The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer
By Charles James Lever (1806-1872)
Dublin
MDCCCXXXIX.
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[Illustration: spine]
[Illustration: titlepage]
[Illustration: The Inn at Munich]
“We talked of pipe-clay regulation caps—
Long twenty-fours—short culverins and mortars—
Condemn’d the ‘Horse Guards’ for a set of raps,
And cursed our fate at being in such quarters.
Some smoked, some sighed, and some were heard to snore;
Some wished themselves five fathoms ’neath the Solway;
And some did pray—who never prayed before—
That they might get the ‘route’ for Cork or Galway.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. Arrival in Cork—Civic Festivities—Private Theatricals
CHAPTER II. Detachment Duty—The Burton Arms—Callonby
CHAPTER III. Life at Callonby—Love-making—Miss O’Dowd’s Adventure
CHAPTER IV. Botanical Studies—The Natural System preferable to the Linnaean
CHAPTER V. Puzzled—Explanation—Makes bad worse—The Duel
CHAPTER VI. The Priest’s Supper—Father Malachi and the Coadjutor—Major Jones and the Abbé
CHAPTER VII. The Lady’s Letter—Peter and his Acquaintances—Too late
CHAPTER VIII. Congratulations—Sick Leave—How to pass the Board
CHAPTER IX. The Road—Travelling Acquaintances—A Packet Adventure
CHAPTER X. Upset—Mind and Body
CHAPTER XI. Cheltenham—Matrimonial Adventure—Showing how to make love for a friend
CHAPTER XII. Dublin—Tom O’Flaherty—A Reminiscence of the Peninsula
CHAPTER XIII. Dublin—The Boarding-house—Select Society
CHAPTER XIV. The Chase
CHAPTER XV. Mems Of the North Cork
CHAPTER XVI. Theatricals
CHAPTER XVII. (The chapter number is a repeat) The Wager
CHAPTER XVIII. The Elopement
CHAPTER XIX. Detachment Duty—An Assize Town
CHAPTER XX. The Assize Town
CHAPTER XXI. A Day in Dublin
CHAPTER XXII. A Night at Howth
CHAPTER XXIII. The Journey
CHAPTER XXIV. Calais
CHAPTER XXV. The Gen d’Arme
CHAPTER XXVI. The Inn at Chantraine
CHAPTER XXVII. Mr O’Leary
CHAPTER XXVIII. Paris
CHAPTER XXIX. Paris
CHAPTER XXX. Captain Trevanion’s Adventure
CHAPTER XXXI. Difficulties
CHAPTER XXXII. Explanation
CHAPTER XXXIII. Mr O’Leary’s First Love
CHAPTER XXXIV. Mr O’Leary’s Second Love
CHAPTER XXXV. The Duel
CHAPTER XXXVI. Early Recollections—A First Love
CHAPTER XXXVII. Wise Resolves
CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Proposal
CHAPTER XXXIX. Thoughts upon Matrimony in general, and in the Army in particular—The Knight of Kerry and Billy M’Cabe
CHAPTER XL. A Reminiscence
CHAPTER XLI. The Two Letters
CHAPTER XLII. Mr O’Leary’s Capture
CHAPTER XLIII. The Journey
CHAPTER XLIV. The Journey
CHAPTER XLV. A Reminscence of the East
CHAPTER XLVI. A Day in the Phœnix
CHAPTER XLVII. An Adventure in Canada
CHAPTER XLVIII. The Courier’s Passport
CHAPTER XLIX. A Night in Strasbourg
CHAPTER L. A Surprise
CHAPTER LI. Jack Waller’s Story
CHAPTER LII. Munich
CHAPTER LIII. Inn at Munich
CHAPTER LIV. The Ball
CHAPTER LV. A Discovery
CHAPTER LVI. Conclusion
LIST OF PLATES
The Inn at Munich
Lorrequer on Parade
Nicholas Announcing Miss Betty O’Dowd’s Carriage
The Sentry Challenging Father Luke and the Abbé
The Supper at Father Malachi’s
Mrs. Mulrooney and Sir Stewart Moore
Lorrequer Making His Escape From Col. Kamworth’s
Mr. Cudmore Filling the Teapot
Dr. Finucane and the Grey Mare
Lorrequer Practising Physic
Mr. Burke’s Enthusiasm for the Duke of Wellington
The Passport Office
Lorrequer as Postillion
Mr. O’Leary Creating a Sensation at the Salon des Etranges
Trevanion Astonishing the Bully Gendemar
Mr. O’Leary Charges the Mob
Mr. O’Leary Imagines Himself Kilt
Harry Proves Himself a Man of Metal
Mr. O’Leary’s Double Capture
Mr. Malone and Friend
Lorrequer’s Debut at Strasburg
The Inn at Munich
Arrival of Charge d’Affairs
To Sir George Hamilton Seymour, G.C.H.
