longer page of the palace. Out of my presence! away, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The room wheeled round; my legs tottered; my senses reeled; and I saw no
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Three weeks' bread and water in St. Pélagie, however, brought me to my
      recollection; and at last my kind, my more than kind friend, the Empress,
      obtained my pardon, and sent me to Fontainebleau, till the Emperor should
      forget all about it. How I contrived again to refresh his memory I have
      already told you; and certainly you will acknowledge that I have not been
      fortunate in my interviews with Napoleon."
    </p>
    <p>
      I am conscious how much St. Croix's story loses in my telling. The simple
      expressions, the grace of the narrative, were its charm: and these, alas!
      I can neither translate nor imitate, no more than I can convey the strange
      mixture of deep feeling and levity, shrewdness and simplicity, that
      constituted the manner of the narrator.
    </p>
    <p>
      With many a story of his courtly career he amused me as we trotted along;
      when, towards nightfall of the third day, a peasant informed us that a
      body of French cavalry occupied the convent of San Cristoval, about three
      leagues off. The opportunity of his return to his own army pleased him far
      less than I expected. He heard, without any show of satisfaction, that the
      time of his liberation had arrived; and when the moment of leave-taking
      drew near, he became deeply affected.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Eh, bien</i>, Charles," said he, smiling sadly through his dimmed and
      tearful eyes. "You've been a kind friend to me. Is the time never to come
      when I can repay you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, yes; we'll meet again, be assured of it. Meanwhile there is one way
      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,
      prisoners with your army in this war. Whenever, therefore, your lot brings
      you in contact with such&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They shall be my brothers," said he, springing towards me and throwing
      his arms round my neck. "Adieu, adieu!" With that he rushed from the spot,
      and before I could speak again, was mounted upon the peasant's horse and
      waving 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
      mountain, the noise of the horse's feet echoing along the silent plain. I
      turned at length to leave the spot, and then perceived for the first time
      that when taking his farewell of me he had hung around my neck his
      miniature of the Empress. Poor boy! How sorrowful I felt thus to rob him
      of what he had held so dear! How gladly would I have overtaken him to
      restore it! It was the only keepsake he possessed; and knowing that I
      would not 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 at
      last I slept, towards morning, my first thought on waking was of the
      solitary day before me. The miles no longer slipped imperceptibly along;
      no longer did the noon and night seem fast to follow. Alas, that one
      should grow old! The very sorrows of our early years have something soft
      and touching in them. Arising less from deep wrong than slight mischances,
      the grief they cause comes ever with an alloy of pleasant thoughts,
      telling of the tender past, and amidst the tears called up, forming some
      bright rainbow of future hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor St. Croix had already won greatly upon me, and I felt lonely and
      desolate when he departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      ALVAS.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing of incident marked our farther progress towards the frontier of
      Spain, and at length we reached the small town of Alvas. It was past
      sunset as we arrived, and instead of the usual quiet and repose of a
      little village, we found the streets crowded with people, on horseback and
      on foot; mules, bullocks, carts, and wagons blocked up the way, and the
      oaths of the drivers and the screaming of women and children resounded on
      all sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      With what little Spanish I possessed I questioned some of those near me,
      and learned, in reply, that a dreadful engagement had taken place that day
      between the advanced guard of the French, under Victor, and the Lusitanian
      legion; that the Portuguese troops had been beaten and completely routed,
      losing all their artillery and baggage; that the French were rapidly
      advancing, and expected hourly to arrive at Alvas, in consequence of which
      the terror-stricken inhabitants were packing up their possessions and
      hurrying away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, then, was a point of considerable difficulty for me at once. My
      instructions had never provided for such a conjuncture, and I was totally
      unable to determine what was best to be done; both my men and their horses
      were completely tired by a march of fourteen leagues, and had a pressing
      need of some rest; on every side of me the preparations for flight were
      proceeding with all the speed that fear inspires; and to my urgent request
      for some information as to food and shelter, I could obtain no other reply
      than muttered menaces of the fate before me if I remained, and exaggerated
      accounts of French cruelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amidst all this bustle and confusion a tremendous fall of heavy rain set
      in, which at once determined me, come what might, to house my party, and
      provide forage for our horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we pushed our way slowly through the encumbered streets, looking on
      every side for some appearance of a village inn, a tremendous shout rose
      in our rear, and a rush of the people towards us induced us to suppose
      that the French were upon us. For some minutes the din and uproar were
      terrific,&mdash;the clatter of horses' feet, the braying of trumpets, the
      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,
      resolving, if possible, to charge through the advancing files,&mdash;any
      retreat through the crowded and blocked-up thoroughfares being totally out
      of the question. The rain was falling in such torrents that nothing could
      be seen a few yards off, when suddenly a pause of a few seconds occurred,
      and from the clash of accoutrements, and the hoarse tones of a loud voice,
      I judged 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,
      and spurring our jaded cattle, onward we dashed. The mob fled right and
      left from us as we came on; and through the dense mist we could just
      perceive a body of cavalry before us.
    </p>
    <p>
      In an instant we were among them; down they went on every side, men and
      horses rolling pell-mell over each other; not a blow, not a shot striking
      us as we pressed on. Never did I witness such total consternation; some
      threw themselves from their horses, and fled towards the houses; others
      turned and tried to fall back, but the increasing pressure from behind
      held 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
      window fell upon the disordered mass, and to my astonishment, I need not
      say to my delight, I perceived that they were Portuguese troops. Before I
      had well time to halt my party, my convictions were pretty well
      strengthened by hearing a well-known voice in the rear of the mass call
      out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charge, ye devils! charge, will ye? Illustrious Hidalgos! cut them down;
      <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
      destruction, and the moment after the dry features and pleasant face of
      old Monsoon beamed on me by the light of a pine-torch he carried in his
      right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0438.jpg" alt="Major Monsoon Trying to Charge. "
      width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "Are they prisoners? Have they surrendered?" inquired he, riding up. "It
      is well for them; we'd have made mince-meat of them otherwise; now they
      shall 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! 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
      turned to give some directions to an aide-de-camp. "Ask them who they
      are," said he, in Spanish.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time I came close alongside of him, and placing my mouth close to
      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, is it? Egad, how good; and we were so near being the death of you! My
      poor fellow, how came you here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      A few words of explanation sufficed to inform the major why we were there,
      and still more to comfort him with the assurance that he had not been
      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
      were French, it was very well."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, Major, but certainly the invincibles were merciful as they were
      strong."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They were tired, Charley, nothing more; why, lad, we've been fighting
      since daybreak,&mdash;beat Victor at six o'clock, drove him back behind
      the Tagus; took a cold dinner, and had at him again in the afternoon. Lord
      love you! we've immortalized ourselves. But you must never speak of this
      little business here; it tells devilish ill for the discipline of your
      fellows, upon my life it does."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was rather an original turn to give the transaction, but I did not
      oppose; and thus chatting, we entered the little inn, where, confidence
      once restored, some semblance of comfort already appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so you're come to reinforce us?" said Monsoon; "there was never
      anything more opportune,&mdash;though we surprised ourselves today with
      valor, I don't think we could persevere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, Major, the appointment gave me sincere pleasure; I greatly desired
      to see a little service under your orders. Shall I present you with my
      despatches?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not now, Charley,&mdash;not now, my lad. Supper is the first thing at
      this moment; besides, now that you remind me, I must send off a despatch
      myself, Upon my life, it's a great piece of fortune that you're here; you
      shall be secretary at war, and write it for me. Here now&mdash;how lucky
      that I thought of it, to be sure! And it was just a mere chance; one has
      so many things&mdash;" Muttering such broken, disjointed sentences, the
      major opened a large portfolio with writing materials, which he displayed
      before me as he rubbed 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
      describe; I can only follow you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Begin then thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    HEADQUARTERS, ALVAS, JUNE 26.
    YOUR EXCELLENCY,&mdash;Having learned from Don Alphonzo Xaviero
    da Minto, an officer upon my personal staff&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      "Luckily sober at that moment&mdash;"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    That the advanced guard of the eighth corps of the French
    army&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      "Stay, though, was it the eighth? Upon my life, I'm not quite clear as to
      that; blot the word a little and go on&mdash;"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    That the&mdash;corps, under Marshal Victor, had commenced a forward
    movement towards Alcantara, I immediately ordered a flank
    movement of the light infantry regiment to cover the bridge over the
    Tagus. After breakfast&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      "I'm afraid, Major, that is not precise enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well&mdash;"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    About eleven o'clock, the French skirmishers attacked, and drove
    in our pickets that were posted in front of our position, and following
    rapidly up with cavalry, they took a few prisoners, and killed old
    Alphonzo,&mdash;he ran like a man, they say, but they caught him in
    the rear.
</pre>
    <p>
      "You needn't put that in, if you don't like."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    I now directed a charge of the cavalry brigade, under Don
    Asturias Y'Hajos, that cut them up in fine style. Our artillery,
    posted on the heights, mowing away at their columns like fun.

    Victor didn't like this, and got into a wood, when we all went
    to dinner; it was about two o'clock then.

    After dinner, the Portuguese light corps, under Silva da Onorha,
    having made an attack upon, the enemy's left, without my orders,
    got devilish well trounced, and served them right; but coming up
    to their assistance, with the heavy brigade of guns, and the cavalry,
    we drove back the French, and took several prisoners, none of whom
    we put to death.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Dash that&mdash;Sir Arthur likes respect for the usages of war. Lord, how
      dry I'm getting!"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    The French were soon seen to retire their heavy guns, and
    speedily afterwards retreated. We pursued them for some time, but
    they showed fight; and as it was getting dark, I drew off my forces,
    and came here to supper. Your Excellency will perceive, by the
    enclosed return, that our loss has been considerable.

    I send this despatch by Don Emanuel Forgales, whose services&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      "I back him for mutton hash with onions against the whole regiment&mdash;"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    &mdash;have been of the most distinguished nature, and beg to recommend
    him to your Excellency's favor.

    I have the honor, etc.
</pre>
    <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
      viands, flanked by several bottles,&mdash;an officer of the major's staff
      accompanied it, and showed, by his attentions to the etiquette of the
      table and the proper arrangement of the meal, that his functions in his
      superior's household were more than military.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were speedily joined by two others in rich uniform, whose names I now
      forget, but to whom the major presented me in all form,&mdash;introducing
      me, as well as I could interpret his Spanish, as his most illustrious ally
      and friend Don Carlos O'Malley.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE SUPPER.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have often partaken of more luxurious cookery and rarer wines; but never
      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
      more tête-a-tête beside a cheerful fire; a well-chosen array of bottles
      guaranteeing that for some time at least no necessity of leave-taking
      should arise from any deficiency of wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That sherry is very near the thing, Charley; a little, a very little
      sharp, but the after-taste perfect. And now, my boy, how have you been
      doing since we parted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so badly, Major. I have already got a step in promotion. The affair
      at the Douro gave me a lieutenancy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish you joy with all my heart. I'll call you captain always while
      you're with me. Upon my life I will. Why, man, they style me your
      Excellency here. Bless your heart, we are great folk among the Portuguese,
      and no bad service, after all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should think not, Major. You seem to have always made a good thing of
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, Charley; no, my boy. They overlook us greatly in general orders and
      despatches. Had the brilliant action of to-day been fought by the British&mdash;But
      no matter, they may behave well in England, after all; and when I'm called
      to the Upper House as Baron Monsoon of the Tagus,&mdash;is that 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, to let us have wine cheap. Wine, you know, as David says, gives
      us a pleasant countenance; and oil,&mdash;I forget what oil does. Pass
      over the decanter. And how is Sir Arthur, Charley? A fine fellow, but
      sadly deficient in the knowledge of supplies. Never would have made any
      character in the commissariat. Bless your heart, he pays for everything
      here as if he 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 a year or two ago. To be sure, how I did puzzle them! They tried to
      audit my accounts, and what do you think I did? I brought them in three
      thousand pounds in my debt. They never tried on that game any more. 'No,
      no,' said the Junta, 'Beresford and Monsoon are great men, and must be
      treated with respect!' Do you think we'd let them search our pockets? But
      the rogues 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
      nunneries, you had little or nothing?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Exactly so; and then I got a great shock about that time that affected my
      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; 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 effect upon my nervous system; and they never thought of any little
      pension 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
      occurred. After the battle of Vimeira, the brigade to which I was attached
      had their headquarters at San Pietro, a large convent where all the church
      plate for miles around was stored up for safety. A sergeant's guard was
      accordingly stationed over the refectory, and every precaution taken to
      prevent pillage, Sir Arthur himself having given particular orders on the
      subject. Well, somehow,&mdash;I never could find out how,&mdash;but in
      leaving the place, all the wagons of our brigade had got some trifling
      articles of small value scattered, as it might be, among their stores,&mdash;gold
      cups, silver candlesticks, Virgin Marys, ivory crucifixes, saints' eyes
      set in topazes, and martyrs' toes in silver filagree, and a hundred other
      similar things.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of these confounded bullock-cars broke down just at the angle of the
      road where the commander-in-chief was standing with his staff to watch the
      troops defile, and out rolled, among bread rations and salt beef, a whole
      avalanche of precious relics and church ornaments. Every one stood aghast!
      Never was there such a misfortune. No one endeavored to repair the mishap,
      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
      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 him up on the spot,' pointing with his finger as he spoke; 'we shall
      see if this practice cannot be put a stop to.' And with these words he
      rode 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
      company of the Fusiliers, under arms beside them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Devilish sorry for it, Major,' said he; 'It's confoundedly unpleasant;
      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
      looking carelessly about him. Now, had it not been for the fixed halberts
      and the provost-marshal, I'd not have believed him; but one glance at
      them, and another at the bullock-cart with all the holy images, told me at
      once what had happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'He only means to frighten me a little? Isn't that all, Gronow?' cried I,
      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,
      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,
      for, by Jupiter, there's a strong muster of them here.' This cruel
      allusion was made in reference to the gold and silver effigies that lay
      scattered about the highway.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Dan,' said I, in a whisper, 'intercede for me. Do, like a good, kind
      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
      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
      up for a few minutes; I'll speak for the old villain, and if I succeed,
      I'll wave my handkerchief.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, away went Dan at a full gallop. Gronow sat down on a bank, and I
      fidgeted about in no very enviable frame of mind, the confounded
      provost-marshal eying me all the while.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I can only give you five minutes more, Major,' said Gronow, placing his
      watch beside him on the grass. I tried to pray a little, and said three or
      four of Solomon's proverbs, when he again called out: 'There, you see it
      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
      them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Time's up!' said Gronow, jumping up, and replacing his watch in his
      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
      signal.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "So saying, Gronow formed his fellows in line and resumed his march quite
      coolly, leaving me alone on the roadside to meditate over martial law and
      my pernicious taste for relics.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Charley, this gave me a great shock, and I think, too, it must have
      had a great effect upon Sir Arthur himself; but, upon my life, he has
      wonderful nerves. I met him one day afterwards at dinner in Lisbon; he
      looked at me very hard for a few seconds: 'Eh, Monsoon! Major Monsoon, I
      think?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Yes, your Excellency,' said I, briefly; thinking how painful it must be
      for him to meet me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Thought I had hanged you,&mdash;know I intended it,&mdash;no matter. A
      glass of wine with you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my life, that was all; how easily some people can forgive
      themselves! But Charley, my hearty, we are getting on slowly with the
      tipple; are they all empty? So they are! Let us make a sortie on the
      cellar; bring a candle with you, and come along."
    </p>
    <p>
      We had scarcely proceeded a few steps from the door, when a most
      vociferous sound of mirth, arising from a neighboring apartment, arrested
      our progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are the dons so convivial, Major?" said I, as a hearty burst of laughter
      broke forth at the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my life, they surprise me; I begin to fear they have taken some of
      our wine."
    </p>
    <p>
      We now perceived that the sounds of merriment came from the kitchen, which
      opened upon a little courtyard. Into this we crept stealthily, and
      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 goodly party of some half-dozen people. One group lay in dark shadow;
      but the others were brilliantly lighted up by the cheerful blaze, and
      showed us a portly Dominican friar, with a beard down to his waist, a
      buxom, dark-eyed girl of some eighteen years, and between the two, most
      comfortably leaning back, with an arm round each, no less a person than my
      trusty man Mickey Free.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was evident, from the alternate motion of his head, that his attentions
      were evenly divided between the church and the fair sex; although, to
      confess the truth, they seemed much more favorably received by the latter
      than the former,&mdash;a brown earthen flagon appearing to absorb all the
      worthy monk's thoughts that he could spare from the contemplation of
      heavenly objects.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mary, my darlin,' don't be looking at me that way, through the corner of
      your eye; I know you're fond of me,&mdash;but the girls always was. You
      think I'm joking, but troth I wouldn't say a lie before the holy man
      beside me; sure I wouldn't, Father?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The friar grunted out something in reply, not very unlike, in sound at
      least, a hearty anathema.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, then, isn't it yourself has the illigant time of it, Father dear!"
      said he, tapping him familiarly upon his ample paunch, "and nothing to
      trouble you; the best of divarsion wherever you go, and whether it's
      Badahos or Ballykilruddery, it's all one; the women is fond of ye. Father
      Murphy, the coadjutor in Scariff, was just such another as yourself, and
      he'd coax the birds off the trees with the tongue of him. Give us a pull
      at 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 lips as he concluded, and the disappointed look of the friar as he
      peered into the vessel, throwing the others, once more, into a loud burst
      of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, your rev'rance, a good chorus is all I'll ask, and you'll not
      refuse it for the honor of the church."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he turned a look of most droll expression upon the monk, and
      began the following ditty, to the air of "Saint Patrick was a Gentleman":&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    What an illegant life a friar leads,
     With a fat round paunch before him!
    He mutters a prayer and counts his beads,
     And all the women adore him.
    It's little he's troubled to work or think,
     Wherever devotion leads him;
    A "pater" pays for his dinner and drink,
     For the Church&mdash;good luck to her!&mdash;feeds him.

