Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“This of course clenched the business: however, we were called upon to make our defence. As I spoke French, I undhertook it. I acknowledged that Harry an' I got out o' the church for the purpose of escaping to our own throops, that we went into the house where the curnel was killed, in ordther to change our rigimentals for other clothes, which ould Emanuel had provided for us. I didn't say any thing about Maria, lest the poor thing might be brought into the scrape. I then described the way that we ran up stairs, an' the sthruggle I had to hould the soldier who was the accomplice. Harry an' the ould man gave the same account o' the affair through an interprether, but all our stories only made them think worse of us. We were asked, could we _point out_ the soldier we saw? and what proof could we give of it? But there was so much hurry when we discovered the murdther, that none of us could give any particular description of the man, so as to find him.

“We were immadiately found guilty, an' sentence o' death was pronounced. We were marched on the minute to the place of execution: it was in front o' the house where the murther'd body lay, an' the gallows had been erected before the thrial.

“Great God! as we stood undther the fatal bame what was my feeling! My friend Harry's fate, and the poor ould man's, sunk me to the bottom of misery. Harry thought o' nothing but his dear Maria, an' Emanuel was totally speechless an' totthering.

“The ropes were preparing, when Maria burst through the soldiers, with a paleness on her face even worse than ours; her clothes disordered, her hair flying about: the soldiers were ordthered to stop her, an' they did; but although they did not undtherstand her language, they couldn't mistake her well, when she pointed to Harry, an' knelt down at the officer's feet. All thought it was a friend of ours, but none supposed her a woman. She was then permitted to go to Harry, an'—oh! such a parting!—she hung upon his neck; she knelt down; she embraced his knees! I stood motionless, gazing at the fond an' unfortunate pair in agony, wishing that the scene was past. An' even Emanuel felt for them, overcome as he was with the thoughts of his own situation.

“The Provost now was proceeding to his juty, the ropes in his hand, when I started as if I had wakened from a horrid dream. A thought sthruck me like lightning: I roared out ‘Stop, for God's sake, stop!’ with a strength and determination of manner that changed the feelings of every body; an' I called out to the officer commanding, with such earnestness, that he rode over to me at once. ‘Oh,’ says I in French to him, ‘I'll prove our innocence; I'll prove it, Sir, if you will grant me your support in doing so.’ This the officer willingly assented to. ‘Go, then, yourself, Sir,’ says I, ‘go _yourself_ into the kitchen o' that house, and look upon the floor. There, plase the Lord, you will find the breastplate o' the soldier that murthered the curnel; I tore it off him in the sthruggle, but unfortunately did not keep it.’

“The officer, God bless him! although he was a Frenchman, seemed as glad as if he had already found proof of our innocence, and immadiately dismounted, called his adjutant and a sarjeant to go with him, an' went straight into the house. I then tould Harry, Maria, and Emanuel, what I thought of; an' such an effect I never saw, as it had upon all o' them. Harry grew red, and looked at me with feelings as if I had already saved his life. Maria's eyes almost started out of her head. She seemed to laugh like, and hung round my neck as if I was her lover, and not Harry; while poor ould Emanuel suddenly came to his speech, an' cried like a child.

“The officer was away about ten minutes, an' during this time there was the greatest anxiety amongst the crowd. I could see plainly their countenances showed that they wished we might be found innocent. The officer at length appeared; advanced hastily,—O God! to have seen us then,—poor Maria, an' the ould man shaking every limb!

“‘Have you found it, Sir?’ says I.—‘_Yes, yes_, my friend, I _have_,’ was the answer; an' immadiately he ordthered the Provost to unbind us. The ould man dthropped on his knees, an' every one of us followed his example. There was a murmur of satisfaction among the crowd,—all were delighted with the respite, an' their prayers were mixed with ours.

“We were on our way back to the Governor's house, when I thought o' the necessity o' sending to the rigiment to which the breast-plate belonged, to secure success, an' I asked the commanding officer to do so: but it had been already done; he had sent off his adjutant on the moment to the proper quarter.

“It was now not more than eleven o'clock in the day: the news of the affair had spread, an' a greater number of officers crowded to spake to us now, than to see us before the thrial.

“We were all brought into a private room, where the Governor was, (an' that was the General that spoke to us about joining the French the day before)—The officer who found the breast-plate, up an' tould him all about it.

“‘But this breast-plate,’ says the General, ‘only gives the _number_ o' the regiment. We are still at a loss for the man, should he have obtained another breast-plate.—Besides, this is not direct proof.’

“‘Turn the other side, Sir,’ said the officer, ‘an' you will see the man's name scratched upon it with a pen-knife.’

“Oh! by the powers! this was like Providence, an' we all thanked God Almighty for it.

“In a few minutes the adjutant who was sent to find the man, returned; the sargeant was with him, carrying a kit, an' every thing belonging to the fellow that was suspected. He was then brought in before us; an' when we saw him, an' he us, any body could have sworn he was guilty. ‘Look at the villian,’ says I; ‘look at his neck, where I left the marks o' my knuckles:’ an' sure enough the marks were there, black as you plase.

“The General looked like thundther at him. ‘Where's your breast-plate, Sir?’ says he. The fellow shook.

“‘It's on my belt,’ was the reply. The belt was produced. It had no breast-plate on it! The passporation dthropped off the fellow's forehead.

“‘Sarch his kit,’ says the General. The kit was opened, and amongst his things was found a purse of money, a miniature picture of a lady, an' a gold watch—_all belonging to the curnel_!

“This was convincing. The General demanded him to answer to these proofs. He was silent. In a few moments, however, he confessed the crime; but pleaded that he was led into it by the sarvant, an' that both intended to desart to the English.

“We were immadiately liberated. The General himself came forward and shook hands with us. Maria acknowledged her disguise, an' the whole story of her getting her lover and myself out o' the church was tould. Every officer of the garrison came to congratulate us. They all seemed as happy as if they were our relations.