&c. &c.
My Dear Sir Hamilton,
If a feather will show how the wind blows, perhaps my dedicating to you
even as light matter as these Confessions may in some measure prove how
grateful I feel for the many kindnesses I have received from you in the
course of our intimacy. While thus acknowledging a debt, I must also
avow that another motive strongly prompts me upon this occasion. I am
not aware of any one, to whom with such propriety a volume of anecdote
and adventure should be inscribed, as to one, himself well known as an
inimitable narrator. Could I have stolen for my story, any portion of
the grace and humour with which I have heard you adorn many of your
own, while I should deem this offering more worthy of your acceptance,
I should also feel more confident of its reception by the public.
With every sentiment of esteem and regard,
Believe me very faithfully yours,
THE AUTHOR.
Bruxelles, December, 1839.
PREFATORY EPISTLE.
Dear Public,
When first I set about recording the scenes which occupy these pages, I
had no intention of continuing them, except in such stray and scattered
fragments as the columns of a Magazine[*] permit of; and when at length
I discovered that some interest had attached not only to the
adventures, but to their narrator, I would gladly have retired with my
“little laurels” from a stage, on which, having only engaged to appear
between the acts, I was destined to come forward as a principal
character.
* The Dublin University Magazine.
Among the “miseries of human life,” a most touching one is spoken
of—the being obliged to listen to the repetition of a badly sung song,
because some well-wishing, but not over discreet friend of the singer
has called loudly for an _encore_.
I begin very much to fear that something of the kind has taken place
here, and that I should have acted a wiser part, had I been contented
with even the still small voice of a few partial friends, and retired
from the boards in the pleasing delusion of success; but unfortunately,
the same easy temperament that has so often involved me before, has
been faithful to me here; and when you pretended to be pleased,
unluckily, I believed you.
So much of apology for the matter—a little now for the manner of my
offending, and I have done. I wrote as I felt—sometimes in good
spirits, sometimes in bad—always carelessly—for, God help me, I can do
no better.
When the celibacy of the Fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, became an
active law in that University, the Board proceeded to enforce it, by
summoning to their presence all the individuals who it was well known
had transgressed the regulation, and among them figured Dr. S., many of
whose sons were at the same time students in the college. “Are you
married, Dr. S——r?” said the bachelor vice-provost, in all the dignity
and pride of conscious innocence. “Married!” said the father of ten
children, with a start of involuntary horror;—“married?” “Yes sir,
married.” “Why sir, I am no more married than the Provost.” This was
quite enough—no further questions were asked, and the head of the
University preferred a merciful course towards the offender, to
repudiating his wife and disowning his children. Now for the
application. Certain captious and incredulous people have doubted the
veracity of the adventures I have recorded in these pages; I do not
think it necessary to appeal to concurrent testimony and credible
witnesses for their proof, but I pledge myself to the fact that every
tittle I have related is as true as that my name is Lorrequer—need I
say more?
Another objection has been made to my narrative, and I cannot pass it
by without a word of remark;—“these Confessions are wanting in scenes
of touching and pathetic interest”[*]—true, quite true; but I console
myself on this head, for I remember hearing of an author whose
paraphrase of the book of Job was refused by a publisher, if he could
not throw a little more humour into it; and if I have not been more
miserable and more unhappy, I am very sorry for it on _your_ account,
but you must excuse my regretting it on _my own_. Another story and I
have done;—the Newgate Calendar makes mention of a notorious
housebreaker, who closed his career of outrage and violence by the
murder of a whole family, whose house he robbed; on the scaffold he
entreated permission to speak a few words to the crowd beneath, and
thus addressed them:—“My friends, it is quite true I murdered this
family; in cold blood I did it—one by one they fell beneath my hand,
while I rifled their coffers, and took forth their effects; but one
thing is imputed to me, which I cannot die without denying—it is
asserted that I stole an extinguisher; the contemptible character of
this petty theft is a stain upon my reputation, that I cannot suffer to
disgrace my memory.” So would I now address you for all the graver
offences of my book; I stand forth guilty—miserably, palpably
guilty—they are mine every one of them; and I dare not, I cannot deny
them; but if you think that the blunders in French and the hash of
spelling so widely spread through these pages, are attributable to me;
on the faith of a gentleman I pledge myself you are wrong, and that I
had nothing to do with them. If my thanks for the kindness and
indulgence with which these hastily written and rashly conceived
sketches have been received by the press and the public, are of any
avail, let me add, in conclusion, that a more grateful author does not
exist than
HARRY LORREQUER
* We have the author’s permission to state, that all the pathetic and
moving incidents of his career he has reserved for a second series of
“Confessions,” to be entitled “Lorrequer _Married?_”—_Publisher’s
Note_.