    From the cow in the field to the pig in the sty,
     From the maid to the lady in satin,
    They tremble wherever he turns an eye.
     He can talk to the Devil in Latin!
    He's mighty severe to the ugly and ould,
     And curses like mad when he's near 'em;
    But one beautiful trait of him I've been tould,
     The innocent craytures don't fear him.

    It's little for spirits or ghosts he cares;
     For 'tis true as the world supposes,
    With an Ave he'd make them march down-stairs,
     Av they dared to show their noses.
    The Devil himself's afraid, 'tis said,
     And dares not to deride him;
    For "angels make each night his bed,
     And then&mdash;lie down beside him."
</pre>
    <p>
      A perfect burst of laughter from Monsoon prevented my hearing how Mike's
      minstrelsy succeeded within doors; but when I looked again, I found that
      the friar had decamped, leaving the field open to his rival,&mdash;a
      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 here on the cold pavement. We'll have a little warm posset,&mdash;very
      small and thin, as they say in Tom Jones,&mdash;and then to bed."
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the abstemious intentions of the major, it was daybreak
      ere we separated, and neither party in a condition for performing upon the
      tight-rope.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE LEGION.
    </p>
    <p>
      My services while with the Legion were of no very distinguished character,
      and require no lengthened chronicle. Their great feat of arms, the repulse
      of an advanced guard of Victor's corps, had taken place the very morning I
      had joined them, and the ensuing month was passed in soft repose upon
      their laurels.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first few days, indeed, a multiplicity of cares beset the worthy
      major. There was a despatch to be written to Beresford, another to the
      Supreme Junta, a letter to Wilson, at that time with the corps of
      observation to the eastward. There were some wounded to be looked after, a
      speech to be made to the conquering heroes themselves, and lastly, a few
      prisoners were taken, whose fate seemed certainly to partake of the most
      uncertain of war's proverbial chances.
    </p>
    <p>
      The despatches gave little trouble; with some very slight alterations, the
      great original, already sent forward to Sir Arthur, served as a basis for
      the rest. The wounded were forwarded to Alcantara, with a medical staff;
      to whom Monsoon, at parting, pleasantly hinted that he expected to see all
      the sick at their duty by an early day, or he would be compelled to report
      the doctors. The speech, which was intended as a kind of general order, he
      deferred for some favorable afternoon when he could get up his Portuguese;
      and lastly, came the prisoners, by far the most difficult of all his
      cares. As for the few common soldiers taken, they gave him little
      uneasiness,&mdash;as Sir John has it, they were "mortal men, and food for
      powder;" but there was a staff-officer among them, aiguilletted and
      epauletted. The very decorations he wore were no common temptation. Now,
      the major deliberated a long time with himself, whether the usages of
      modern war might not admit of the ancient, time-honored practice of
      ransom. The battle, save in glory, had been singularly unproductive:
      plunder there was none; the few ammunition-wagons and gun-carriages were
      worth little or nothing; so that, save the prisoners, nothing remained. It
      was late in the evening&mdash;the mellow hour of the major's meditations&mdash;when
      he ventured to open his heart to me upon the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was just thinking, Charley, how very superior they were in olden times
      to us moderns, in many matters, and nothing more than in their treatment
      of prisoners. They never took them away from their friends and country;
      they always ransomed them,&mdash;if they had wherewithal to pay their way.
      So good-natured!&mdash;upon my life it was a most excellent custom! They
      took any little valuables they found about them, and then put them up at
      auction. Moses and Eleazar, a priest, we are told, took every piece of
      gold, and their wrought jewels,&mdash;meaning their watches, and
      ear-rings. You needn't laugh, they all wore ear-rings, those fellows did.
      Now, why shouldn't I profit by their good example? I have taken Agag, the
      King of the Amalekites,&mdash;no, but upon my life, I have got a French
      major, and I'd let him go for fifty doubloons."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not without much laughing, and some eloquence, that I could
      persuade Monsoon that Sir Arthur's military notions might not accept of
      even the authority of Moses; and as our headquarters were at no great
      distance, the danger of such a step as he meditated was too considerable
      at such a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for ourselves, no fatiguing drills, no harassing field-days, and no
      provoking inspections interfered with the easy current of our lives.
      Foraging parties there were, it was true, and some occasional outpost duty
      was performed. But the officers for both were selected with a tact that
      proved the major's appreciation of character; for while the gay, joyous
      fellow that sung a jovial song and loved his <i>liquor</i> was certain of
      being entertained at headquarters, the less-gifted and less-congenial
      spirit had the happiness of scouring the country for forage, and
      presenting himself as a target to a French rifle.
    </p>
    <p>
      My own endeavors to fulfil my instructions met with but little
      encouragement or support; and although I labored hard at my task, I must
      confess that the soil was a most ungrateful one. The cavalry were, it is
      true, composed mostly of young fellows well-appointed, and in most cases
      well-mounted; but a more disorderly, careless, undisciplined set of
      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
      adjutant to the drumboy,&mdash;the same reckless, indolent, plunder-loving
      spirit prevailed everywhere. And although under fire they showed no lack
      of gallantry or courage, the moment of danger passed, discipline departed
      with it, and their only conception of benefiting by a victory consisted in
      the amount of pillage that resulted from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      From time to time the rumors of great events reached us. We heard that
      Soult, having succeeded in re-organizing his beaten army, was, in
      conjunction with Ney's corps, returning from the north; that the marshals
      were consolidating their forces in the neighborhood of Talavera; and that
      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
      major's equanimity; and when our advanced posts reported daily the
      intelligence that the French were in retreat, he cared little with what
      object of concentrating they retired, provided the interval between us
      grew gradually wider. His speculations upon the future were singularly
      prophetic. "You'll see, Charley, what will happen; old Cuesta will pursue
      them, and get thrashed. The English will come up, and perhaps get thrashed
      too; but we, God bless us! are only a small force, partially organized and
      ill to depend on,&mdash;we'll go up the mountains till all is over!" Thus
      did the major's discretion not only extend to the avoidance of danger, but
      he actually disqualified himself from even making its acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile our operations consisted in making easy marches to Almarez,
      halting wherever the commissariat reported a well-stocked cellar or
      well-furnished hen-roost, taking the primrose path in life, and being, in
      words of the major, "contented and grateful, even amidst great perils!"
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DEPARTURE.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the 10th July a despatch reached us announcing that Sir
      Arthur Wellesley had taken up his headquarters at Placentia for the
      purpose of communicating with Cuesta, then at Casa del Puerto; and
      ordering me immediately to repair to the Spanish headquarters and await
      Sir Arthur's arrival, to make my report upon the effective state of our
      corps. As for me, I was heartily tired of the inaction of my present life,
      and much as I relished the eccentricities of my friend the major, longed
      ardently for a different sphere of action.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so Monsoon; the prospect of active employment and the thoughts of
      being left once more alone, for his Portuguese staff afforded him little
      society, depressed him greatly; and as the hour of my departure drew near,
      he 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
      sat the last evening together beside our cheerful wood fire. "I have
      little intercourse with the dons; for my Portuguese is none of the best,
      and only comes when the evening is far advanced; and besides, the
      villains, I fear, 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 till we get among our own fellows."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just as you like, Major; but, do you know, I have a strong curiosity to
      hear the narrative."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I'm not mistaken, there is some one listening at the door,&mdash;gently;
      that's it, eh?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, we are perfectly alone; the night's early; who knows when we shall
      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
      if you'll amuse yourself making a devil of the turkey's legs there, I'll
      tell you the story. It's very short, Charley, and there's no moral; so
      you're not likely to repeat it."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the major filled up his glass, drew a little closer to the
      fire, and began:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "When the French troops, under Laborde, were marching, upon Alcobaca, in
      concert with Loison's corps, I was ordered to convey a very valuable
      present of sherry the Duo d'Albu-querque was making to the Supreme Junta,&mdash;no
      less than ten hogsheads of the best sherry the royal cellars of Madrid had
      formerly contained.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was stored in the San Vincente convent; and the Junta, knowing a
      little about monkish tastes and the wants of the Church, prudently thought
      it would be quite as well at Lisbon. I was accordingly ordered, with a
      sufficient force, to provide for its safe conduct and secure arrival, and
      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
      way in this life, except for the pleasure of yielding to them. As for me,
      I'm a stoic when there's nothing to be had; but let me get a scent of a
      well-kept haunch, the odor of a wine-bin once in my nose, I forget
      everything except appropriation. That bone smells deliciously, Charley; a
      little garlic would improve it vastly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Our road lay through cross-paths and mountain tracts, for the French were
      scouring the country on every side, and my fellows, only twenty
      altogether, trembled at the very name of them; so that our only chance was
      to avoid falling in with any forage parties. We journeyed along for
      several days, rarely making more than a few leagues between sunrise and
      sunset, a scout always in advance to assure us that all was safe. The road
      was a lonesome one and the way weary, for I had no one to speak to or
      converse with, so I fell into a kind of musing fit about the old wine in
      the great brown casks. I thought on its luscious flavor, its rich straw
      tint, its oily look as it flowed into the glass, the mellow after-taste
      warming the heart as it went 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
      about it were correct. 'May be it's brown sherry,' thought I, 'and I am
      all wrong.' This was a very distressing reflection. I mentioned it to the
      Portuguese intendant, who travelled with us as a kind of supercargo; but
      the villain only grinned and said something about the Junta and the
      galleys for life, so I did not recur to it afterwards. Well, it was upon
      the third evening of our march that the scout reported that at Merida,
      about a league distant, he had fallen in with an English cavalry regiment,
      who were on their march to the northern provinces, and remaining that
      night in the village. As soon, therefore, as I had made all my
      arrangements for the night, I took a fresh horse and cantered over to have
      a look at my countrymen, and hear the news. When I arrived, it was a dark
      night, but I was not long in finding out our fellows. They were the 11th
      Light Dragoons, commanded by my old friend Bowes, and with as jolly a mess
      as any in the service.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Before half an hour's time I was in the midst of them, hearing all about
      the campaign, and telling them in return about my convoy, dilating upon
      the 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
      major and four captains were under the table, and all the subs, in a state
      unprovided for by the articles of war. So I thought I'd be going, and
      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,
      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 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 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
      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
      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 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
      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
      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
      life, I didn't half like it. He was a reckless, devil-may-care fellow; and
      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
      all the forenoon in detailing stories of French cruelty; so that before we
      had marched ten miles, there was not a man among us not ready to run at
      the slightest sound of attack on any side. As evening was falling we
      reached Morento, a little mountain pass which follows the course of a
      small river, and where, in many places, the mule carts had barely space
      enough to pass between the cliffs and the stream. 'What a place for Tom
      O'Flaherty and his foragers!' thought I, as we entered the little mountain
      gorge; but all was silent as the grave,&mdash;except the tramp of our
      party, not a sound was heard. There was something solemn and still in the
      great brown mountain, rising like vast walls on either side, with a narrow
      streak of gray sky at top and in the dark, sluggish stream, that seemed to
      awe us, and no one spoke. The muleteer ceased his merry song, and did not
      crack or flourish his long whip as before, but chid his beasts in a
      half-muttered voice, and urged them faster, to reach the village before
      nightfall.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Egad, somehow I felt uncommonly uncomfortable; I could not divest my mind
      of the impression that some disaster was impending, and I wished
      O'Flaherty and his project in a very warm climate. 'He'll attack us,'
      thought I, 'where we can't run; fair play forever. But if they are not
      able to get away, even the militia will fight.' However, the evening crept
      on, and no sign of his coming appeared on any side; and to my sincere
      satisfaction, I could see, about half a league distant, the twinkling
      light of the little village where we were to halt for the night. It was
      just at this time that a scout I had sent out some few hundred yards in
      advance came galloping up, almost breathless.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'The French, Captain; the French are upon us!' said he, with a face like
      a ghost.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Whew! Which way? How many?' said I, not at all sure that he might not be
      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 other like men sentenced to be hanged.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Scarcely had they spoken when we heard the distant noise of cavalry
      advancing at a brisk trot. Lord, what a scene ensued! The soldiers ran
      hither and thither like frightened sheep; some pulled out crucifixes and
      began to say their prayers; others fired off their muskets in a panic; the
      mule-drivers cut their traces, and endeavored to get away by riding; and
      the intendant took to his heels, screaming out to us, as he went, to fight
      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,
      shouting like madmen. One look was enough for my fellows; they sprang to
      their legs from their devotions, fired a volley straight at the new moon,
      and ran like men.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was knocked down in the rush. As I regained my legs, Tom O'Flaherty was
      standing beside me, laughing like mad.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Eh, Monsoon! I've kept my word, old fellow! What legs they have! We
      shall make no prisoners, that's certain. Now, lads, here it is! Put the
      horses to, here. We shall take but one, Monsoon; so that your gallant
      defence of the rest will please the Junta. Good-night, good-night! I will
      drink your health every night these two months.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "So saying, Tom sprang to his saddle; and in less time than I've been
      telling it, the whole was over and I sitting by myself in the gray
      moonlight, meditating on all I saw, and now and then shouting for my
      Portuguese friends to come back again. They came in time, by twos and
      threes; and at last the whole party re-assembled, and we set forth again,
      every man, from the intendant to the drummer, lauding my valor, and saying
      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
      cheeks, having sent twelve dozen of the rescued wine to my quarters, as a
      small testimony of their esteem. I have laughed very often at it since.
      But 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 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
      in, Charley, and let us have the canticle."
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few minutes more, Mr. Free appeared in a state of very satisfactory
      elevation, his eyebrows alternately rising and falling, his mouth a little
      drawn to one side, and a side motion in his knee-joints that might puzzle
      a physiologist to account for.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A sweet little song of yours, Mike," said the major; "a very sweet thing
      indeed. Wet your lips, Mickey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Long life to your honor and Master Charles there, too, and them that
      belongs to both of yez. May a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for the man
      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 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 great inventhor in times past, and made beautiful songs,&mdash;and ye'd
      never 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
      sudden death?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You're out again; but sure you'd never guess it," said Mike. "Well, ye
      see, here's what it is. It's the praise and glory of ould Ireland in the
      great days that's gone, when we were all Phenayceans and Armenians, and
      when we worked all manner of beautiful contrivances in gold and silver,&mdash;bracelets
      and collars and teapots, elegant to look at,&mdash;and read Roosian and
      Latin, and played the harp and the barrel-organ, and eat and drank of the
      best, for nothing but asking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blessed times, upon my life!" quoth the major; "I wish we had them back
      again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's more of your mind," said Mike, steadying himself. "My ancesthors
      was great people in them days; and sure it isn't in my present situation
      I'd be av we had them back again,&mdash;sorra bit, faith! It isn't, 'Come
      here, Mickey, bad luck to you, Mike!' or, 'That blackguard, Mickey Free!'
      people'd be calling me. But no matter; here's your health again, Major
      Monsoon&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never mind vain regrets, Mike. Let us hear your song; the major has taken
      a great fancy to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, then, it's joking you are, Mister Charles," said Mike, affecting an
      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
      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
      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
      himself in an attitude of considerable pretension as to grace, he began,
      with a voice of no very measured compass, an air of which neither by name
      nor otherwise can I give any conception; my principal amusement being
      derived from a tol-de-rol chorus of the major, which concluded each verse,
      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 lyric; but in my anxiety to preserve the metre and something of the
      spirit of the original, I have made several blunders and many
      anachronisms. Mr. Free, however, pronounces my version a good one, and the
      world must take his word till some more worthy translator shall have
      consigned it to immortal verse.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this apology, therefore, I present Mr. Free's song:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       AIR,&mdash;<i>Na Guilloch y' Goulen</i>.