“The rascally sarvant that swore against us was sazed, an' both him an' the soldier were thried in an hour afther by the same court that thried us. We were the evidences; an' in less than two hours, the murdtherers _were hung on the gallows which they had prepared for us_!

“There wasn't a man in the garrison so happy as Harry that evening, nor a woman more joyful than Maria; for the General ordthered that we all should be escorted safely to the front an' delivered over to our own army. Not only that, but plenty o' money was given to us, with a hearty shake o' the hand from all the officers for our conduct; an' we marched out of Abrantes next morning with three jolly cheers from the men.”

* * * * *

Thus ended the Corporal's story of Maria de Carmo.

“Aweel, Corporal,” said Sergeant M'Fadgen, “that story is nae far short o' bein' a romance. If I didn't ken it to be fac mysel', I'd ha' swore it to be made oot o' yir ain Irish invention.”

The meed of praise so justly due to O'Callaghan for his story was now given by all the men; his courage and loyalty were commended, and his sufferings pitied. All, however, who had not been in the regiment at the time the circumstances occurred, demanded of the Corporal, what became of Harry and his sweetheart.

“O faith,” replied O'Callaghan, “they lived like turtle-doves together for three years. When we were delivered over from the enemy, they got married, an' had two fine boys, who are now in the Juke o' York's School.”

“And where are Maria and Harry?” asked one of the men.

The Corporal sighed as he answered; and got up to prepare for the relief.

“Maria,” said he, “God rest her sowl! died in child-bed; an' poor Harry was killed by my side at the battle o' Toulouse, shortly afther.”

The men then proceeded to relieve the sentries, and the Sergeant fell asleep.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] _Zehere._

[5] The French in the Peninsula during the war, called the English, _Crabs_, in allusion to their red coats.

OLD CHARLEY.

“Charley is my darling—the [_old_] Cavalier.”

A good-humoured by-name is often given by soldiers to their commanding officer, under which he is always known and talked of amongst them when his back is turned; and nothing more strongly proves their esteem for him than this practice. The Duke of Wellington himself was called “_The Little Corporal_” by his men; and this _mark of distinction_ his Grace received from his uncommon zeal and industry in promoting the works of the impenetrable lines at Torres Vedras. The indefatigable commander usually turned out at daybreak, and went through the batteries in which the men were at work, dressed in a plain blue coat and glazed hat, singly and on foot, to watch the progress of the operations. When seen at a distance by the working parties, “_Here comes the Little Corporal!_” would pass from one to another throughout, and all would redouble their exertions. This was not from fear, but from esteem—each was emulous of approval in his task; and had his Grace himself heard them designating him with the _title_ of his extraordinary rank, he would not have been at all displeased.

The subject of this sketch is Colonel Donellan, of the 48th, who was killed at Talavera; and “_Old Charley_” was the cognomen of friendly distinction, which the men of his regiment gave their gallant commander. A few traits in his military character will be found not unworthy of imitation by all young Colonels; nay, even some of our old ones would not be wrong in copying a few of his good qualities.

Old Charley was the last of the _Powderers_; that is to say, the only one in the regiment who, in despite of new customs and new taxes, clung to the good old cauliflower-head of the army, and would no more have gone to parade without pomatum and powder, than without his sword and sash. He had been accustomed to the practice of military hair-dressing from his early youth, and it formed as much a part of the officer, in his estimation, as the epaulette or the gorget. Even as the odoriferous effluvia of Auld Reekie, by the powers of association, will affect the children of that city throughout life, so will hair-powder and pomatum stick to the heads of the old military school for ever:—they bring back the mind to its early predilections: like Merlin's wand, a smell of the one and a dust of the other bid the spirit “of former days arise,” and cheer it with an intellectual view of its dearest hours!

In this amiable susceptibility Old Charley was pre-eminent; and he was often known to have regretted the improvement in hair-dressing, which reduced the quantity of iron pins and coagulable fat used in that art, from two pounds each head per diem to three ounces. The powdering-rooms built in all the old barracks for the purpose of twisting the tails of the battalions into dense knobs, and beautifying their heads with a composition of meal, whiting, and rancid suet, never were permitted by him to be defiled with cast-off stores of quarter-masters, or the rattletrap uproar of an adjutant's nursery. No; those relics of worth were sure to be protected by the whitewasher's brush and the charwoman's scrubber; and, in giving them up to the substitute purposes of orderly-room, Old Charley would heave a sigh and think of the white heads which, like snow-balls, were melted away by the warmth of croppy influence, and trampled upon by the march of refinement!

This worthy officer had formed the greatest friendship with the jack-boot of the army, together with its close associate—the white buckskin breeches; and when the grey overalls and short Wellingtons were ordered to displace them, he indignantly refused to obey—as far as regarded his own proper person: such innovations he could not bear; and, as a proof of his opposition upon this point, he stuck to his jacks and buckskins to the day of his death. They, as well as his favourite powder and pomatum, were along with him at Talavera, when the shot struck him which deprived the service of an excellent, though somewhat whimsical officer.

Amongst his _whims_ was that of governing his soldiers without flogging; and in this task (which is no very easy one) he succeeded so well, that when his regiment, the 2nd Battalion of the 48th, was reviewed by Sir David Baird on the Curragh of Kildare, that general officer complimented him by saying, that “it was as fine and as well disciplined a corps as he would ever wish to command.” This is certainly an argument, and a strong one, against the punishment of flogging in the army; but then, to make the argument perfect, we must provide that there should be an “Old Charley” in every regiment; or, in other words, a commanding officer whose qualities of government can supersede the necessity of the lash.

He pleased both officers and men under his command, although he sometimes was harsh with them, for they knew this harshness was dictated by a wish for their welfare—it was that of a father for his children.