A WORD OF INTRODUCTION.
“Story! God bless you; I have none to tell, sir.”
It is now many—do not ask me to say how many—years since I received
from the Horse Guards the welcome intelligence that I was gazetted to
an ensigncy in his Majesty’s —th Foot, and that my name, which had
figured so long in the “Duke’s” list, with the words “a very hard case”
appended, should at length appear in the monthly record of promotions
and appointments.
Since then my life has been passed in all the vicissitudes of war and
peace. The camp and the bivouac—the reckless gaiety of the
mess-table—the comfortless solitude of a French prison—the exciting
turmoils of active service—the wearisome monotony of garrison duty, I
have alike partaken of, and experienced. A career of this kind, with a
temperament ever ready to go with the humour of those about him will
always be sure of its meed of adventure. Such has mine been; and with
no greater pretension than to chronicle a few of the scenes in which I
have borne a part, and revive the memory of the other actors in
them—some, alas! now no more—I have ventured upon these “Confessions.”
If I have not here selected that portion of my life which most abounded
in striking events and incidents most worthy of recording, my excuse is
simply, because being my first appearance upon the boards, _I_
preferred accustoming myself to the look of the house, while performing
the “Cock,” to coming before the audience in the more difficult part of
Hamlet.
As there are unhappily impracticable people in the world, who, as
Curran expressed it, are never content to know “who killed the gauger,
if you can’t inform them who wove his corduroys”—to all such I would,
in deep humility, say, that with my “Confessions” they have nothing to
do—I have neither story nor moral—my only pretension to the one, is the
detail of a passion which marked some years of my life; my only attempt
at the other, the effort to show how prolific in hair-breadth ‘scapes
may a man’s career become, who, with a warm imagination and easy
temper, believes too much, and rarely can feign a part without
forgetting that he is acting. Having said thus much, I must once more
bespeak the indulgence never withheld from a true penitent, and at once
begin my “Confessions.”
CHAPTER I.
ARRIVAL IN CORK—CIVIC FESTIVITIES—PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
[Illustration: Lorrequer on Parade]
It was on a splendid morning in the autumn of the year 181— that the
Howard transport, with four hundred of his Majesty’s 4—th Regt.,
dropped anchor in the beautiful harbour of Cove; the sea shone under
the purple light of the rising sun with a rich rosy hue, beautifully in
contrast with the different tints of the foliage of the deep woods
already tinged with the brown of autumn. Spike Island lay “sleeping
upon its broad shadow,” and the large ensign which crowns the battery
was wrapped around the flag-staff, there not being even air enough to
stir it. It was still so early, that but few persons were abroad; and
as we leaned over the bulwarks, and looked now, for the first time for
eight long years, upon British ground, many an eye filled, and many a
heaving breast told how full of recollections that short moment was,
and how different our feelings from the gay buoyancy with which we had
sailed from that same harbour for the Peninsula; many of our best and
bravest had we left behind us, and more than one native to the land we
were approaching had found his last rest in the soil of the stranger.
It was, then, with a mingled sense of pain and pleasure, we gazed upon
that peaceful little village, whose white cottages lay dotted along the
edge of the harbour. The moody silence our thoughts had shed over us
was soon broken: the preparations for disembarking had begun, and I
recollect well to this hour how, shaking off the load that oppressed my
heart, I descended the gangway, humming poor Wolfe’s well-known song—
“Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?”
And to this elasticity of spirits—whether the result of my profession,
or the gift of God—as Dogberry has it—I know not—I owe the greater
portion of the happiness I have enjoyed in a life, whose changes and
vicissitudes have equalled most men’s.