    Oh, once we were illigint people,
      Though we now live in cabins of mud;
    And the land that ye see from the steeple
      Belonged to us all from the Flood.
    My father was then King of Connaught,
      My grand-aunt Viceroy of Tralee;
    But the Sassenach came, and signs on it,
      The devil an acre have we.

    The least of us then were all earls,
      And jewels we wore without name;
    We drank punch out of rubies and pearls,&mdash;
      Mr. Petrie can tell you the same.
    But except some turf mould and potatoes,
      There's nothing our own we can call;
    And the English,&mdash;bad luck to them!&mdash;hate us,
      Because we've more fun than them all!

    My grand-aunt was niece to Saint Kevin,
      That's the reason my name's Mickey Free!
    Priest's nieces,&mdash;but sure he's in heaven,
      And his failins is nothin' to me.
    And we still might get on without doctors,
      If they'd let the ould Island alone;
    And if purple-men, priests, and tithe-proctors
      Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
      <img src="images/0460.jpg" alt="Mr. Free's Song. " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      As Mike's melody proceeded, the major's thorough bass waxed beautifully
      less,&mdash;now and then, it's true, roused by some momentary strain, it
      swelled upwards in full chorus, but gradually these passing flights grew
      rarer, and finally all ceased, save a long, low, droning sound, like the
      expiring sigh of a wearied bagpipe. His fingers still continued
      mechanically to beat time upon the table, and still his head nodded
      sympathetically to the music; his eyelids closed in sleep; and as the last
      verse concluded, a full-drawn snore announced that Monsoon, if not in the
      land of dreams, was at least in a happy oblivion of all terrestrial
      concerns, and caring as little for the woes of green Erin and the altered
      fortunes of the Free family as any Saxon that ever oppressed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      There he sat, the finished decanter and empty goblet testifying that his
      labors had only ceased from the pressure of necessity; but the broken,
      half-uttered words that fell from his lips evinced that he reposed on the
      last bottle of the series.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, thin, he's a fine ould gentleman!" said Mike, after a pause of some
      minutes, during which he had been contemplating the major with all the
      critical acumen Chantrey or Canova would have bestowed upon an antique
      statue,&mdash;"a fine ould gentleman, every inch of him; and it's the
      master 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
      be ready to start within an hour."
    </p>
    <p>
      When he left the room for this purpose I endeavored to shake the major
      into 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
      did change their facings, there was a great temptation. All the red velvet
      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
      of the Legion to Sir Arthur; shall I add anything particularly from
      yourself?"
    </p>
    <p>
      This, and the shake that accompanied it, aroused him. He started up, and
      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 anything to say when I met him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, yes, Charley! Tell him we're capital troops in our own little way in
      the mountains; would never do in pitched battles,&mdash;skirmishing's our
      forte; 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
      before him, while his lips continued to mutter on,&mdash;"nothing more,
      except you may say from me,&mdash;he knows me, Sir Arthur does. Tell him
      to guard 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
      their lush. Pure <i>Sneyd</i> never injured any one. Tell him so from me,&mdash;it's
      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 upon his chest, proclaimed him sound asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Adieu, then, for the last time," said I, slapping him gently on the
      shoulder. "And now for the road."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      CUESTA.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second day of our journey was drawing to a close as we came in view of
      the Spanish army.
    </p>
    <p>
      The position they occupied was an undulating plain beside the Teitar
      River; the country presented no striking feature of picturesque beauty,
      but the scene before us needed no such aid to make it one of the most
      interesting kind. From the little mountain path we travelled we beheld
      beneath a force of thirty thousand men drawn up in battle array, dense
      columns of infantry alternating with squadrons of horse or dark masses of
      artillery dotted the wide plain, the bright steel glittering in the rich
      sunset of a July evening when not a breath of air was stirring; the very
      banners hung down listlessly, and not a sound broke the solemn stillness
      of the hour. All was silent. So impressive and so strange was the
      spectacle of a vast army thus resting mutely under arms, that I reined in
      my horse, and almost doubted the reality of the scene as I gazed upon it.
      The dark shadows of the tall mountain were falling across the valley, and
      a starry sky was already replacing the ruddy glow of sunset as we reached
      the plain; but still no 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
      gorge, and in a moment we found ourselves surrounded by an outpost party.
      Having explained, as well as I was able, who I was, and for what reason I
      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
      which had been so puzzling to me. From an early hour of that day Sir
      Arthur Wellesley's arrival had been expected, and old Cuesta had drawn up
      his men for inspection, and remained thus for several hours patiently
      awaiting his coming; he himself, overwhelmed with years and infirmity,
      sitting upon his horse the entire time.
    </p>
    <p>
      As it was not necessary that I should be presented to the general, my
      report being for the ear of Sir Arthur himself, I willingly availed myself
      of the hospitality proffered by a Spanish officer of cavalry; and having
      provided for the comforts of my tired cattle and taken a hasty supper,
      issued forth to look at the troops, which, although it was now growing
      late, were still in the same attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely had I been half an hour thus occupied, when the stillness of the
      scene was suddenly interrupted by the loud report of a large gun,
      immediately followed by a long roll of musketry, while at the same moment
      the bands of the different regiments struck up, and as if by magic a blaze
      of red light streamed across the dark ranks. This was effected by pine
      torches held aloft at intervals, throwing a lurid glare upon the grim and
      swarthy features of the Spaniards, whose brown uniforms and slouching hats
      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 of muskets, the clash of sabres, and the hoarse roll of the
      drum, mingling in one common din. I at once guessed that Sir Arthur had
      arrived, and as I turned the flank of a battalion I saw the staff
      approaching. Nothing can be conceived more striking than their advance. In
      the front rode old Cuesta himself, clad in the costume of a past century,
      his slashed doublet and trunk hose reminding one of a more chivalrous
      period, his heavy, unwieldy figure looming from side to side, and
      threatening at each moment to fall from his saddle. On each side of him
      walked two figures gorgeously dressed, whose duty appeared to be to
      sustain the chief in his seat. At his side rode a far different figure.
      Mounted upon a slight-made, active thorough-bred, whose drawn flanks
      bespoke a long and weary journey, sat Sir Arthur Wellesley, a plain blue
      frock and gray trousers being his unpretending costume; but the eagle
      glance which he threw around on every side, the quick motion of his hand
      as he pointed hither and thither among the dense battalions, bespoke him
      every inch a soldier. Behind them came a brilliant staff, glittering in
      aiguillettes and golden trappings, among whom I recognized some
      well-remembered faces,&mdash;our gallant leader at the Douro, Sir Charles
      Stewart, among the number.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they passed the spot where I was standing, the torch of a foot soldier
      behind me flared suddenly up and threw a strong flash upon the party.
      Cuesta's horse grew frightened, and plunged so fearfully for a minute that
      the poor old man could scarcely keep his seat. A smile shot across Sir
      Arthur's features at the moment, but the next instant he was grave and
      steadfast as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      A wretched hovel, thatched and in ruins, formed the headquarters of the
      Spanish army, and thither the staff now bent their steps,&mdash;a supper
      being provided there for our commander-in-chief and the officers of his
      suite. Although not of the privileged party, I lingered round the spot for
      some time, anxiously expecting to find some friend or acquaintance who
      might tell me the news of our people, and what events had occurred in my
      absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE LETTER.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hours passed slowly over, and I at length grew weary of waiting. For
      some time I had amused myself with observing the slouching gait and
      unsoldier-like air of the Spaniards as they lounged carelessly about,
      looking in dress, gesture, and appointment, far move like a guerilla than
      a regular force. Then again, the strange contrast of the miserable hut
      with falling chimney and ruined walls, to the glitter of the mounted guard
      of honor who sat motionless beside it, served to pass the time; but as the
      night was already far advanced, I turned towards my quarters, hoping that
      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
      moment he saw me, came hastily forward with a letter in his hand. An
      officer of Sir Arthur's staff had left it while I was absent, desiring
      Mike on no account to omit its delivery the first instant he met me. The
      hand&mdash;not a very legible one&mdash;was perfectly unknown to me, and
      the appearance of the billet such as betrayed no over-scrupulous care in
      the writer.
    </p>
    <p>
      I trimmed my lamp leisurely, threw a fresh log upon the fire, disposed
      myself completely at full length beside it, and then proceeded to form
      acquaintance with my unknown correspondent. I will not attempt any
      description of the feelings which gradually filled me as I read on; the
      letter itself will suggest them to those who know my story. It ran thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                             PLACENTIA, July 8, 1809.
    DEAR O'MALLEY,&mdash;Although I'd rather march to Lisbon barefoot
    than write three lines, Fred Power insists upon my turning scribe,
    as he has a notion you'll be up at Cuesta's headquarters about this
    time. You're in a nice scrape, devil a lie in it! Here has Fred
    been fighting that fellow Trevyllian for you,&mdash;all because you would
    not have patience and fight him yourself the morning you left the
    Douro,&mdash;so much for haste! Let it be a lesson to you for life.