The Colonel had been removed from the second battalion to the first, and for a considerable time had not seen his favourite men. Previous to the battle of Talavera, Lord Wellington reviewed his whole army on the plain, in order to show his ally, the Spanish General Cuesta, a specimen of the British forces in all the pride of their excellence. As the Generals rode along the line, which was of immense extent, each soldier stood fixed in his place; each battalion silent and motionless; scarcely the eyelids of the soldiers twinkled, as the cavalcade of the chiefs and their staff rode by. All on a sudden, a bustle and murmur took place in one regiment; its line lost its even appearance; and caps, and heads, and hands, and tongues moved, to the utter dismay of the officer who was in command of it. In vain did he endeavour to check this unseemly conduct in his men, and Lord Wellington was himself astonished and exasperated at the circumstance. The fact is, the irregular regiment was the second battalion of the 48th:—Colonel Donellan happened to be riding along with the staff, in his stiff buckskins, powdered hair, and square-set cocked hat—his men, from whom he had been separated, perceived their beloved commanding-officer, and every one murmured to his comrade—“There goes _old Charley!_”—“God bless _the old boy!_”—“Success to him!”—“Does not he look well?”—and so on; bustling and smiling, evidently from an impulse they could not resist. When this was known to the Commander-in-Chief he was perfectly satisfied; and all were delighted as old Charley uncovered, and shook the powder from his cocked hat in waving a cordial salute to his worthy soldiers.

In a very short time after this circumstance the battle of Talavera took place, and then the Colonel showed that he knew the use of steel and ball as well as of _powder_. He was engaged at the head of his regiment, in the thickest of the fight: for several hours he had stood the fire of the enemy, and drove them from their ground frequently, during which time he had two horses shot under him. The presence of the fine old soldier, like Charles the XII. in scarlet, animated his men, and they fought with the energy of true courage. His voice, as he gave the word of command along the line of his battalion, was like a match to the gun—“Steady, officers! cool, my men—Ready, p'sent, fire—that's the way, my lads.” Thus old Charley, at a word, sent showers of well-directed balls into the blue ranks before him; and in the heat of a well-returned fire, was as cool as on the parade, and as primly caparisoned. He perceived a few of his men fall from a discharge of musketry, at such a distance as made him doubtful of being within range—“Curse the fellows,” said he, “those damn'd long guns of theirs can shoot at two miles off!” and immediately advanced his battalion to such a proximity of the foe, that he soon made them shift their ground.

Very shortly after this, a dreadful charge upon the French was made by the Guards; but in their pursuit they went rather far, and a reinforcement of the enemy came upon them. Colonel Donellan instantly advanced to the support of the threatened regiment at double quick time: but in this glorious moment, the gallant leader received a ball in his knee: he beckoned the officer next in command, Major Middlemore, and, although suffering the most excruciating torture from the wound, took off his hat, and resigned the command just as if he had been on the parade of a barrack-yard. His enraged men went on like lions, taking ample revenge upon their enemies—and that too with the _cold iron_.

The Colonel, with his knee broken in a most dangerous manner, was, without loss of time, carried to the rear by four of his musicians, and placed on a straw bed in the town of Talavera: had there been surgeons to have amputated his limb on the instant, it is supposed he would have survived; but this not having been the case, mortification took place, and he died on the fourth day after the battle, surrounded by thousands of dying and dead.

Owing to Cuesta's illiberal opposition to Lord Wellington, he, as well as the rest of the wounded, were left in the hands of the French; as were also several English surgeons, who remained at the mercy of the enemy.[6] The Colonel, however, was treated with the greatest respect and kindness by the French officers. Some of them remembered seeing him at the head of his battalion, and warmly praised the veteran's gallantry.

His soldier-like appearance, too, commanded their regard, and they carried him in a cloak to the spot on which he had led his regiment so bravely, and there they buried “Old Charley” with the true honours of a soldier.

FOOTNOTE:

[6] These surgeons were sent, after their duty, not to a French prison, but to Paris, where Napoleon complimented all, and presented them with money and a free passage to England, for the service they had done his soldiers, and allowed for the nature of their duty, which placed them in his power.

MESS-TABLE CHAT.

No. I.

“But this is worshipful society.”

_Shakspeare._

SCENE—_The mess-room of a Hussar Regiment: principal speakers—Colonel
Diamond_; _Major Flowers_; _Captains Tache_, _Bright_, _and Ploomer_;
_Doctor Scott_; _Lieutenants Rose_, _Golding_, _Lavender_, _and
Honeywood_; _Cornets Lilly_, _Fairfax_, _Canary_, _and Small_. _Table
spread with dessert_, _decanters_, _glasses_, _and snuff-boxes_.
_Time—half-past ten at night._

_Capt. Bright._ When Colonel Diamond has done _drilling_ the claret, I would thank him to put it into _marching order_, and give the decanter the _route_.

_Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, Bright, you are becoming _brilliant_. If you take any more of the light wine, you will absolutely _dazzle_ us.

_All the Mess._ Good!—good!—excellent!—bravo! Colonel—admirable hit.

[_A well directed volley is laughed at the Colonel's_ “HIT;”
_particularly loud from the Subalterns._]

_Dr. Scott._ Positively, Colonel Diamond, the Ensign and Adjutant, wha writes in Blackwood's Magazine, couldna say a better bet o' wut. (_offers his gold snuff-box to the Colonel._)

_Capt. Bright._ By the by, Colonel, who is this new Cornet we are about to have?

_Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know him; but, I believe, Major Flowers does.

_Major Flowers._ _Pardonnez moi_, Colonel, I don't _know_ him. His uncle's in _trade_: he is _known_ on _change_.

_All the Mess_ (_with a stare_). Indeed!!!

_Major Flowers._ Yes, I have _heard_ that he is a _dry-salter_?

_All the Mess._ A dry-salter?

_Lieut. Rose._ Horrible!

_Cornet Canary._ Shocking!

_Cornet Small._ Dreadful!