Drawn up in a line along the shore, I could scarce refrain from a smile
at our appearance. Four weeks on board a transport will certainly not
contribute much to the “personnel” of any unfortunate therein confined;
but when, in addition to this, you take into account that we had not
received new clothes for three years—if I except caps for our
grenadiers, originally intended for a Scotch regiment, but found to be
all too small for the long-headed generation. Many a patch of brown and
grey, variegated the faded scarlet, “of our uniform,” and scarcely a
pair of knees in the entire regiment did not confess their obligations
to a blanket. But with all this, we shewed a stout, weather-beaten
front, that, disposed as the passer-by might feel to laugh at our
expense, very little caution would teach him it was fully as safe to
indulge it in his sleeve.
The bells from every steeple and tower rung gaily out a peal of welcome
as we marched into “that beautiful city called Cork,” our band playing
“Garryowen”—for we had been originally raised in Ireland, and still
among our officers maintained a strong majority from that land of
punch, priests, and potatoes—the tattered flag of the regiment proudly
waving over our heads, and not a man amongst us whose warm heart did
not bound behind a Waterloo medal. Well—well! I am now—alas, that I
should say it—somewhat in the “sear and yellow;” and I confess, after
the experience of some moments of high, triumphant feeling, that I
never before felt within me, the same animating, spirit-filling glow of
delight, as rose within my heart that day, as I marched at the head of
my company down George’s-street.
We were soon settled in barracks; and then began a series of
entertainments on the side of the civic dignities of Cork, which soon
led most of us to believe that we had only escaped shot and shell to
fall less gloriously beneath champagne and claret. I do not believe
there is a coroner in the island who would have pronounced but the one
verdict over the regiment—“Killed by the mayor and corporation,” had we
so fallen.
First of all, we were dined by the citizens of Cork—and, to do them
justice, a harder drinking set of gentlemen no city need boast; then we
were feasted by the corporation; then by the sheriffs; then came the
mayor, solus; then an address, with a cold collation, that left eight
of us on the sick-list for a fortnight; but the climax of all was a
grand entertainment given in the mansion-house, and to which upwards of
two thousand were invited. It was a species of fancy ball, beginning by
a dejeune at three o’clock in the afternoon, and ending—I never yet met
the man who could tell when it ended; as for myself, my finale partook
a little of the adventurous, and I may as well relate it.
After waltzing for about an hour with one of the prettiest girls I ever
set eyes upon, and getting a tender squeeze of the hand, as I restored
her to a most affable-looking old lady in a blue turban and a red
velvet gown who smiled most benignly on me, and called me “Meejor,” I
retired to recruit for a new attack, to a small table, where three of
ours were quaffing “ponche a la Romaine,” with a crowd of Corkagians
about them, eagerly inquiring after some heroes of their own city,
whose deeds of arms they were surprised did not obtain special mention
from “the Duke.” I soon ingratiated myself into this well-occupied
clique, and dosed them with glory to their hearts’ content. I resolved
at once to enter into their humour; and as the “ponche” mounted up to
my brain I gradually found my acquaintanceship extend to every family
and connexion in the country.
“Did ye know Phil Beamish of the 3—th, sir?” said a tall, red-faced,
red-whiskered, well-looking gentleman, who bore no slight resemblance
to Feargus O’Connor.
“Phil Beamish!” said I. “Indeed I did, sir, and do still; and there is
not a man in the British army I am prouder of knowing.” Here, by the
way, I may mention that I never heard the name till that moment.
“You don’t say so, sir?” said Feargus—for so I must call him, for
shortness sake. “Has he any chance of the company yet, sir?”
“Company!” said I, in astonishment. “He obtained his majority three
months since. You cannot possibly have heard from lately, or you would
have known that?”
“That’s true, sir. I never heard since he quitted the 3—th to go to
Versailles, I think they call it, for his health. But how did he get
the step, sir?”