    Poor Fred got the ball in his hip, and the devil a one of the doctors
    can find it. But he's getting better any way, and going to Lisbon
    for change of air. Meanwhile, since Power's been wounded, Trevyllian's
    speaking very hardly of you, and they all say here you must
    come back&mdash;no matter how&mdash;and put matters to rights. Fred has
    placed the thing in my hands, and I'm thinking we'd better call out
    the "heavies" by turns,&mdash;for most of them stand by Trevyllian.
    Maurice Quill and myself sat up considering it last night; but,
    somehow, we don't clearly remember to-day a beautiful plan we hit
    upon. However, we'll have at it again this evening. Meanwhile,
    come over here, and let us be doing something. We hear that old
    Monsoon has blown up a town, a bridge, and a big convent. They
    must have been hiding the plunder very closely, or he'd never have
    been reduced to such extremities. We'll have a brush with the
    French soon.
    Yours most eagerly,
    D. O'SHAUGHNESSY.
</pre>
    <p>
      My first thought, as I ran my eye over these lines, was to seek for
      Power's note, written on the morning we parted. I opened it, and to my
      horror found that it only related to my quarrel with Hammersley. My
      meeting with Trevyllian had been during Fred's absence, and when he
      assured me that all was satisfactorily arranged, and a full explanation
      tendered, that nothing interfered with my departure,&mdash;I utterly
      forgot that he was only aware of one half my troubles, and in the haste
      and bustle of my departure, had not a moment left me to collect myself and
      think calmly on the matter. The two letters lay before me, and as I
      thought over the stain upon my character thus unwittingly incurred; the
      blast I had thrown upon my reputation; the wound of my poor friend, who
      exposed himself for my sake,&mdash;I grew sick at 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
      they seemed fairest and brightest, presented itself to me in a hundred
      shapes; and when, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, I closed my eyes to
      sleep, it was only to follow up in my dreams my waking thoughts. Morning
      came at length; but its bright sunshine and balmy air brought no comfort
      to me. I absolutely dreaded to meet my brother officers; I felt that in
      such a position as I stood, no half or partial explanation could suffice
      to set me right in their estimation; and yet, what opportunity had I for
      aught else? Irresolute how to act, I sat leaning my head upon my hands,
      when I heard a footstep approach; I looked up and saw before me no other
      than my poor friend Sparks, from whom I had been separated so long. Any
      other adviser at such a moment would, I acknowledge, have been as welcome;
      for the poor fellow knew but little of the world, and still less of the
      service. However, one glance convinced me that his heart at least was
      true; and I shook his outstretched hand with delight. In a few words he
      informed me that Merivale had secretly commissioned him to come over in
      the hope of meeting me; that although all the 14th men were persuaded that
      I was not to blame in what had occurred,&mdash;yet that reports so
      injurious had gone abroad, so many partial and imperfect statements were
      circulated, that nothing but my return to headquarters would avail, and
      that I must not lose a moment in 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
      colonel&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course," said I, "he cannot countenance, much less counsel, such a
      proceeding; Now, then, for the road."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes; but you cannot leave before making your report. Gordon expects to
      see 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
      matters but little in comparison with this horrid charge. I shall be
      broke, but I shall be avenged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come, O'Malley; you are in our hands now, and you must be guided.
      You <i>shall</i> wait; you shall see Gordon. Half an hour will make your
      report, and I have relays of horses along the road, and we shall reach
      Placentia by nightfall."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a tone of firmness in this, so unlike anything I ever looked for
      in the speaker, and withal so much of foresight and precaution, that I
      could scarcely credit my senses as he spoke. Having at length agreed to
      his proposal, Sparks left me to think over my return of the Legion,
      promising that immediately after my interview with the military secretary,
      we should start together for headquarters.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MAJOR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is Major O'Shaughnessy's quarters, sir," said a sergeant, as he
      stopped short at the door of a small, low house in the midst of an olive
      plantation; an Irish wolf-dog&mdash;the well-known companion of the major&mdash;lay
      stretched across the entrance, watching with eager and bloodshot eyes the
      process of cutting up a bullock, which two soldiers in undress jackets
      were performing within a few yards of the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stepping cautiously across the savage-looking sentinel, I entered the
      little hall, and finding no one near, passed into a small room, the door
      of which lay half open.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very palpable odor of cigars and brandy proclaimed, even without his
      presence, that this was O'Shaughnessy's sitting-room; so I sat myself down
      upon an old-fashioned sofa to wait patiently for his return, which I heard
      would be immediately after the evening parade. Sparks had become knocked
      up during our ride, so that for the last three leagues I was alone, and
      like most men in such circumstances, pressed on only the harder.
      Completely worn out for want of rest, I had scarcely placed myself on the
      sofa when I fell sound asleep. When I awoke, all was dark around me, save
      the faint flickerings of the wood embers on the hearth, and for some
      moments I could not remember where I was; but by degrees recollection
      came, and as I thought over my position and its possible consequences, I
      was again nearly dropping to sleep, when the door suddenly opened, and a
      heavy step sounded on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      I lay still and spoke not, as a large figure in a cloak approached the
      fire-place, and stooping down endeavored to light a candle at the fast
      expiring fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had little difficulty in detecting the major even by the half-light; a
      muttered execration upon the candle, given with an energy that only an
      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! Ah, you've lit at last!"
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words he stood up, and his eyes falling on me at the moment, he
      sprang a yard or two backwards, exclaiming as he did so, "The blessed
      Virgin be near us, what's this?" a most energetic crossing of himself
      accompanying his words. My pale and haggard face, thus suddenly presented,
      having suggested to the worthy major the impression of a supernatural
      visitor, a hearty burst of laughter, which I could not resist, was my only
      answer; and the next moment O'Shaughnessy was wrenching my hand in a grasp
      like a steel vice.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my conscience, I thought it was your ghost; and if you kept quiet a
      little longer, I was going to promise you Christian burial, and as many
      Masses for your soul as my uncle the bishop could say between this and
      Easter. How are you, my boy? A little thin, and something paler, I think,
      than when you left us."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having assured him that fatigue and hunger were in a great measure the
      cause of my sickly looks, the major proceeded to place before me the <i>débris</i>
      of his day's dinner, with a sufficiency of bottles to satisfy a
      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
      night. With the blessing of Providence we'll shoot Trevyllian in the
      morning, and any more of the heavies that like it. You are an ill-treated
      man, that's what it is, and Dan O'Shaughnessy says it. Help yourself, my
      boy; crusty old port in that bottle as ever you touched your lips to.
      Power's getting all right; it was contract powder, warranted not to kill.
      Bad luck to the commissaries once more! With such ammunition Sir Arthur
      does right to trust most to the bayonet. And how is Monsoon, the old
      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.
      Charley, you are eating nothing, boy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To tell you the truth, I'm far more anxious to talk with you at this
      moment than aught else."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So you shall: the night's young. Meanwhile, I had better not delay
      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 in twenty minutes or less."
    </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting for any reply, he threw his cloak around him, and strode
      out of the room. Once more I was alone; but already my frame of mind was
      altered,&mdash;the cheering tone of my reckless, gallant countryman had
      raised 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
      appearance and gestures bespoke anger and disappointment. He threw himself
      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
      you thanked a man civilly that asked you to fight him! The Devil take the
      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
      choke him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He'll not fight! And why?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The major was silent. He seemed confused and embarrassed. He turned from
      the fire to the table, from the table to the fire, poured out a glass of
      wine, drank it hastily off, and springing from his chair, paced the room
      with long, impatient strides.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dear O'Shaughnessy, explain, I beg of you. Does he refuse to meet me
      for any reason&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He does," said the major, turning on me a look of deep feeling as he
      spoke; "and he does it to ruin you, my boy. But as sure as my name is Dan,
      he'll fail this time. He was sitting with his friend Beaufort when I
      reached his quarters, and received me with all the ceremonious politeness
      he well knows how to assume. I told him in a few words the object of my
      visit; upon which Trevyllian, standing up, referred me to his friend for a
      reply, and left the room. I thought that all was right, and sat down to
      discuss, as I believed, preliminaries, when the cool puppy, with his back
      to the fire, carelessly lisped out, 'It can't be, Major; your friend is
      too 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
      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 have a vague recollection of saying something that the
      aforesaid mess will never petition the Horse Guards to put on their
      regimental colors; and here I am&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the major gulped down a full goblet of wine, and once
      more resumed his walk through the room. I shall not attempt to record the
      feelings which agitated me during the major's recital. In one rapid glance
      I saw the aim of my vindictive enemy. My honor, not my life, was the
      object he sought for; and ten thousand times more than ever did I pant for
      the opportunity to confront him in a deadly combat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charley," said O'Shaughnessy, at length, placing his hand upon my
      shoulder, "you must get to bed now. Nothing more can be done to-night in
      any way. Be assured of one thing, my boy,&mdash;I'll not desert you; and
      if that assurance can give you a sound sleep, you'll not need a lullaby."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      PRELIMINARIES.
    </p>
    <p>
      I awoke refreshed on the following morning, and came down to breakfast
      with a lighter heart than I had even hoped for. A secret feeling that all
      would go well had somehow taken possession of me, and I longed for
      O'Shaughnessy's coming, trusting that he might be able to confirm my
      hopes. His servant informed me that the major had been absent since
      daybreak, and 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
      every moment brought some new arrival to visit me; and during the morning
      the colonel and every officer of the regiment not on actual duty came
      over. I soon learned that the feeling respecting Trevyllian's conduct was
      one of unmixed condemnation among my own corps, but that a kind of party
      spirit which had subsisted for some months between the regiment he
      belonged to and the 14th had given a graver character to the affair, and
      induced many men to take up his views of the transaction; and although I
      heard of none who attributed my absence to any dislike to a meeting, yet
      there were several who conceived that, by my going at the time, I had
      forfeited all claim to satisfaction at his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now that Merivale is gone," said an officer to me as the colonel left the
      room, "I may confess to you that he sees nothing to blame in your conduct
      throughout; and even had you been aware of how matters were circumstanced,
      your duty was too imperative to have preferred your personal consideration
      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
      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 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
      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,
      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
      story be true, he fires a second or two before his adversary; at least, it
      was in that way he killed Carysfort."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here comes the great O'Shaughnessy!" cried some one at the window; and
      the next moment the heavy gallop of a horse was heard along the causeway.
      In an 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
      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
      promised secrecy as to the steps of this transaction; secondly, if I
      hadn't, it would puzzle me to break it, for I'll be hanged if I know more
      than yourselves. Tom Conyers wrote me a few lines for Trevyllian, and
      Trevyllian pledges himself to meet our friend; and that's all we need know
      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
      never to come off. Trevyllian has been sent with a forage party towards
      Lesco. However, that can't be a long absence. But, for Heaven's sake, let
      me have some breakfast!"
    </p>
    <p>
      While O'Shaughnessy proceeded to attack the viands before him, the others
      chatted about in little groups; but all wore the pleased and happy looks
      of men who had rescued their friend from a menaced danger. As for myself,
      my 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
      O'Shaughnessy, when we were once more alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not at liberty to speak on that subject, Charley. But be satisfied
      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 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
      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 I
      joined the regiment that day at mess, it was with a light heart and a
      cheerful spirit, for come what might of the affair, of one thing I was
      certain,&mdash;my character was now put above any reach of aspersion, and
      my reputation beyond attack.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      ALL RIGHT.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some days after coming back to headquarters, I was returning from a visit
      I had been making to a friend at one of the outposts, when an officer whom
      I knew slightly overtook me and informed me that Major O'Shaughnessy had
      been to my quarters in search of me, and had sent persons in different
      directions to find me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suspecting the object of the major's haste, I hurried on at once, and as I
      rode up to the spot, found him in the midst of a group of officers,
      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
      blue frock as soon as you can, and turn out in your best-fitting black.
      Everything has been settled for this evening at seven o'clock, and we have
      no time to lose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand you," said I, "and shall not keep you waiting." So saying, I
      sprang from my saddle and hastened to my quarters. As I entered the room I
      was followed by O'Shaughnessy, who closed the door after him as he came
      in, and having turned the key in it, sat down beside the table, and
      folding his arms, seemed buried in reflection. As I proceeded with my
      toilet he returned no answers to the numerous questions I put to him,
      either as to the time of Trevyllian's return, the place of the meeting, or
      any other part of the transaction. His attention seemed to wander far from
      all around and about him; and as he muttered indistinctly to himself, the
      few words I 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
      writing-desk. "In case anything happens, you will look to a few things I
      have mentioned here. Somehow, I could not write to poor Fred Power; but
      you must tell him from me that his noble conduct towards me was the last
      thing I spoke of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What confounded nonsense you are talking!" said O'Shaughnessy, springing
      from his seat and crossing the room with tremendous strides, "croaking
      away 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
      things I mentioned&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil! you are not going over it all again, are you?" said he, in a
      voice of no measured tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      I now began to feel irritated in turn, and really looked at him for some
      seconds in considerable amazement. That he should have mistaken, the
      directions I was giving him and attributed them to any cowardice was too
      insulting a thought to bear; and yet how otherwise was I to understand the
      very coarse style of his interruption?
    </p>
    <p>
      At length my temper got the victory, and with a voice of most measured
      calmness, I said, "Major O'Shaughnessy, I am grateful, most deeply
      grateful, for the part you have acted towards me in this difficult
      business; at the same time, as you now appear to disapprove of my conduct
      and bearing, when I am most firmly determined to alter nothing, I shall
      beg 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
      clasped hands and eager look attested the vehemence of the wish. He paused
      for a moment, then, springing from his chair, rushed towards me, and threw
      his arms around me. "No, my boy, I can't do it,&mdash;I can't do it. I
      have tried to bully myself into insensibility for this evening's work,&mdash;I
      have endeavored to be rude to you, that you might insult me, and steel my
      heart 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
      became thick with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But for me, all this need not have happened. I know it; I feel it. I
      hurried on this meeting; your character stood fair and unblemished without
      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 manfully by me through every step of the road; don't desert me on
      the 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 me. Are they likely to object to hair-triggers?"
    </p>
    <p>
      A knocking at the door turned off our attention, and the next moment
      Baker's voice was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "O'Malley, you'll be close run for time; the meeting-place is full three
      miles from this."
    </p>
    <p>
      I seized the key and opened the door. At the same instant, O'Shaughnessy
      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 actually made me start. Not a trace of his late excitement remained;
      his usually dry, half-humorous manner had returned, and his droll features
      were 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 you prefer riding."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course not. Keep your hand steady, Charley, and if you don't bring him
      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
      meeting-place.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE DUEL.
    </p>
    <p>
      A small and narrow ravine between the two furze-covered dells led to the
      open space where the meeting had been arranged for. As we reached this,
      therefore, we were obliged to descend from the drag, and proceed the
      remainder of the way afoot. We had not gone many yards when a step was
      heard approaching, and the next moment Beaufort appeared. His usually easy
      and <i>dégagé</i> air was certainly tinged with somewhat of constraint;
      and though his soft voice and half smile were as perfect as ever, a
      slightly flurried expression about the lip, and a quick and nervous motion
      of his eyebrow, bespoke a heart not completely at ease. He lifted his
      foraging cap most ceremoniously to salute us as we came up, and casting an
      anxious look 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
      most dulcet sweetness, "that I am the only friend of Captain Trevyllian on
      the ground; and though I have not the slightest objection to Captain Baker
      being present, I hope you will see the propriety of limiting the witnesses
      to the three persons now here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my conscience, as far as I am concerned, or my friend either, we are
      perfectly indifferent if we fight before three or three thousand. In
      Ireland we rather like a crowd."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course, then, as you see no objection to my proposition, I may count
      upon your co-operation in the event of any intrusion,&mdash;I mean, that
      while we, upon our sides, will not permit any of our friends to come
      forward, you will equally exert yourself with yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here we are, Baker and myself, neither more nor less. We expect no one,
      and want no one; so that I humbly conceive all the preliminaries you are
      talking of will never be required."
    </p>
    <p>
      Beaufort tried to smile, and bit his lips, while a small red spot upon his
      cheek spoke that some deeper feeling of irritation than the mere careless
      manner of the major could account for, still rankled in his bosom. We now
      walked on without speaking, except when occasionally some passing
      observation of Beaufort upon the fineness of the evening, or the rugged
      nature of the road, broke the silence. As we emerged from the little
      mountain pass into the open meadow land, the tall and soldier-like figure
      of Trevyllian was the first object that presented itself. He was standing
      beside a little stone cross that stood above a holy well, and seemed
      occupied in deciphering the inscription. He turned at the noise of our
      approach, and calmly waited our coming. His eye glanced quickly from the
      features of O'Shaughnessy to those of Baker; but seeming rapidly reassured
      as he walked forward, his face at once recovered its usual severity and
      its cold, impassive look of sternness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All right!" said Beaufort, in a whisper the tones of which I overheard,
      as he drew near to his friend. Trevyllian smiled in return, but did not
      speak. During the few moments which passed in conversation between the
      seconds, I turned from the spot with Baker, and had scarcely time to
      address a question to him, when O'Shaughnessy called out, "Hollo, Baker!&mdash;come
      here a moment!" The three seemed now in eager discussion for some minutes,
      when Baker walked towards Trevyllian, and saying something, appeared to
      wait for his reply. This being obtained, he joined the others, and the
      moment afterwards came to where I was standing. "You are to toss for first
      shot, O'Malley. O'Shaughnessy has made that proposition, and the others
      agree that with two crack marksmen, it is perhaps the fairest way. I
      suppose you have no objection?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course, I shall make none. Whatever O'Shaughnessy decides for me I am
      ready to abide by."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, as to the distance?" said Beaufort, loud enough to be heard
      by me where I was standing. O'Shaughnessy's reply I could not catch, but
      it was evident, from the tone of both parties, that some difference
      existed on the point.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Captain Baker shall decide between us," said Beaufort, at length, and
      they all walked away to some distance. During all the while I could
      perceive that Trevyllian's uneasiness and impatience seemed extreme; he
      looked from the speakers to the little mountain pass, and strained his
      eyes in every direction. It was clear that he dreaded some interruption.
      At last, unable any longer to control his feelings, he called out,
      "Beaufort, I say, what the devil are we waiting for now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing at present," said Beaufort, as he came forward with a dollar in
      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 as it fell on the soft grass beneath.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Head! for a thousand," cried O'Shaughnessy, running over and stooping
      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
      scarcely to have courage to look his friend in his face. Not so
      Trevyllian; he pulled off his gloves without the slightest semblance of
      emotion, buttoned up his well-fitting black frock to the throat, and
      throwing a 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
      to approve of the distance. "They have some confounded advantage in this,
      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
      friend. I did not hear the first part, but the latter words which met me
      were ominous enough: "For as I intend to shoot him, 'tis just as well as
      it is."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether this was meant to be overheard and intimidate me I knew not; but
      its effect proved directly opposite. My firm resolution to hit my
      antagonist was now confirmed, and no compunctious visitings unnerved my
      arm. As we took our places some little delay again took place, the flint
      of my pistol having fallen; and thus we remained full ten or twelve
      seconds steadily regarding each other. At length O'Shaughnessy came
      forward, and putting my weapon in my hand, whispered low, "Remember, you
      have but one 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
      instant. For a second the flash and smoke obstructed my view; but the
      moment after I saw Trevyllian stretched upon the ground, with his friend
      kneeling beside him. My first impulse was to rush over, for now all
      feeling of enmity was buried in most heartfelt anxiety for his fate; but
      as I was stepping forward, O'Shaughnessy called out, "Stand fast, boy,
      he's only wounded!" and the same moment he rose slowly from the ground,
      with the assistance of his friend, and looked with the same wild gaze
      around him. Such a look! I shall never forget it; there was that intense
      expression of searching anxiety, as if he sought to trace the outlines of
      some visionary spirit as it receded before him. Quickly reassured, as it
      seemed, by the glance he threw on all sides, his countenance lighted up,
      not with pleasure, but with a fiendish expression of revengeful triumph,
      which even 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 wound. The pause was a long one. Twice did he interrupt his friend,
      as he was about to give the word, by an expression of suffering, pressing
      his hand upon his side, and seeming to writhe with torture; and yet this
      was mere counterfeit.
    </p>
    <p>
      O'Shaughnessy was now coming forward to interfere and prevent these
      interruptions, when Trevyllian called out in a firm tone, "I'm ready!" At
      the words, "One, two!" the pistol slowly rose; his dark eye measured me
      coolly, steadily; his lip curled; and just as I felt that my last moment
      of life had arrived, a heavy sound of a horse galloping along the rocky
      causeway seemed to take off his attention. His frame trembled, his hand
      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
      drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead, and his features worked as
      if in a fit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You saw it, sir; and you, Beaufort, my friend, you also. Speak! Why will
      you not speak?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be calm, Trevyllian; be calm, for Heaven's sake! What's the matter with
      you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
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    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      "The affair is then ended," said Baker, "and most happily so. You are, I
      hope, not dangerously wounded."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, Trevyllian's features grew deadly livid; his half-open mouth
      quivered slightly, his eyes became fixed, and his arm dropped heavily
      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
      party; he was a short, determined-looking man of about forty, with black
      eyes and aquiline features. Before I had time to guess who it might be, I
      heard O'Shaughnessy address him as Colonel Conyers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is dying!" said Beaufort, still stooping over his friend, whose cold
      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
      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
      sarcastic irony I could almost have struck him for. "Is your friend not
      hit? Perhaps he is bleeding?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said O'Shaughnessy, "let us look to the poor fellow now." So
      saying, with Beaufort's aid he unbuttoned his frock and succeeded in
      opening his waistcoat. There was no trace of blood anywhere, and the idea
      of internal hemorrhage at once occurred to us, when Conyers, stooping
      down, pushed me aside, saying at the same time,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your fears for his safety need not distress you much,&mdash;look here!"
      As he spoke he tore open his shirt, and disclosed to our almost doubting
      senses a vest of chain-mail armor fitting close next the skin and
      completely pistol-proof.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot describe the effect this sight produced upon us. Beaufort sprang
      to his feet with a bound as he screamed out, rather than spoke, "No man
      believes me to have been aware&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, no, Beaufort, your reputation is very far removed from such a stain,"
      said Conyers.
    </p>
    <p>
      O'Shaughnessy was perfectly speechless. He looked from one to the other,
      as though some unexplained mystery still remained, and only seemed
      restored to any sense of consciousness as Baker said, "I can feel no pulse
      at his wrist,&mdash;his heart, too, does not beat."
    </p>
    <p>
      Conyers placed his hand upon his bosom, then felt along his throat, lifted
      up an arm, and letting it fall heavily upon the ground, he muttered, "He
      is dead!"
    </p>
    <p>
      It was true. No wound had pierced him,&mdash;the pistol bullet was found
      within his clothes. Some tremendous conflict of the spirit within had
      snapped the cords of life, and the strong man had perished in his agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      NEWS FROM GALWAY.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have but a vague and most imperfect recollection of the events which
      followed this dreadful scene; for some days my faculties seemed stunned
      and paralyzed, and my thoughts clung to the minute detail of the ground,&mdash;the
      persons about, the mountain path, and most of all the half-stifled cry
      that 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
      have been since told that my deportment was calm, and my answers were firm
      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
      no more, was made as brief and as private as possible. Beaufort proved the
      facts which exonerated me from any imputation in the matter; and upon the
      same day the court delivered the decision: "That Lieutenant O'Malley was
      not guilty of the charges preferred against him, and that he should be
      released from arrest, and join his regiment."
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing could be more kind and considerate than the conduct of my brother
      officers,&mdash;a hundred little plans and devices for making me forget
      the late unhappy event were suggested and practised,&mdash;and I look back
      to that melancholy period, marked as it was by the saddest circumstance of
      my life, as one in which I received more of truly friendly companionship
      than even my palmiest days of prosperity boasted.
    </p>
    <p>
      While, therefore, I deeply felt the good part my friends were performing
      towards me, I was still totally unsuited to join in the happy current of
      their daily pleasures and amusements. The gay and unreflecting character
      of O'Shaughnessy, the careless merriment of my brother officers, jarred
      upon my nerves, and rendered me irritable and excited; and I sought in
      lonely rides and unfrequented walks, the peace of spirit that calm
      reflection and 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 heart is bowed down with grief, and the spirit wasted with suffering,
      that the veil which conceals the future seems to be removed, and a glance,
      short and fleeting as the lightning flash, is permitted us into the gloomy
      valley before us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Misfortunes, too, come not singly,&mdash;the seared heart is not suffered
      to heal from one affliction ere another succeeds it; and this anticipation
      of the coming evil is, perhaps, one of the most poignant features of
      grief,&mdash;the ever-watchful apprehension, the ever-rising question,
      "What next?" is a torture that never sleeps.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the frame of my mind for several days after I returned to my
      duty,&mdash;a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last thought
      at night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since my
      arrival in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that
      some brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my thoughts.
      Was he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded by
      the friends he loved,&mdash;the old familiar faces around the hospitable
      hearth his kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh,
      could I but see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his
      hand upon my head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell
      from his lips, and sunk into my heart!
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered, unaccompanied, from my
      quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by the noise
      of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers announced its
      approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way brought it
      into view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a
      small orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the
      mail-cart with letters from Lisbon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily back, and
      retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the adjutant-general's
      quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled; the report
      that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and accordingly,
      every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides, and
      eagerly inquiring, "If the bags had been opened?" The scene of riot,
      confusion, and excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all
      belief, each man reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs
      and domestic concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of
      exclamations of surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the
      intelligence severally suggested,&mdash;the disappointed expectants
      cursing their idle correspondents, bemoaning their fate about remittances
      that never arrived, or drafts never honored; while here and there some
      public benefactor, with an outspread "Times" or "Chronicle," was retailing
      the narrative of our own exploits in the Peninsula or the more novel
      changes in the world of politics since we left England. A cross-fire of
      news and London gossip ringing on every side made up a perfect Babel most
      difficult to form an idea of. The jargon partook of every accent and
      intonation the empire boasts of; and from the sharp precision of the North
      Tweeder to the broad doric of Kerry, every portion, almost every county,
      of Great Britain had its representative. Here was a Scotch paymaster, in a
      lugubrious tone, detailing to his friend the apparently not over-welcome
      news that Mistress M'Elwain had just been safely delivered of twins,
      which, with their mother, were doing as well as possible. Here an eager
      Irishman, turning over the pages rather than 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 distress notices,&mdash;sorrow else tenants seem to do in Ireland than
      run away every half-year."
    </p>
    <p>
      A little apart some sentimental-looking cockney was devouring a very
      crossed epistle which he pressed to his lips whenever any one looked at
      him; while a host of others satisfied themselves by reading in a kind of
      buzzing undertone, every now and then interrupting themselves with some
      broken exclamation as commentary,&mdash;such as, "Of course she will!"
      "Never knew him better!" "That's the girl for my money!" "Fifty per cent,
      the devil!" and so on. At last I was beginning to weary of the scene, and
      finding that there appeared to be nothing for me, was turning to leave the
      place, when I saw a group of two or three endeavoring to spell out the
      address of a letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's an Irish post-mark, I'll swear," said one; "but who can make
      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
      animated correspondence with him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, O'Shaughnessy, you know something of savage life,&mdash;spell us
      this word here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Show it here. What nonsense, it's as plain as the nose on my face:
      'Master Charles O'Malley, in foreign parts!'"
    </p>
    <p>
      A roar of laughter followed this announcement, which, at any other time,
      perhaps, I should have joined in, but which now grated sadly on my ruffled
      feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, Charley, this is for you," said the major; and added in a whisper,&mdash;"and
      upon my conscience, between ourselves, your friend, whoever he is, has a
      strong action against his writing-master,&mdash;devil such a fist ever I
      looked at!"
    </p>
    <p>
      One glance satisfied me as to my correspondent. It was from Father Rush,
      my old tutor. I hurried eagerly from the spot, and regaining my quarters,
      locked the door, and with a beating heart broke the seal and began, as
      well as I was able, to decipher his letter. The hand was cramped and
      stiffened with age, and the bold, upright letters were gnarled and twisted
      like a rustic fence, and demanded great patience and much time in
      unravelling. It ran thus:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    THE PRIORY, Lady-day, 1809.
    MY DEAR MASTER CHARLES,&mdash;Your uncle's feet are so big and
    so uneasy that he can't write, and I am obliged to take up the pen
    myself, to tell you how we are doing here since you left us. And,
    first of all, the master lost the lawsuit in Dublin, all for the want
    of a Galway jury,&mdash;but they don't go up to town for strong reasons
    they had; and the Curranolick property is gone to Ned M'Manus,
    and may the devil do him good with it! Peggy Maher left this on
    Tuesday; she was complaining of a weakness; she's gone to consult
    the doctors. I'm sorry for poor Peggy.