_Lieut. Golding._ Abominable!

_Dr. Scott._ Aweel, I dinna know but there's mare in dry-salters than you think, gentlemen: he's na' the worse for a' that, gin he's got the siller.

_Major Flowers._ Doctor, 'pon my honour, I am surprised that you should think that money could possibly purchase our permission to admit a _dry-salter's_ relation as a member of the _nonpareils_!

_All the Mess._ Oh, Doctor!—oh! oh! oh!

_Dr. Scott._ A dry-salter, Major, is na' worse than a _tailor_, and I have seen a tailor's son _cut_ a canny dash in the army afore noo.

_All the Mess._ Have _done_, Doctor, pray have done!

_Colonel Diamond._ The Doctor has _Dunn_, I assure you. (_Although the Colonel's pun was evidently a poser—all laughed a little; but the Colonel himself, although he could not refrain from the deliverance of it, was certainly sorry for having been so witty, and a short silence intervened._)

_Major Flowers._ Oh, by the by, Colonel, I have received a letter from Lady Fanny, and she tells me that it is rumoured—a—that we are to be sent to Ireland.

_All the Mess._ To Ireland!

_Capt. Tache._ I'll exchange, upon my honour.

_Lieut. Golding._ I'll resign.

_Lieut. Lavender._ We shall be starved, as I live.

_Capt. Bright._ We shall be murdered.

_Cornet Small_ (_in a piping voice_). Really, if I had the slightest anticipation that the regiment should have been ordered on _foreign_ service _at all_, I would have joined the _Blues_. A man of _fortune_ has no business in Ireland.

_Col. Diamond._ If this news of Lady Fanny's should turn out to be true, I must go to town immediately, and insist upon a change in the arrangement; the Duke must _not_ be allowed to have his way in this: so, gentlemen, make yourselves easy on the subject. _I am determined we shall not go._

[_All the Mess are delighted, and a burst of applause
follows the concluding word of the Colonel's assurance._]

_Dr. Scott._ Dinna fash aboot ganging to Ireland, gentlemen; it's no sae bad a spot as you think.

_Capt. Ploomer._ Really, Doctor, you Scotchmen have strange notions of comfort,—totally at variance with the _esprit de corps_ which distinguishes the _nonpareils_. Those _boundary_ countries, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, may do very well for the infantry and the heavy dragoons, and perhaps as an occasional quarter for the _lights_; but we, who are the _influential_ portion of the military ton, should never leave England, except, indeed, for such an affair as Waterloo.

_Dr. Scott._ My conscience! but I think, Captain, such “_affairs_” as Waterloo are more suitable to the _heavy dragoons_ than to the _Hussars_: an' I have na doubt but the gallant Marquis o' Anglesea wud tell ye the same thing.

_Capt. Ploomer._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know; we did very well, too; vastly well—a—but let us confine ourselves to Ireland, Doctor.

_Col. Diamond._ Yes, Doctor, to Ireland, if you please.

_Dr. Scott._ Weel, what objection have ye to that quarter?

_Capt. Ploomer._ Objection! my dear Sir! they shake hands with their friends, and absolutely eat breakfasts.

_Cornet Canary._ Oh, shocking!

_Cornet Fairfax._ Abominable!

_Capt. Tache._ The Doctor is not to blame, considering the view he takes of the matter. Ireland may be a very good quarter; but the Commander-in-Chief ought to draw a line between the _mere_ army and the _cream_ of the cavalry.

_All the Mess._ Certainly—undoubtedly—decidedly.

_Dr. Scott._ I dinna ken that—I dinna ken that; the _cream_ of the cavalry, as ye call it, did na mair under Pompey at the battle o' Pharsalia, than they did under Wellington at Waterloo.

[_A silence prevails during the application of three full
pinches of snuff._]

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Pray, Doctor, may I ask you when _that_ action was fought? Was it before the affair of Talavera?

_Cornet Lilly._ Yes, considerably previous.

_Dr. Scott._ Which action?—Waterloo?

_Lieut. Honeywood._ No, no; the other you mention.

_Dr. Scott._ What! the Battle of Pharsalia?

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Yes.

_Dr. Scott_ (_having first taken snuff_). A wee bit afore that.

_Cornet Lilly._ Yes, yes, my dear Honeywood, considerably before that. I have heard my father speak of it.

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Pray, Mr. Lilly, how long ago may it have occurred?

_Cornet Lilly._ Oh, long before the American war. The Doctor, I dare say, can tell. How many years ago, Doctor?

_Dr. Scott._ As near as I can guess it is about forty-eight years—

_Lieut. Honeywood._ } (_interrupting_) Yes, about _Cornet Lilly._ } forty-eight years ago—perfectly right.

_Dr. Scott._ No sae fast—

_Cornet Lilly._ It can't be much less, for my father—

_Dr. Scott._ Stay, stay, no sae fast, young gentleman. I say, as near as I can recollect, it occurred about forty-eight years _before Christ_.

_Lieut. Honeywood._ } _Before_ Christ! _Cornet Lilly._ }

_Dr. Scott_ (_snuffing_). Ay, nae far fra' twa thoosand years ago.

[_There was now a general laugh, and all became suddenly
learned on this point; even Lieut. Honeywood and Cornet
Lilly, who now affected to say that they meant to quiz
the Doctor; but most betraying blushes, and unlucky
countenances belied the insinuation._]

_Col. Diamond._ John!

[_Colonel's servant advances two paces towards
the Colonel._]

_Servant._ Sir!

_Col. Diamond._ Why don't the band play?

_All the Mess._ Ay, ay, the band—where's the band?

[_This question restored the countenances of the blushers
to their ordinary hue; for the little discord was drowned
in the harmonious call for one band._]

_Servant._ They have been in the hall since eight o'clock, Sir, waiting for orders to play.

_Col. Diamond._ Oh! ah! I ordered them not to play until after dinner. Tell them to proceed now.