“Why, as to the company, that was remarkable enough!” said I, quaffing
off a tumbler of champagne, to assist my invention. “You know it was
about four o’clock in the afternoon of the 18th that Napoleon ordered
Grouchy to advance with the first and second brigade of the Old Guard
and two regiments of chasseurs, and attack the position occupied by
Picton and the regiments under his command. Well, sir, on they came,
masked by the smoke of a terrific discharge of artillery, stationed on
a small eminence to our left, and which did tremendous execution among
our poor fellows—on they came, Sir; and as the smoke cleared partially
away we got a glimpse of them, and a more dangerous looking set I
should not desire to see: grizzle-bearded, hard-featured, bronzed
fellows, about five-and-thirty or forty years of age; their beauty not
a whit improved by the red glare thrown upon their faces and along the
whole line by each flash of the long twenty-fours that were playing
away to the right. Just at this moment Picton rode down the line with
his staff, and stopping within a few paces of me, said, ‘They’re coming
up; steady, boys; steady now: we shall have something to do soon.’ And
then, turning sharply round, he looked in the direction of the French
battery, that was thundering away again in full force, ‘Ah, that must
be silenced,’ said he, ‘Where’s Beamish?’—“Says Picton!” interrupted
Feargus, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his mouth growing
wider every moment, as he listed with the most intense interest. “Yes,”
said I, slowly; and then, with all the provoking nonchalance of an
Italian improvisatore, who always halts at the most exciting point of
his narrative, I begged a listener near me to fill my glass from the
iced punch beside him. Not a sound was heard as I lifted the bumper to
my lips; all were breathless in their wound-up anxiety to hear of their
countryman who had been selected by Picton—for what, too, they knew not
yet, and, indeed, at this instant I did not know myself, and nearly
laughed outright, for the two of our men who had remained at the table
had so well employed their interval of ease as to become very
pleasantly drunk, and were listening to my confounded story with all
the gravity and seriousness in the world.
“‘Where’s Beamish?’ said Picton. ‘Here, sir,’ said Phil stepping out
from the line and touching his cap to the general, who, taking him
apart for a few minutes, spoke to him with great animation. We did not
know what he said; but before five minutes were over, there was Phil
with three companies of light-bobs drawn up at our left; their muskets
at the charge, they set off at a round trot down the little steep which
closed our flank. We had not much time to follow their movements, for
our own amusement began soon; but I well remember, after repelling the
French attack, and standing in square against two heavy charges of
cuirassiers, the first thing I saw where the French battery had stood,
was Phil Beamish and about a handful of brave fellows, all that
remained from the skirmish. He captured two of the enemy’s
field-pieces, and was ‘Captain Beamish’ on the day after.”
“Long life to him,” said at least a dozen voices behind and about me,
while a general clinking of decanters and smacking of lips betokened
that Phil’s health with all the honours was being celebrated. For
myself, I was really so engrossed by my narrative, and so excited by
the “ponche,” that I saw or heard very little of what was passing
around, and have only a kind of dim recollection of being seized by the
hand by “Feargus,” who was Beamish’s brother, and who, in the fullness
of his heart, would have hugged me to his breast, if I had not
opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless under the table.
When I first returned to consciousness, I found myself lying exactly
where I had fallen. Around me lay heaps of slain—the two of “ours”
amongst the number. One of them—I remember he was the adjutant—held in
his hand a wax candle (three to the pound). Whether he had himself
seized it in the enthusiasm of my narrative of flood and field, or it
had been put there by another, I know not, but he certainly cut a droll
figure. The room we were in was a small one off the great saloon, and
through the half open folding-door I could clearly perceive that the
festivities were still continued. The crash of fiddles and French
horns, and the tramp of feet, which had lost much of their elasticity
since the entertainments began, rang through my ears, mingled with the
sounds “down the middle,” “hands across,” “here’s your partner,
Captain.” What hour of the night or morning it then was, I could not
guess; but certainly the vigor of the party seemed little abated, if I
might judge from the specimens before me, and the testimony of a short
plethoric gentleman, who stood wiping his bald head, after conducting
his partner down twenty-eight couple, and who, turning to his friend,
said, “Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills.”
The first evidence I shewed of any return to reason, was a strong
anxiety to be at my quarters; but how to get there I knew not. The
faint glimmering of sense I possessed told me that “to stand was to
fall,” and I was ashamed to go on all-fours, which prudence suggested.