    Owen M'Neil beat the Slatterys out of Portunma on Saturday,
    and Jem, they say, is fractured. I trust it's true, for he never was
    good, root nor branch, and we've strong reasons to suspect him for
    drawing the river with a net at night. Sir Harry Boyle sprained his
    wrist, breaking open his bed-room, that he locked when he was inside.
    The count and the master were laughing all the evening at
    him. Matters are going very hard in the country,&mdash;the people paying
    their rents regularly, and not caring half as much as they used
    about the real gentry and the old families.

    We kept your birthday at the Castle in great style,&mdash;had the
    militia band from the town, and all the tenants. Mr. James Daly
    danced with your old friend Mary Green, and sang a beautiful song,
    and was going to raise the devil, but I interfered; he burned down
    half the blue drawing-room the last night with his tricks,&mdash;not that
    your uncle cares, God preserve him to us! it's little anything like
    that would fret him. The count quarrelled with a young gentleman
    in the course of the evening, but found out he was only an attorney
    from Dublin, so he didn't shoot him; but he was ducked in the pond
    by the people, and your uncle says he hopes they have a true copy of
    him at home, as they'll never know the original.

    Peter died soon after you went away, but Tim hunts the dogs
    just as well. They had a beautiful run last Wednesday, and the
    Lord [2] sent for him and gave him a five-pound note; but he says
    he'd rather see yourself back again than twice as much. They
    killed near the big turnip-field, and all went down to see where you
    leaped Badger over the sunk fence,&mdash;they call it "Hammersley's
    Nose" ever since. Bodkin was at Ballinasloe the last fair, limping
    about with a stick; he's twice as quiet as he used to be, and never
    beat any one since that morning.

    Nellie Guire, at the cross-roads, wants to send you four pair of
    stockings she knitted for you, and I have a keg of potteen of Barney's
    own making this two months, not knowing how to send it. May be
    Sir Arthur himself would like a taste,&mdash;he's an Irishman himself,
    and one we're proud of, too! The Maynooth chaps are flying all
    about the country, and making us all uncomfortable,&mdash;God's will be
    done, but we used to think ourselves good enough! Your foster-sister,
    Kitty Doolan, had a fine boy; it's to be called after you, and
    your uncle's to give a christening. He bids me tell you to draw
    on him when you want money, and that there's £400 ready for you
    now somewhere in Dublin,&mdash;I forget the name, and as he's asleep, I
    don't like asking him. There was a droll devil down here in the
    summer that knew you well,&mdash;a Mr. Webber. The master treated
    him like the Lord Lieutenant, had dinner parties for him, and
    gave him Oliver Cromwell to ride over to Meelish. He is expected
    again for the cock-shooting, for the master likes him greatly. I'm
    done at last, for my paper is finished and the candle just out; so with
    every good wish and every good thought, remember your own old
    friend,&mdash;
    PETER RUSH.
    P.S. It's Smart and Sykes, Fleet Street, has the money.
    Father O'Shaughnessey, of Ennis, bids me ask if you ever met his
    nephew. If you do, make him sing "Larry M'Hale." I hear it's a
    treat.