[_Exit Servant at a gallop._]

_Major Flowers._ That's a good idea, Colonel. We should be two hours later, certainly, than the heavy dragoons in this parti-cu-lar.

_All the Mess._ Certainly!—decidedly!—of course.

[_Band without begin to play Von Weber's favourite overture._]

_Col. Diamond._ Mess-waiter!

_Waiter_ (_advancing three paces towards the Colonel_). Sir!

_Col. Diamond._ Tell the band-master to stop that, and to play “Lady Fanny's Hussar piece.”

[_Exit Waiter in a trot._]

_All the Mess._ Bravo! Colonel, a good move.

_Col. Diamond._ Von Weber's music is very well, and the King patronizes it; but, 'pon my honour, Lady Fanny's Hussar is more elegant.

[_Band play a noise, in which several screams of the clarionet and
groans of the trombone are prominent, during which the Mess beat
time, or rather move their heads and fingers, occasionally
commenting on the piece. At length the instruments cease to play,
after a violent struggle of the bassoons._]

_Col. Diamond._ Isn't it very good?

_All._ Excellent! Superb!

_Cornet Small._ Don't his Majesty like that piece, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ No: 'pon my honour.

_Major Flowers._ You see, Colonel, his Majesty requires a little improvement; he is certainly a very good musician, and prefers the Rossinis and Von Webers; but really, I think Lady Fanny's piece _ought_ to please _him_. It has a delightful mixture of movement.

_Col. Diamond._ Lady Fanny's is fine; and certainly, her ladyship has got a good _major-key_ in you.

_All the Mess._ Bravo!—Hit again!—Bravo!—Bravo!

_Dr. Scott_ (_taking snuff_). Ecod I dinna like the thing at a'; it's sic a mixture, that I canna mak heed or tail o't.

_Cornet Small._ 'Pon my honour, Doctor, you are a perfect Goth in taste.

_Lieut. Rose._ A Vandal, Sir.

_Capt. Ploomer._ Nothing but a Hun.

_Dr. Scott._ Weel, if I am a Goth, Hun, or Vandal, you ha' placed me in gude company; for you say his Majesty doesna like the piece. Noo I would ask what partic'lar merit Lady Fanny shows?

_Col. Diamond._ Merit, Sir!—a—the fact is, Lady Fanny is the best-dress'd woman in town.

_All the Mess._ Decidedly!

_Major Flowers._ Her ladyship's taste is undisputed: the Austrian knot on the fore part of our full dress pantaloons is from her design.

_Col. Diamond._ She discovered an error in the Astrachan fur collar of our pelisse,—suggested an improvement in the side-seams, welts, and hips: Besides, her Russian patterns of neck lines, sliders, and olivets, are lasting monuments of her refinement. Indeed she is a very superior sort of woman, and I'll give you her health in a bumper.

[_Lady Fanny is drunk standing._]

_Dr. Scott._ But what music has she composed, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ Some excellent things, indeed: there's her song “_Come Charles to-night_,” which she dedicated to _me_; and there's her Bravura on the burning of Moscow; and her grand Hussar piece, which she has dedicated to _us_.—In short she is a woman of fine parts.

_All the Mess._ Oh, delightful!

_Dr. Scott._ Wud you sing ane o' her songs, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ Doctor, you _ought_ to know that the _Nonpareils_ never sing.

_Dr. Scott._ Vara weel—ha' it your ain way.

_Capt. Bright._ By the by, Lady Mary, her sister, gives a ball to-night.—Don't we go, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ I should like it, because the Lancers are to be there.—We _must_ cut _them_ out.

_Major Flowers._ Oh, certainly!—Decidedly!

_Capt. Golding._ The Lancers look very well: they have got a fair dress; but still they are mere light-dragoons. They are too new, and have not yet acquired the polish of the Hussars.

_All the Mess._ Certainly not!—mere light-dragoons!

_Col. Diamond._ Besides, they have lately lost ground.—It has gone abroad upon them. They can never hope to succeed.

_Several of the Mess._ How, pray Colonel?—What has happened?

_Col. Diamond._ They absolutely _dance_.

_Major Flowers._ I have heard the rumour.

_Capt. Tache._ Indeed!

_Lieut. Lavender._ Shocking!

_Cornet Small._ Horrible!

_Col. Diamond._ They dine so early as six, too.

_All the Mess._ Oh! Oh! that will never do.

_Major Flowers._ Besides, their scarlet trowsers are not wide enough; and I have seen positively a grey hair on one of their whiskers. In short, we must go to Lady Mary's ball, to cut them out at _once_.

_All the Mess._ Certainly, at once!

_Colonel_ (_to his servant_). John! I'll dress at twelve; and d' y' hear, I'll wear my long ball spurs.

_Dr. Scott_ (_to his servant_). Sandy!

_Sandy._ Ser.

_Dr. Scott._ Is there a fire in my room?

_Sandy._ Yes, Ser.

_Dr. Scott._ Gang then an' mak' a bason o' gruel, an'—d'ye hear?—take my snuff-box, an' fill it; an' put my slippers afore the fire.

[_Exit Sandy at a walk._]

_Col. Diamond._ What, off! Doctor.

_Dr. Scott._ Yes, I'm gauin' to bed; an' if you a' consulted yer health an' yer pockets, ye wad do sae likwise.

_All the Mess._ Ha! ha! ha! Good night! Good night!

_Dr. Scott._ I tell ye what lads,—yer a' gude sodgers in spite o' yir claethes, an' yir gimcrackery, an' yir nonsense; for I've seen some o' ye faight afore noo. Lord Wellington said that his dandy officers were the best o' a'; an' maybe they are as gude as others; but I tell ye what, it's na' by turning naight into day, an' whisking aboot amangst a crood o' gigling lassies, that ye'll improve yoursels in the art o' war, or the strength that is as useful an' necessary for it. Good naight to ye a'!