    How is Mickey Free going on? There are three decent young
    women in the parish he promised to marry, and I suppose he's pursuing
    the same game with the Portuguese. But he was never
    remarkable for minding his duties. Tell him I am keeping my eye
    on him.
    P. R.
</pre>
    <p>
      [Footnote:2 To excuse Father Rush for any apparent impiety, I must add
      that, by "the Lord," he means "Lord Clanricarde."]
    </p>
    <p>
      Here concluded this long epistle; and though there were many parts I could
      not help smiling at, yet upon the whole I felt sad and dispirited. What I
      had long foreseen and anticipated was gradually accomplishing,&mdash;the
      wreck of an old and honored house, the fall of a name once the watch-word
      for all that was benevolent and hospitable in the land. The termination of
      the lawsuit I knew must have been a heavy blow to my poor uncle, who,
      every consideration of money apart, felt in a legal combat all the
      enthusiasm and excitement of a personal conflict. With him there was less
      a question of to whom the broad acres reverted, so much as whether that
      "scoundrel Tom Basset, the attorney at Athlone, should triumph over us;"
      or "M'Manus live in the house as master where his father had officiated as
      butler." It was at this his Irish pride took offence; and straitened
      circumstances and 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
      inroads upon him; and while, with the reckless desperation of ruin, he
      still kept open house, I could picture to myself his cheerful eye and
      handsome smile but ill concealing the slow but certain march of a broken
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      My position was doubly painful: for any advice, had I been calculated to
      give it, would have seemed an act of indelicate interference from one who
      was to benefit by his own counsel; and although I had been reared and
      educated as my uncle's heir, I had no title nor pretension to succeed him
      other than his kind feelings respecting me. I could, therefore, only look
      on in silence, and watch the painful progress of our downfall without
      power to arrest it.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were sad thoughts, and came when my heart was already bowed down
      with its affliction. That my poor uncle might be spared the misery which
      sooner or later seemed inevitable, was now my only wish; that he might go
      down to the grave without the embittering feelings which a ruined fortune
      and a fallen house bring home to the heart, was all my prayer. Let him but
      close his eyes in the old wainscoted bed-room, beneath the old roof where
      his fathers and grand-fathers have done so for centuries. Let the faithful
      followers he has known since his childhood stand round his bed; while his
      fast-failing sight recognizes each old and well-remembered object, and the
      same bell which rang its farewell to the spirit of his ancestors toll for
      him, the last of his race. And as for me, there was the wide world before
      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
      down and replied to the worthy Father's letter, speaking as encouragingly
      as I could of my own prospects. I dwelt much upon what was nearest my
      heart, and begged of the good priest to watch over my uncle's health, to
      cheer his spirits and support his courage; and that I trusted the day was
      not far distant when I should be once more among them, with many a story
      of fray and battle-field to enliven their firesides. Pressing him to write
      frequently to me, I closed my hurried letter; and having despatched it,
      sat sorrowfully down to muse over my fortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR ARTHUR.
    </p>
    <p>
      The events of the last few days had impressed me with a weight of years.
      The awful circumstances of that evening lay heavily at my heart; and
      though guiltless of Trevyllian's blood, the reproach that conscience ever
      carries 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
      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,
      and one pervading hue of melancholy spreads like a pall upon what we have
      of fairest and brightest on earth. So was it now: I had lost hope and
      ambition; a sad feeling that my career was destined to misfortune and
      mishap gained hourly upon me; and all the bright aspirations of a
      soldier's glory, all my enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance of
      glorious war, fell coldly upon my heart, and I looked upon the chivalry of
      a soldier's life as the empty pageant of a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this sad frame of mind, I avoided all intercourse with my brother
      officers; their gay and joyous spirits only jarred upon my brooding
      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
      stirring events of a campaign&mdash;the march, the bivouac, the picket&mdash;call
      forth a certain physical exertion that never fails to react upon the
      torpid mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Forgetting all around me, I thought of home; I thought of those whose
      hearts I felt were now turning towards me, and considered within myself
      how I could have exchanged the home, the days of peaceful happiness there,
      for 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 to Ireland, a vague and indistinct feeling that my career was not
      destined for aught of great and good crept upon me, and I longed to sink
      into oblivion, forgotten and forgot.
    </p>
    <p>
      I record this painful feeling here, while it is still a painful memory, as
      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
      have pronounced ourselves "the most miserable of mankind." This, somehow,
      is a confession we never make later on in life, when real troubles and
      true afflictions assail us. Whether we call in more philosophy to our aid,
      or 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
      come in that budding period of existence when life is ever fairest and
      most captivating. Not, perhaps, that the fact was really so, but the
      spoiled and humored child, whose caprices were a law, felt heavily the
      threatening difficulties of his first voyage; while as he continued to
      sail over the ocean of life, he braved the storm and the squall, and felt
      only gratitude for the favoring breeze that wafted him upon his course.
    </p>
    <p>
      What an admirable remedy for misanthropy is the being placed in a
      subordinate condition in life! Had I, at the period that I write, been Sir
      Arthur Wellesley; had I even been Marshal Beresford,&mdash;to all
      certainty I'd have played the very devil with his Majesty's forces; I'd
      have brought my 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
      the service in particular, I was merely Lieutenant O'Malley, 14th Light
      Dragoons, the case was very different. With what heavy censure did I
      condemn the commander of the forces in my own mind for his want of daring
      and enterprise! Whole nights did I pass in endeavoring to account for his
      inactivity and lethargy. Why he did not <i>seriatim</i> fall upon Soult,
      Ney, and Victor, annihilate the French forces, and sack Madrid, I looked
      upon as little less than a riddle; and yet there he waited, drilling,
      exercising, and foraging, as if he were at Hounslow. Now most fortunately
      here again I was not Sir Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something in this frame of mind, I was taking one evening a solitary ride
      some miles from the camp. Without noticing the circumstance, I had entered
      a little mountain tract, when, the ground being broken and uneven, I
      dismounted and proceeded a-foot, with the bridle within my arm. I had not
      gone far when the clatter of a horse's hoofs came rapidly towards me, and
      though there was something startling in the pace over such a piece of
      road, I never lifted my eyes as the horseman came up, but continued my
      slow progress onwards, my head sunk upon my bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hallo, sir!" cried a sharp voice, whose tones seemed, somehow, not heard
      for the first time. I looked up, saw a slight figure closely buttoned up
      in a blue horseman's cloak, the collar of which almost entirely hid his
      features; he wore a plain, cocked hat without a feather, and was mounted
      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
      denote my corps, the tone of the demand was little calculated to elicit a
      very polished reply; but preferring, as most impertinent, to make no
      answer, I passed on without speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you hear, sir?" cried the same voice, in a still louder key. "What's
      your regiment?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I now turned round, resolved to question the other in turn; when, to my
      inexpressible shame and confusion, he had lowered the collar of his cloak,
      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
      fortnight. So I stammered out some bungling answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To your quarters, sir, and report yourself under arrest. What's your
      name?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lieutenant O'Malley, sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, sir, your passion for rambling shall be indulged. You shall be sent
      to the rear with despatches; and as the army is in advance, probably the
      lesson may be serviceable." So saying, he pressed spurs to his horse, and
      was out of sight in a moment.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      TALAVERA.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having been despatched to the rear with orders for General Crawfurd, I did
      not reach Talavera till the morning of the 28th. Two days' hard fighting
      had left the contending armies still face to face, and without any decided
      advantage on either side.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I arrived upon the battle-field, the combat of the morning was over.
      It was then ten o'clock, and the troops were at breakfast, if the few
      ounces of wheat sparingly dealt out among them could be dignified by that
      name. All was, however, life and animation on every side; the merry laugh,
      the passing jest, the careless look, bespoke the free and daring character
      of the soldiery, as they sat in groups upon the grass; and except when a
      fatigue party passed by, bearing some wounded comrade to the rear, no
      touch of seriousness rested upon their hardy features. The morning was
      indeed a glorious one; a sky of unclouded blue stretched above a landscape
      unsurpassed in loveliness. Far to the right rolled on in placid stream the
      broad Tagus, bathing in its eddies the very walls of Talavera, the ground
      from which, to our position, gently undulated across a plain of most
      fertile richness and terminated on our extreme left in a bold height,
      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 a rising ground, upon which a strong redoubt had been hastily thrown
      up. The fourth division and the Guards were stationed here, next to whom
      came Cameron's brigade and the Germans, Mackenzie and Hill holding the
      extreme left of all, which might be called the key of our position. In the
      valley beneath the latter were picketed three cavalry regiments, among
      which I was 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
      could not help feeling struck at the evidence of the desperate battle that
      so lately had raged there. The whole surface of the hill was one mass of
      dead and dying, the bearskin of the French grenadier lying side by side
      with the tartan of the Highlander. Deep furrows in the soil showed the
      track of the furious cannonade, and the terrible evidences of a bayonet
      charge were written in the mangled corpses around.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fight had been maintained without any intermission from daybreak till
      near nine o'clock that morning, and the slaughter on both sides was
      dreadful. The mounds of fresh earth on every side told of the soldier's
      sepulchre; and the unceasing tramp of the pioneers struck sadly upon the
      ear, as the groans of the wounded blended with the funeral sounds around
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      In front were drawn up the dark legions of France,&mdash;massive columns
      of infantry, with dense bodies of artillery alternating along the line.
      They, too, occupied a gently rising ground, the valley between the two
      armies being crossed half way by a little rivulet; and here, during the
      sultry heat of the morning, the troops on both sides met and mingled to
      quench 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
      brigade, of whom the Fusiliers formed a part. Directly in front of this
      were Campbell's brigade, to the left of which, upon a gentle slope, the
      staff were now assembled. Thither, accordingly, I bent my steps, and as I
      came up the little scarp, found myself among the generals of division,
      hastily summoned by Sir Arthur to deliberate upon a forward movement. The
      council lasted scarcely a quarter of an hour, and when I presented myself
      to deliver my report, all the dispositions for the battle had been decided
      upon, and the commander of the forces, seated upon the grass at his
      breakfast, looked by far the most unconcerned and uninterested man I had
      seen that morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned his head rapidly as I came up, and before the aide-de-camp could
      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
      with the surprising coolness of the man upon whom no disappointment seemed
      to have the slightest influence.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had scarcely rejoined my regiment, and was giving an account to my
      brother officers of my journey, when an aide-de-camp came galloping at
      full speed down the line, and communicating with the several commanding
      officers as he passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      What might be the nature of the orders we could not guess at; for no word
      to fall in followed, and yet it was evident something of importance was at
      hand. Upon the hill where the staff were assembled no unusual bustle
      appeared; and we could see the bay cob of Sir Arthur still being led up
      and down by the groom, with a dragoon's mantle thrown over him. The
      soldiers, overcome by the heat and fatigue of the morning, lay stretched
      around upon 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;
      "the repulse of this morning has been a smart lesson to the French, and
      Sir 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. It was from the band of a French regiment, and mellowed by the
      distance, it seemed in the calm stillness of the morning air like
      something less of earth than heaven. As we listened, the notes swelled
      upwards yet fuller; and one by one the different bands seemed to join,
      till at last the whole air seemed full of the rich flood of melody.
    </p>
    <p>
      We could now perceive the stragglers were rapidly falling back, while high
      above all other sounds the clanging notes of the trumpet were heard along
      the line. The hoarse drum now beat to arms; and soon after a brilliant
      staff rode slowly from between two dense bodies of infantry, and advancing
      some distance into the plain, seemed to reconnoitre us. A cloud of Polish
      cavalry, distinguished by their long lances and floating banners, loitered
      in their rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had not time for further observation, when the drums on our side beat
      to arms, and the hoarse cry, "Fall in,&mdash;fall in there, lads!"
      resounded along the line.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now one o'clock, and before half an hour the troops had resumed the
      position of the morning, and stood silent and anxious spectators of the
      scene before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon the table-land to the rear of the French position, we could descry
      the gorgeous tent of King Joseph, around which a large and
      splendidly-accoutred staff were seen standing. Here, too, the bustle and
      excitement seemed considerable, for to this point the dark masses of the
      infantry seemed converging from the extreme right; and here we could
      perceive the royal 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
      extended, the flanks protected by a powerful artillery and deep masses of
      heavy cavalry. It was evident that the attack was not to commence on our
      side, and the greatest and most intense anxiety pervaded us as to what
      part of our line was first to be assailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Sir Arthur Wellesley, who from the height had been patiently
      observing the field of battle, despatched an aide-de-camp at full gallop
      towards Campbell's brigade, posted directly in advance of us. As he passed
      swiftly along, he called out, "You're in for it, Fourteenth; you'll have
      to open the ball to-day."
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely were the words spoken, when a signal gun from the French boomed
      heavily through the still air. The last echo was growing fainter, and the
      heavy smoke breaking into mist, when the most deafening thunder ever my
      ears heard came pealing around us; eighty pieces of artillery had opened
      upon us, sending a very tempest of balls upon our line, while midst the
      smoke and dust we could see the light troops advancing at a run, followed
      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
      officer beside me, forgetting all rivalry in his noble admiration of our
      enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intervening space was soon passed, and the tirailleurs falling back as
      the columns came on, the towering masses bore down upon Campbell's
      division with a loud cry of defiance. Silently and steadily the English
      infantry awaited the attack, and returning the fire with one withering
      volley, were ordered to charge. Scarcely were the bayonets lowered, when
      the head of the advancing column broke and fled, while Mackenzie's
      brigade, overlapping the flank, pushed boldly forward, and a scene of
      frightful carnage followed; for a moment a hand-to-hand combat was
      sustained, but the unbroken files and impregnable bayonets of the English
      conquered, and the French fled, leaving six guns behind them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gallant enemy were troops of tried and proved courage, and scarcely
      had they retreated when they again formed; but just as they prepared to
      come forward, a tremendous shower of grape opened upon them from our
      batteries, while a cloud of Spanish horse assailed them in flank and
      nearly cut them in pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      While this was passing on the right, a tremendous attack menaced the hill
      upon which our left was posted. Two powerful columns of French infantry,
      supported by some regiments of light cavalry, came steadily forward to the
      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
      they were suddenly arrested by a deep chasm; here the German hussars
      pulled short up, but the Twenty-third dashing impetuously forward; a scene
      of terrific carnage ensued, men and horses rolling indiscriminately
      together under a withering fire from the French squares. Even here,
      however, British valor quailed not, for Major Francis Ponsonby, forming
      all who came up, rode boldly upon a brigade of French chasseurs in the
      rear. Victor, who from the first had watched the movement, at once
      despatched a lancer regiment against them, and then these brave fellows
      were absolutely cut to atoms, the few who escaped having passed through
      the French columns and reached Bassecour's Spanish division on the far
      right.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this time the hill was again assailed, and even more desperately
      than before; while Victor himself led on the fourth corps to an attack
      upon our right and centre.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Guards waited without flinching the impetuous rush of the advancing
      columns, and when at length within a short distance, dashed forward with
      the bayonet, driving everything before them. The French fell back upon
      their sustaining masses, and rallying in an instant, again came forward,
      supported by a tremendous fire from their batteries. The Guards drew back,
      and the German Legion, suddenly thrown into confusion, began to retire in
      disorder. This was the most critical moment of the day, for although
      successful upon the extreme right and left of our line, our centre was
      absolutely broken. Just at this moment Gordon rode up to our brigade; his
      face was pale, and his look flurried and excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Forty-eighth are coming; here they are,&mdash;support them,
      Fourteenth."
    </p>
    <p>
      These few words were all he spoke; and the next moment the measured tread
      of a column was heard behind us. On they came like one man, their compact
      and dense formation looking like some massive wall; wheeling by companies,
      they suffered the Guards and Germans to retire behind them, and then,
      reforming into line, they rushed forward with the bayonet. Our artillery
      opened with a deafening thunder behind them, and then we were ordered to
      charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      We came on at a trot; the Guards, who had now recovered their formation,
      cheered us as we proceeded. The smoke of the cannonade obscured everything
      until we had advanced some distance, but just as we emerged beyond the
      line of the gallant Forty-eighth, the splendid panorama of the
      battle-field broke suddenly upon us.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charge, forward!" cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and we were upon
      them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering musketry of our
      people, gave way before us, and unable to form a square, retired fighting
      but in confusion, and with tremendous loss, to their position. One
      glorious cheer, from left to right of our line, proclaimed the victory,
      while a deafening discharge of artillery from the French replied to this
      defiance, and the battle was over. Had the Spanish army been capable of a
      forward movement, our successes at this moment would have been, much more
      considerable; but they did not dare to change their position, and the
      repulse of our enemy was destined to be all our glory. The French,
      however, suffered much more severely than we did; and retiring during the
      night, fell back behind the Alberche, leaving us the victory and the
      battle-field.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      NIGHT AFTER TALAVERA.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night which followed the battle was a sad one. Through the darkness,
      and under a fast-falling rain, the hours were spent in searching for our
      wounded comrades amidst the heap of slain upon the field; and tho
      glimmering of the lanterns, as they flickered far and near across the wide
      plain, bespoke the track of the fatigue parties in their mournful round;
      while the groans of the wounded rose amidst the silence with an accent of
      heart-rending anguish; so true was it, as our great commander said, "There
      is nothing more sad than a victory, except a defeat."
    </p>
    <p>
      Around our bivouac fires, the feeling of sorrowful depression was also
      evident. We had gained a great victory, it was true: we had beaten the
      far-famed legions of France upon a ground of their own choosing, led by
      the most celebrated of their marshals and under the eyes of the Emperor's
      own brother; but still we felt all the hazardous daring of our position,
      and had no confidence whatever in the courage or discipline of our allies;
      and we saw that in the very <i>mêlée</i> of the battle the efforts of the
      enemy were directed almost exclusively against our line, so confidently
      did they undervalue the efforts of the Spanish troops. Morning broke at
      length, and scarcely was the heavy mist clearing away before the red
      sunlight, when the sounds of fife and drum were heard from a distant part
      of the field. The notes swelled or sank as the breeze rose or fell, and
      many a conjecture was hazarded as to their meaning, for no object was well
      visible for more than a few hundred yards off; gradually, however, they
      grew nearer and nearer, and at length, as the air cleared, and the hazy
      vapor evaporated, the bright scarlet uniform of a British regiment was
      seen advancing at a quick-step.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they came nearer, the well-known march of the gallant 43d was
      recognized by some of our people, and immediately the rumor fled like
      lightning: "It is Crawfurd's brigade!" and so it was; the noble fellow had
      marched his division the unparalleled distance of sixty English miles in
      twenty-seven hours. Over a burning sandy soil, exposed to a raging sun,
      without rations, almost without water, these gallant troops pressed on in
      the unwearied hope of sharing the glory of the battle-field. One
      tremendous cheer welcomed the head of the column as they marched past, and
      continued till the last file had deployed before us.
    </p>
    <p>
      As these splendid regiments moved by we could not help feeling what signal
      service they might have rendered us but a few hours before. Their
      soldier-like bearing, their high and effective state of discipline, their
      well-known reputation, were in every mouth; and I scarcely think that any
      corps who stood the brunt of the mighty battle were the subject of more
      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 sounds on every side. Congratulations, shaking of hands, kind
      inquiries, went round; and as we looked to the hilly ground where so
      lately were drawn up in battle array the dark columns of our enemy, and
      where not one sentinel now remained, the proud feeling of our victory came
      home to our 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
      order from the colonel to ride down to Talavera for the return of our
      wounded, as the arrival of the commander-in-chief was momentarily looked
      for. I threw myself upon my horse, and setting out at a brisk pace, soon
      reached the gates.
    </p>
    <p>
      On entering the town, I was obliged to dismount and proceed on foot. The
      streets were completely filled with people, treading their way among
      wagons, forage carts, and sick-litters. Here was a booth filled with all
      imaginable wares for sale; there was a temporary gin-shop established
      beneath a broken baggage-wagon; here might be seen a merry party throwing
      dice for a turkey or a kid; there, a wounded man, with bloodless cheek and
      tottering step, inquiring the road to the hospital. The accents of agony
      mingled with the drunken chorus, and the sharp crack of the
      provost-marshal's whip was heard above the boisterous revelling of the
      debauchee. All was confusion, bustle, and excitement. The staff officer,
      with his flowing plume and glittering epaulettes, wended his way on foot,
      amidst the din and bustle, unnoticed and uncared for; while the little
      drummer amused an admiring audience of simple country-folk by some
      wondrous tale of the great victory.
    </p>
    <p>
      My passage through this dense mass was necessarily a slow one. No one made
      way for another; discipline for the time was at an end, and with it all
      respect for rank or position. It was what nothing of mere vicissitude in
      the fortune of war can equal,&mdash;the wild orgies of an army the day
      after a battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      On turning the corner of a narrow street, my attention was attracted by a
      crowd which, gathered round a small fountain, seemed, as well as I could
      perceive, to witness some proceeding with a more than ordinary interest.
      Exclamations in Portuguese, expressive of surprise and admiration, wore
      mingled with English oaths and Irish ejaculations, while high above all
      rose other sounds,&mdash;the cries of some one in pain and suffering;
      forcing my way through the dense group, I at length reached the interior
      of the crowd when, to my astonishment, I perceived a short, fat,
      punchy-looking man, stripped of his coat and waist-coat, and with his
      shirt-sleeves rolled up to his shoulder, busily employed in operating upon
      a wounded soldier. Amputation knives, tourniquets, bandages, and all other
      imaginable instruments for giving or alleviating torture were strewed
      about him, and from the arrangement and preparation, it was clear that he
      had pitched upon this spot as an hospital for his patients. While he
      continued to perform his functions with a singular speed and dexterity, he
      never for a moment ceased 'a running fire of small talk, now addressed to
      the patient in particular, now to the crowd at large, sometimes a
      soliloquy to himself, and not unfrequently, abstractedly, upon things in
      general. These little specimens of oratory, delivered in such a place at
      such a time, and, not least of all, in the richest imaginable Cork accent,
      were sufficient to 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 in
      both legs by the explosion of a shell, but yet not so severely as to
      require amputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Does that plaze you, then?" said the doctor, as he applied some powerful
      caustic to a wounded vessel; "there's no satisfying the like of you. Quite
      warm and comfortable ye'll be this morning after that. I saw the same
      shell coming, and I called out to Maurice Blake, 'By your leave, Maurice,
      let that fellow pass, he's in a hurry!' and faith, I said to myself,
      'there's more where you came from,&mdash;you're not an only child, and I
      never liked the family.' What are ye grinning for, ye brown thieves?" This
      was addressed to the Portuguese. "There, now, keep the limb quiet and
      easy. Upon my conscience, if that shell fell into ould Lundy Foot's shop
      this morning, there'd be plenty of sneezing in Sacksville Street. Who's
      next?" said he, looking round with an expression that seemed to threaten
      that if no wounded man was ready he was quite prepared to carve out a
      patient for himself. Not exactly relishing the invitation in the searching
      that accompanied it, I backed my way through the crowd, and continued my
      path towards the hospital.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the scene which presented itself was shocking beyond belief,&mdash;frightful
      and ghastly wounds from shells and cannon-shot were seen on all sides,
      every imaginable species of suffering that man is capable of was presented
      to view; while amidst the dead and dying, operations the most painful were
      proceeding with a haste and bustle that plainly showed how many more
      waited their turn for similar offices. The stairs were blocked up with
      fresh arrivals of wounded men, and even upon the corridors and
      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
      learned that our loss was confined to about fourteen wounded; five of them
      were officers. But fortunately, we lost not a man of our gallant fellows,
      and Talavera brought us no mourning for a comrade to damp the exultation
      we felt in our victory.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER LXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE OUTPOST.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the three days which succeeded the battle, all things remained as
      they were before. The enemy had gradually withdrawn all his forces, and
      our most advanced pickets never came in sight of a French detachment.
      Still, although we had gained a great victory, our situation was anything
      but flattering. The most strenuous exertions of the commissariat were
      barely sufficient to provision the troops; and we had even already but too
      much experience of how little trust or reliance could be reposed in the
      most lavish promises of our allies. It was true, our spirits failed us
      not; but it was rather from an implicit and never-failing confidence in
      the resources of our great leader, than that any among us could see his
      way through the dense cloud of difficulty and danger that seemed to
      envelop us on every side.
    </p>
    <p>
      To add to the pressing emergency of our position, we learned on the
      evening of the 31st that Soult was advancing from the north, and at the
      head of fourteen thousand chosen troops in full march upon Placentia; thus
      threatening our rear, at the very moment too, when any further advance was
      evidently impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the 1st of August, I was ordered, with a small party, to
      push forward in the direction of the Alberche, upon the left bank of which
      it was reported that the French were again concentrating their forces, and
      if possible, to obtain information of their future movements. Meanwhile
      the army was about to fall back upon Oropesa, there to await Soult's
      advance, and if necessary, to give him battle; Cuesta engaging with his
      Spaniards to secure Talavera, with its stores and hospitals, against any
      present movement from Victor.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a hearty breakfast, and a kind "Good-by!" from my brother officers,
      I set out. My road along the Tagus, for several miles of the way, was a
      narrow path scarped from the rocky ledge of the river, shaded by rich
      olive 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
      endeavoring ere nightfall to reach Torrijos, in which village we had heard
      several French soldiers were in hospital. Our information leading us to
      believe them very inadequately guarded, we hoped to make some prisoners,
      from whom the information we sought could in all likelihood be obtained.
      More than once during the day our road was crossed by parties similar to
      our own, sent forward to reconnoitre; and towards evening a party of the
      23d Light Dragoons, returning towards Talavera, informed us that the
      French had retired from Torrijos, which was now occupied by an English
      detachment under my old friend O'Shaughnessy.
    </p>
    <p>
      I need not say with what pleasure I heard this piece of news, and eagerly
      pressed forward, preferring the warm shelter and hospitable board the
      major was certain of possessing, to the cold blast and dripping grass of a
      bivouac. Night, however, fell fast; darkness, without an intervening
      twilight, set in, and we lost our way. A bleak table-land with here and
      there a stunted, leafless tree was all that we could discern by the pale
      light of a new moon. An apparently interminable heath uncrossed by path or
      foot-track was before us, and our jaded cattle seemed to feel the dreary
      uncertainty of the prospect as sensitively as ourselves,&mdash;stumbling
      and over-reaching at every step.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cursing my ill-luck for such a misadventure, and once more picturing to my
      mind the bright blazing hearth and smoking supper I had hoped to partake
      of, I called a halt, and prepared to pass the night. My decision was
      hastened by finding myself suddenly in a little grove of pine-trees whose
      shelter was not to be despised; besides that, our bivouac fires were now
      sure of being supplied.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was fortunate the night was fine, though dark. In a calm, still
      atmosphere, when not a leaf moved nor a branch stirred, we picketed our
      tired horses, and shaking out their forage, heaped up in the midst a
      blazing fire of the fir-tree. Our humble supper was produced, and even
      with the still lingering revery of the major and his happier destiny, I
      began to feel comfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      My troopers, who probably had not been flattering their imaginations with
      such <i>gourmand</i> reflections and views, sat happily around their
      cheerful blaze, chatting over the great battle they had so lately
      witnessed, and mingling their stories of some comrade's prowess with
      sorrows for the dead and proud hopes for the future. In the midst, upon
      his knees beside the flame, was Mike, disputing, detailing, guessing, and
      occasionally inventing,&mdash;all his arguments only tending to one view
      of the late victory: "That it was the Lord's mercy the most of the 48th
      was Irish, or we wouldn't be sitting there now!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Despite Mr. Free's conversational gifts, however, his audience one by one
      dropped off in sleep, leaving him sole monarch of the watch-fire, and&mdash;what
      he thought more of&mdash;a small brass kettle nearly full of
      brandy-and-water. This latter, I perceived, he produced when all was
      tranquil, and seemed, as he cast a furtive glance around, to assure
      himself that he was the only company present.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lying some yards off, I watched him for about an hour, as he sat rubbing
      his hands before the blaze, or lifting the little vessel to his lips; his
      droll features ever and anon seeming acted upon by some passing dream of
      former devilment, as he smiled and muttered some sentences in an
      under-voice. Sleep at length overpowered me; but my last waking thoughts
      were haunted with a singular ditty by which Mike accompanied himself as he
      kept burnishing the buttons of my jacket before the fire, now and then
      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 you up, when you'll be as bad to-morrow. Like his father's
      son, devil a lie in it! Nothing would serve him but his best blue jacket
      to fight in, as if the French was particular what they killed us in.
      Pleasant trade, upon my conscience! Well, never mind. That's beautiful <i>sperets</i>,
      anyhow. Your health, Mickey Free; it's yourself that stands to me.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "It's little for glory I care;
      Sure ambition is only a fable;
    I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
      With lashings of drink on the table.
    I like to lie down in the sun
      And <i>drame</i>, when my <i>faytures</i> is scorchin'
    That when I'm too <i>ould</i> for more fun,
      Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune.