_All the Mess._ Good night, Doctor, good night.

[_Exit Dr. Scott._]

_Col. Diamond_ (_after a short pause_). “There's another star gone out.”

_Capt. Bright._ Bravo! Colonel, a good quotation.

_Cornet Lilly._ Very good indeed!—(_in a whisper_) Pray from whom is it, Captain Bright?

_Capt. Bright._ From a very particular friend of mine—Lord Byron.

_Major Flowers._ I hope you have cut him. He is decidedly hostile to us.

_Capt. Bright._ I have never seen him since he left England. But I meant to cut him ever since he published his scurrility in the “Liberal.” He first abused the army, and then became a soldier himself.

_Col. Diamond._ But, Major, what does Lady Mary's card say? Have you got one here?

_Major Flowers._ I have not.

_Cornet Small._ I have, Colonel, and here it is.

[_Gives a card._]

_Col. Diamond_—(_reads_). “_Lady-a-um-compliments to the Officers of the Nonpareil Hussars._” Why, what's all this? The _Officers_ of the Nonpareil Hussars! I'll not go.

_All the Mess._ Why not, Colonel? Why not?

_Col._ I'm not invited.

_All the Mess._ Not invited!

_Col. Diamond._ No, I'm not invited, and of course will not go. “_Officers_,” indeed! the card should run thus—“_To_ COLONEL DIAMOND, _and the Officers of the &c._” Really it is a breach of etiquette that I cannot submit to.

_Major Flowers._ 'Pon my honour, Colonel, I do not think there can be any offence meant: pray let me entreat you to come.

_Col. Diamond._ No, Major, I feel—a—the—a—in short, it should have been to “the _Colonel_ and the Officers.” Don't you think so?

_Major._ Perhaps it would have been more particular; but I do not think it is of so much consequence, as to make you forego the delightful society of Lady Fanny; for her ladyship will be there to a certainty.

[_Colonel hums a tune._]

Do pray come, Colonel.

_All the Mess._ Yes, you must come, Colonel—come—come—come—Colonel! Do Colonel—do come!

[_All stand up, except the Colonel._]

_Col. Diamond._ Well, as you all so _particularly_ request it, I—a—will go; but, 'pon my honour! I am determined to notice the neglect in a proper manner to Lady Mary.

_All the Mess._ Bravo! Colonel! Bravo!

_Capt. Golding._ Pass the Madeira this way, Major; but first help yourself.

[_Each now takes a glass of Madeira—a Babel call for the
servants immediately follows—“Tom! John! Jack! James!”
and exeunt omnes, whistling and staggering._]

A DAUGHTER OF OSSIAN.

“Il y a encore une autre espèce de larmes qui n'ont que de petites
sources, qui coulent et se tarissent facilement: on pleure pour avoir
la réputation d'être tendre; on pleure pour être plaint; on pleure
pour être pleuré; enfin, on pleure pour éviter la honte de ne pleurer
pas.”—_De la Rochefoucauld._

Who treads upon the field of death? Who sighs upon the winds of the night, like the mourning ghost of the warrior, mingling its melancholy tones with the shrieks of the passing owl, that lonely flaps his pinions in the moonlight? Who walks amongst the slain? See, where the figure glides with heedless step, its white robe streaming like a mist of morning when the sun first glances on the mountain; now gazing on the pale moon, now turning to the paler faces of the dead. Who walks upon the bed of sleeping carnage? Who wakes the frighted night from her horrid trance, and thus tempts her terrors? Is it the restless spirit of a departed hero, or the ghost of the love-lorn maid? Is it light, or is it air? Ah no! it is not light, it is not air; it is not the ghost of the love-lorn maid; it is not the spirit of the departed hero. No, no, no, no!—'tis Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th!!!

And it _was_ Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th. She, poor soul! was the victim of early impressions. She was cradled in romance, and nursed in air-built castles; she read of Ossian, and she became his adopted daughter; she read of Sir Walter, and she became his adopted niece; she was Lady Morgan's “sylph-like form,” and her voice was one of Tom Moore's “Irish Melodies;” she could delight the eyes of the rude with tambour-work and velvet-painting; she could ravish their ears with a tune on the piano; she could finish a landscape in Indian ink, and play the “Battle of Prague” without a stop. The admiration of her doating parents, the envy of her female acquaintances, angelic, charming Charlotte Clarke (now Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th) was all you could desire.

Charlotte was bred at Portarlington boarding-school; there did she form her mind—there did she learn that she had “a soul above buttons,” and that love and glory were the “_be all and the end all_” of existence. Trade! fie,—contaminate not the ethereal soul—dim not the halo that surrounds such excellence, by the approach of such coarse and vulgar matter! Charlotte despised it, even as her father loved it and gave to it all his days.

Dublin is a martial city; the view of the royal barracks is a royal sight. There did she love to go and gaze, and listen to the band, until the tears stole down her lovely cheeks. She would then walk home, and weep, and sleep, and dream of epaulettes both gold and silver, of scarlet coats, of feathers and long swords. Her days (until after tea-time) were passed in reading Newman's novels, and practising the “_run_” of Braham. “HE _was famed for deeds of arms_; SHE _a maid of envied charms_.” “_Young Henry was as brave a youth._” “_Hark where martial music sounding far._” These were her songs; she practised them in the morning with her hair in papers, and she sung them after supper, (whenever she was at a “_party_”) with her interesting curls upon her forehead, shading her blushes and the soft light of her languid eyes. She loved the Rotunda-gardens in the summer evenings, and she gloried in the ball, when winter hung upon the night; for both in gardens of Rotunda, and in light of ball-room, the red coats ever in her hopes, cut a figure in her eye, and a deeper in her heart. She went to the Dargle and the Waterfall, to _Pool Avoca_,[7] and Killyny (when ever she was invited), and among the Summer Sunday beauties of the scene, full well she did enact her part. Her life was one bright dream, beaming with sun-bright smiles and brighter tears. Her heart was tender, and her will was strong. Need it be said, that such a maid fell deeply in love? Alas! she did. The gentle Charlotte loved;—ah! deeply loved—but who she could not tell! It was a form and yet it was not matter, (no matter, indeed, whether it was or not); it was a hero, all epaulettes and scarlet, white feathers, and still whiter pantaloons, set out with sword and belt and sash and gorget; a hero at all points, whose name, nevertheless, was not to be found in the army list: in short the being was a lovely paradox—a thing and yet a nothing, she saw it in her dreams, as well as in her wakeful hours; it never left her side waking or asleep; _there_ was the form of her darling lover, like Moore's “Knight of Killarney,” O'Donohue and his white horse on a May-day morning,