    "And in winter, with bacon and eggs,
      And a place, at the turf-fire basking,
    Sip my punch as I roasted my legs,
      Oh, the devil a more I'd be asking!
    For I haven't a <i>janius</i> for work,&mdash;
      It was never the gift of the Bradies,&mdash;
    But I'd make a most <i>illigant</i> Turk,
      For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies."
</pre>
    <p>
      This confounded <i>refrain</i> kept ringing through my dream, and "tobacco
      and ladies" mingled with my thoughts of storm and battle-field long after
      their very gifted author had composed himself to slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sleep, and sound sleep, came at length, and many hours elapsed ere I
      awoke. When I did so, my fire was reduced to its last embers. Mike, like
      the others, had sunk in slumber, and midst the gray dawn that precedes the
      morning, I could just perceive the dark shadows of my troopers as they lay
      in groups around.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fatigues of the previous day had so completely overcome me, that it
      was with difficulty I could arouse myself so far as to heap fresh logs
      upon the fire. This I did with my eyes half closed, and in that listless,
      dreamy state which seems the twilight of sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      I managed so much, however, and was returning to my couch beneath a tree,
      when suddenly an object presented itself to my eyes that absolutely rooted
      me to the spot. At about twenty or thirty yards distant, where but the
      moment before the long line of horizon terminated the view, there now
      stood a huge figure of some ten or twelve feet in height,&mdash;two heads,
      which surmounted this colossal personage, moved alternately from side to
      side, while several arms waved loosely to and fro in the most strange and
      uncouth manner. My first impression was that a dream had conjured up this
      distorted image; but when I had assured myself by repeated pinchings and
      shakings that I was really awake, still it remained there. I was never
      much given to believe in ghosts; but even had I been so, this strange
      apparition must have puzzled me as much as ever, for it could not have
      been the representative of anything I ever heard of before.
    </p>
    <p>
      A vague suspicion that some French trickery was concerned, induced me to
      challenge it in French; so, without advancing a step, I halloed out, "<i>Qui
      va là</i>?"
    </p>
    <p>
      My voice aroused a sleeping soldier, who, springing up beside me, had his
      carbine at the cock; while, equally thunderstruck with myself, he gazed at
      the monster.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Qui va là</i>?" shouted I again, and no answer was returned, when
      suddenly the huge object wheeled rapidly around, and without waiting for
      any further parley, made for the thicket.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tramp of a horse's feet now assured me as to the nature of at least
      part of the spectacle, when click went the trigger behind me, and the
      trooper's ball rushed whistling through the brushwood. In a moment the
      whole party were up and stirring.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This way, lads!" cried I, as drawing my sabre, I dashed into the pine
      wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a few moments all was dark as midnight; but as we proceeded farther,
      we came out upon a little open space which commanded the plain beneath for
      a great extent.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There it goes!" said one of the men, pointing to a narrow, beaten path,
      in which the tall figure moved at a slow and stately pace, while still the
      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
      as hard as I could.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we neared it, the frantic gesticulations grew more and more remarkable,
      while some stray words, which we half caught, sounded like English in our
      ears. We were now within pistol-shot distance, when suddenly the horse&mdash;for
      that much at least we were assured of&mdash;stumbled and fell forward,
      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
      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
      nose was done for? Shaugh, Shaugh, my boy, since we are taken, tip them
      the 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
      declaration.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I ought to know that laugh," cried a voice I at once knew to be my friend
      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
      giving you a rather warm reception. What, in the Devil's name, did you
      represent, just now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask Maurice, there, bad luck to him. I wish the Devil had him when he
      persuaded me into it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Introduce me to your friend," replied the other, rubbing his shins as he
      spoke. "Mr. O'Mealey,"&mdash;so he called me,&mdash;"I think. Happy to
      meet you; my mother was a Ryan of Killdooley, married to a first cousin of
      your father's before she took Mr. Quill, my respected progenitor. I'm Dr.
      Quill of the 48th, more commonly called Maurice Quill. Tear and ages! how
      sore my back is! It was all the fault of the baste, Mr. O'Mealey. We set
      out in search of you this morning, to bring you back with us to Torrijos,
      but we fell in with a very pleasant funeral at Barcaventer, and joined
      them. They invited us, I may say, to spend the day; and a very jovial day
      it was. I was the chief mourner, and carried a very big candle through the
      village, in consideration of as fine a meat-pie, and as much lush as my
      grief permitted me to indulge in afterwards. But, my dear sir, when it was
      all finished, we found ourselves nine miles from our quarters; and as
      neither of us were in a very befitting condition for pedestrian exercise,
      we stole one of the 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
      English, Portuguese, or French, and that was the reason I called out to
      you, 'God save all here!' in Irish. Your polite answer was a shot, which
      struck the old horse in the knee, and although we wheeled about in
      double-quick, we never could get him out of his professional habits on the
      road. He had a strong notion he was engaged in another funeral,&mdash;as
      he was very likely to be,&mdash;and the devil a bit faster than a dead
      march could we get him to, with all our thrashing. Orderly time for men in
      a hurry, with a whole platoon blazing away behind them! But long life to
      the cavalry, they never hit anything!"
    </p>
    <p>
      While he continued to run on in this manner, we reached our watch-fire,
      when what was my surprise to discover, in my newly-made acquaintance, the
      worthy doctor I had seen a day or two before operating at the fountain at
      Talavera.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Mr. O'Mealey," said he, as he seated himself before the blaze,
      "What is the state of the larder? Anything savory,&mdash;anything
      drink-inspiring to 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
      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 walls of a pasty; "and,&mdash;but come, here's a duck; and if my
      nose deceive me not, a very tolerable ham. Peter&mdash;Larry&mdash;Patsy&mdash;What's
      the name of your familiar there?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mickey&mdash;Mickey Tree."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mickey Free, then; come here, avick! Devise a little drink, my son,&mdash;none
      of the weakest&mdash;no lemon&mdash;-hot! You understand, hot! That chap
      has an eye for punch; there's no mistaking an Irish fellow, Nature has
      endowed them richly,&mdash;fine features and a beautiful absorbent system!
      That's the gift! Just look at him, blowing up the fire,&mdash;isn't he a
      picture? Well, O'Mealey, I was fretting that we hadn't you up at Torrijos;
      we were enjoying life very respectably,&mdash;we established a little
      system of small tithes upon fowl, sheep, pigs' heads, and wine skins that
      throve remarkably for the time. Here's the lush! Put it down there,
      Mickey, in the middle; that's right. Your health, Shaugh. O'Mealey, here's
      a troop to you; and in the mean time I'll give you a chant:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    'Come, ye jovial souls, don't over the bowl be sleeping,
    Nor let the grog go round like a cripple creeping;
    If your care comes, up, in the liquor sink it,
    Pass along the lush, I'm the boy can drink it.
      Isn't that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?
      Isn't that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?'
</pre>
    <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
      party; and though one has prejudices about a table, chairs, and that sort
      of thing, take my word for it, it's better than fighting the French, any
      day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Charley, it certainly did look quite awkward enough the other day
      towards three o'clock, when the Legion fell back before that French
      column, and broke the Guards behind them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, you're quite right; but I think every one felt that the confusion
      was 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
      way to the rear with all convenient despatch, when an aide-de-camp called
      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,
      and soon found myself standing in a square, with Sir Arthur himself and
      Hill and the rest of them all around me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Steady, men! Steady, now!' said Hill, as he rode around the ranks, while
      we saw an awful column of cuirassiers forming on the rising ground to our
      left.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Here they come!' said Sir Arthur, as the French came powdering along,
      making the very earth tremble beneath them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My first thought was, 'The devils are mad, and they'll ride down into us,
      before they know they're kilt!' And sure enough, smash into our first rank
      they pitched, sabring and cutting all before them; when at last the word
      'Fire!' was given, and the whole head of the column broke like a shell,
      and rolled horse over man on the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Very well done! very well, indeed!' said Sir Arthur, turning as coolly
      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
      coolness, I pulled out my snuff-box and offered him a pinch, saying, 'The
      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 out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Let Sherbroke advance!' while turning again towards me, he said, 'Where
      are your people, Colonel?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Colonel!' thought I; 'is it possible he's going to promote me?' But
      before I could answer, he was talking to another. Meanwhile Hill came up,
      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
      about this minute! But if you think it's pride in me, you're greatly
      mistaken, for I'd rather the greatest scoundrel in Dublin was kicking me
      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,
      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
      brother, sir, in the Thirty-fourth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'A doctor,&mdash;a surgeon! That fellow a surgeon! Damn him, I took him
      for Colonel Grosvenor! I say, Gordon, these medical officers must be
      docked of their fine feathers, there's no knowing them from the staff,&mdash;look
      to that in the next general order.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "And sure enough they left us bare and naked the next morning; and if the
      French sharpshooters pick us down now, devil mend them for wasting powder,
      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 improve,&mdash;you'll
      never improve!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why the devil would I?" said he. "Ain't I at the top of my profession&mdash;full
      surgeon&mdash;with nothing to expect, nothing to hope for? Oh, 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
      the Adonis of the Roscommon militia, with more heiresses in my list than
      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
      and heaving a profound sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, the darling!" said the doctor. "If it wasn't for a jug of punch that
      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
      round.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He'll tell it you," said O'Shaughnessy, lighting his cigar, and leaning
      pensively back against a tree,&mdash;"he'll tell it you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will, with pleasure," said Maurice. "Let Mr. Free, meantime, amuse
      himself with the punch-bowl, and I'll relate it."
    </p>
    <p>
      END OF VOLUME I.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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