“That youth who beneath the blue lake lies

· · · · · ·

While white as the sails some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd thy long mane curls,
Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free,”

dancing and prancing on the winds; there he was in a splendid uniform, (some say with _buff_ facings, some say green,) and she woo'd it, and she woo'd it, till her cheek grew pale, and her eye lost half its brightness. Every officer she met on the Mall was likened to her lover in her “mind's eye;” but they were not her lovers. Captains Thompson, Jones, and Pentilton; Lieutenants Jacobs, Raulins, and Flagherty; Ensigns Gibbs, Mullins, and Mortimer; all resembled the object of her love, but she refused to acknowledge their identity with it. At length young Jenkins, an Ensign of Militia, realized the aerial form she so long had loved. Yes, he did actually embody it; and at the holy altar, even in spite of crusty fathers

“Who make a jest of sweet affection,”

the amiable and adorable Charlotte Clarke became the gentle Mrs. Jenkins.

“War's clarion blew!” Napoleon and Wellington struggled like two giants for ascendancy. Ensign Jenkins volunteered into the line, and proceeded to the fields of Lusitania. Could Charlotte stay behind? No! the briny waters soon bore her, with her husband and seven other officers (all members of the mess), to Portugal. Ensign Jenkins was ordered to the front. Could Mrs. Jenkins stay behind? No! she braved the fatigues of the march and the horrors of the battle, like a true heroine: she loved the 48th, and she would go along with it, through thick and thin. The parching sun, the drenching storm, the unmoistened biscuit, and the chill damp bivouac alike she would endure.—“_Love and Glory_” carried her through all. It was a sight worth all the jewels of romance to see—a thought worth all heaven to contemplate—the sight of Mrs. Charlotte Jenkins, like a “ministering angel,” standing amidst the terrors of the field!

The battle raged; the slain were many; the regiment covered themselves with glory—but poor Jenkins fell! The moon arose upon the field of battle, and shone upon the dead—the fight was over. Could Mrs. Jenkins rest without her husband? Oh, no! Forth she hied to search out the body of her Jenkins, dead as he was, at the dead hour of night. She gazed at the moon—she gazed upon the slain—and she thought upon the days of her teens, of Newman's novels, and Portarlington.

A tender-hearted sympathetic soul, by name Captain Rogers of the Grenadiers, watched the fair Charlotte's steps (for she had told him she would go and seek her Jenkins) and gently led her from the sickening scene.

Poor Jenkins was not found; but dead, no doubt he was, for there were several witnesses of his fall. He had fallen upon his face—the Sergeant lifted him from the earth, but he did not speak—life was no longer there; so the Sergeant left him lying on the field, for he had yet to knock some others down.

The truth struck strong upon fair Charlotte's heart; her bursting bosom was saved from rending by a well-timed flood of tears, which the Captain politely wiped away. “Cease, lady, cease this useless, unavailing grief,” sighed the sympathetic Rogers; “if thou hast lost a husband, still are a thousand left for thy choice;—and though one Jenkins may be gone, another Jenkins may supply his place.”

Oh! to be thus addressed amidst romantic war! and by a Captain, too, of Grenadiers!—I cannot, will not further—

Draw, draw the veil upon her weakness! But stay, I must—I must reveal it—she was comforted; and not many nights passed o'er her widowed bed, till ... married was Charlotte to her Rogers—as well as in the field they _could_ be married, where parsons are but rare as all who know allow.

In joyous honeymoon the pair repaired to Lisbon (for Rogers was detached upon a special duty), mayhap because the blushing bride wished for retirement from a scene which must have ever reminded her of Ensign Jenkins. But be that as it may, a month had scarcely told its thirty days (or thirty-one, I know not which), when one dark night, such as the wolf delights in, a solemn knock was heard at the outer door of the house where rested Rogers and his lady, “Who comes?” The door is opened—a figure stands at the threshold.—It is Ensign Jenkins!!! O appalling sight! “A ghost, a ghost! my husband's ghost!” the frighted Mrs. Rogers cries; “Oh, take him from my sight!”

“No, thank you, Ma'am,” replies the visitor; “I am no ghost, but Ensign Jenkins of the 48th!!!”

No more; I'll say no more, and wherefore should I? Family affairs I leave as I find them; but this I must relate. The Ensign was not dead, but speechless when the Sergeant lifted him from off the turf; he had received a knock-down blow, but soon recovered and was taken prisoner on the field. From French captivity he then escaped; but ah! not time enough to save his lady love.

Oh cursed chance! that Sergeant's false and deadly report should thus put virtuous woman's love to proof!

REMARK.

If there be any romantic lady attached to the army, who sees in herself a close resemblance to the Ephesian matron, or my heroine, the Author beseeches she will not make it known; but let the tale and its allusions, and its moral, sink into “the tomb of all the _Jenkinses_.”

When the _48th regiment_ was selected for the purpose of giving a local habitation to the Author's imaginary hero and his love, it was only because that number came first to hand. Nothing could be further from his ideas, than to make the slightest disrespectful allusion to that corps, which, as is well known, was and is one of the finest in the service.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Vale of Avoca.

THE MULETEER.

Light on the mountain was fading away,
Dimly 'twas closing the long summer's day;
But light on the heart of the muleteer shone,
Which brightened each step that his mule gallop'd on.
For long had he follow'd the dreary campaign,
Long sigh'd for the maid of his bosom again;
And when from the valley her home met his view,
His heart on before his mule rapidly flew.

Silent was night—but more silent the cot—
Ruin and waste was the village's lot:
The foot of the Frenchman there heavily trod—
The track was seen deep in the villager's blood.
The Muleteer called—but no voice could he hear,
He look'd for his love—but no woman was there;
The flash of despair though his brain wildly flew;
And he wept o'er the ruins of all that he knew.

Wept not he long; for the flame of his woe
Burnt every thought, but revenge on the foe;
His mule wild he turn'd on the hills of Navarre,
He girded his sword, and he flew to the war.
There, loud—as he gave each invader his doom,
He call'd on his love—on his country—his home;
But the death-ball at last through his sad bosom sped,
And the muleteer sunk with the slain of his blade.[8]

This little ballad has its origin in the following pathetic story, which I heard from the only surviving relative of the unfortunate muleteer—his mother. It was in the town, or rather village of Ernani, on the high road from Tolosa to France, that the old widow beguiled a winter's night with the recital of it, at her poor but hospitable hearth, when I was on the march to Fontarabia, in the last of our peninsular campaigns. The poor woman supported herself by selling cider, butter, cheese, &c. to the passing armies of both French and English, and her house, as well as others, served as a quarter for the soldiers. She was one of the few who remained in the village; or rather who returned to it, after it was first sacked by the French; for she had lost all, and had nothing more to fear. About four years had elapsed since her son's death; and her grief had changed to a settled melancholy. Still the recital of her calamities drew tears from her.

Her son was a muleteer, who traded between Pampalona and Passages—a young man of about twenty-three years of age: he was employed by others, as well as on his mother's account, who was a widow left in a considerable business, to manage for herself and infant son, whom she bred up to industrious habits; and she had succeeded in laying by a small provision for the future, when Napoleon's ambition, which, in 1808, sent a French army into Spain, extended its baneful effects even to her humble dwelling.

The house in which this widow dwelt, was situated at the extremity of the village. It must have once been a most enchanting little home to an unambitious mind; for even at the time I saw it, ruin as it was, its garden trodden down, its trees broken and torn up, its fences destroyed, and its walks disfigured—a charm lingered over it that caught every passenger's attention. The scenery around gave it a peculiar beauty: the blue mountains, the dark valleys, the luxuriance of foliage, the deep green dell, the falling water, and the clear sky still remained;—these the soldiers of France could not destroy, and from such scenery did the wreck of the widow's cottage derive its rural halo. It reminded me of the fair Ophelia in her ruin,—so beautiful, so scathed and sorrowful! If a picture of the spot were painted by a Salvator Rosa, it would afford a melancholy pleasure to every beholder; but the reality—the poor widow and her breaking heart, gave too much pain to render a visit to her cheerless home at all enviable.

To have seen her sitting in the only tenantable apartment of her once comfortable cottage, thinly but cleanly clad—a white apron and kerchief covering the half worn out black stuff gown; two broken chairs, a crazy table, a straw pallet, and a few earthen panella's,[9] forming all her furniture; to have contemplated the fixed melancholy of her thin, worn, but once handsome countenance, her gentle manners, and her patient submission to the will of Heaven, under the deepest affliction—and yet to have been unable to alleviate her distress, could give no pleasure to the heart, unless to those who love to sympathise with grief and drop a tear with the unfortunate. Yet even such would have involuntarily said, on quitting the melancholy scene, “I wish I had not heard the poor old widow's story.”

Her son Diego the muleteer, when the French first entered Spain, under the orders of Buonaparte, was about twenty-two years of age, and had the reputation of being an exemplary young man, obedient, and affectionate to his mother—his only relation, except an uncle, who also resided in Ernani, and whose farm the young muleteer no doubt would have inherited, after his death, had he survived him.

Under the uncle's auspices, Diego had courted a young girl, nearly related to a respectable family, at the head of which was a clergyman residing in the convent of St. Ignatio de Loyola, but a few leagues from Ernani. The girl's father lived within a hundred yards of Diego and his mother, and from infancy the young couple became attached to each other.

Although the employment of a muleteer is, in general, considered beneath the class to which Diego's sweetheart belonged, yet there was no objection to her marriage, on account of the excellent character the young man bore, and the expectations which he had of future success in life. The marriage would have taken place as soon as a house, which the muleteer's uncle was building, might be completed. In this house the young couple were to have resided, and to it was attached an excellent farm, to be managed by him for the uncle. These happy arrangements, alas! were broken by the columns of the French army. Like mountain torrents they poured over the Pyrenees, sweeping the rustic comforts of the peaceful Spaniards before them. Requisitions for cattle and carriages were enforced, and Diego, amongst many, was obliged to march with his mules along with the invading army, wherever his directors thought fit.

Short was the time allowed for the sad yet endearing farewell of the lovers, and the interchange of blessings between the mother and the son. The uncle and the widow accompanied him a league beyond the village; but the poor girl, who now for the first time felt the bitterness of life, remained weeping at home, almost dead with grief; which was not alleviated by the return of Diego's mother and uncle, whose first care, after parting with the youth, was to go to her he loved so well. The house—the whole village was a place of mourning; for every family, in some way or other, had but too much cause for sorrow.

Poor old woman! when she told me of the last moment she passed with her lost son, she sobbed as if her heart would have burst. “Oh!” said she, “I was giving my dear child a prayer-book and a silk handkerchief, for the sake of remembrance, when one of the dragoons struck him with the flat of his sword, and ordered him to go on; he could only say, ‘God bless you, mother!’... I never saw him again.”