At this moment I remembered I had brought with me my cane, which, from
a perhaps pardonable vanity, I was fond of parading. It was a present
from the officers of my regiment—many of them, alas, since dead—and had
a most splendid gold head, with a stag at the top—the arms of the
regiment. This I would not have lost for any consideration I can
mention; and this now was gone! I looked around me on every side; I
groped beneath the table; I turned the sleeping sots who lay about in
no very gentle fashion; but, alas, it was gone. I sprang to my feet and
only then remembered how unfit I was to follow up the search, as
tables, chairs, lights, and people seemed all rocking and waving before
me. However, I succeeded in making my way, through one room into
another, sometimes guiding my steps along the walls; and once, as I
recollect, seeking the diagonal of a room, I bisected a quadrille with
such ill-directed speed, as to run foul of a Cork dandy and his partner
who were just performing the “en avant:” but though I saw them lie
tumbled in the dust by the shock of my encounter—for I had upset them—I
still held on the even tenor of my way. In fact, I had feeling for but
one loss; and, still in pursuit of my cane, I reached the hall-door.
Now, be it known that the architecture of the Cork Mansion House has
but one fault, but that fault is a grand one, and a strong evidence of
how unsuited English architects are to provide buildings for a people
whose tastes and habits they but imperfectly understand—be it known,
then, that the descent from the hall-door to the street was by a flight
of twelve stone steps. How I should ever get down these was now my
difficulty. If Falstaff deplored “eight yards of uneven ground as being
three score and ten miles a foot,” with equal truth did I feel that
these twelve awful steps were worse to me than would be M’Gillicuddy
Reeks in the day-light, and with a head clear from champagne.
While I yet hesitated, the problem resolved itself; for, gazing down
upon the bright gravel, brilliantly lighted by the surrounding lamps, I
lost my balance, and came tumbling and rolling from top to bottom,
where I fell upon a large mass of some soft substance, to which, in all
probability, I owe my life. In a few seconds I recovered my senses, and
what was my surprise to find that the downy cushion beneath, snored
most audibly! I moved a little to one side, and then discovered that in
reality it was nothing less than an alderman of Cork, who, from his
position, I concluded had shared the same fate with myself; there he
lay, “like a warrior taking his rest,” but not with his “martial cloak
around him,” but a much more comfortable and far more costly robe—a
scarlet gown of office—with huge velvet cuffs and a great cape of the
same material. True courage consists in presence of mind; and here mine
came to my aid at once: recollecting the loss I had just sustained, and
perceiving that all was still about me, with that right Peninsular
maxim, that reprisals are fair in an enemy’s camp, I proceeded to strip
the slain; and with some little difficulty—partly, indeed, owing to my
unsteadiness on my legs—I succeeded in denuding the worthy alderman,
who gave no other sign of life during the operation than an abortive
effort to “hip, hip, hurra,” in which I left him, having put on the
spoil, and set out on my way to the barrack with as much dignity of
manner as I could assume in honour of my costume. And here I may
mention (en parenthese) that a more comfortable morning gown no man
ever possessed, and in its wide luxuriant folds I revel, while I write
these lines.
When I awoke on the following day I had considerable difficulty in
tracing the events of the past evening. The great scarlet cloak,
however, unravelled much of the mystery, and gradually the whole of my
career became clear before me, with the single exception of the episode
of Phil Beamish, about which my memory was subsequently refreshed—but I
anticipate. Only five appeared that day at mess; and, Lord! What
spectres they were!—yellow as guineas; they called for soda water
without ceasing, and scarcely spoke a word to each other. It was plain
that the corporation of Cork was committing more havoc among us than
Corunna or Waterloo, and that if we did not change our quarters, there
would be quick promotion in the corps for such as were “seasoned
gentlemen.” After a day or two we met again together, and then what
adventures were told—each man had his own story to narrate; and from
the occurrences detailed, one would have supposed years had been
passing, instead of the short hours of an evening party. Mine were
indeed among the least remarkable; but I confess that the air of
vraisemblance produced by my production of the aldermanic gown gave me
the palm above all competitors.
Such was our life in Cork—dining, drinking, dancing, riding steeple
chases, pigeon shooting, and tandem driving—filling up any little
interval that was found to exist between a late breakfast, and the time
to dress for dinner; and here I hope I shall not be accused of a
tendency to boasting, while I add, that among all ranks and degrees of
men, and women too, there never was a regiment more highly in
estimation than the 4—th. We felt the full value of all the attentions
we were receiving; and we endeavoured, as best we might, to repay them.
We got up Garrison Balls and Garrison Plays, and usually performed one
or twice a week during the winter. Here I shone conspicuously; in the
morning I was employed painting scenery and arranging the properties;
as it grew later, I regulated the lamps, and looked after the
foot-lights, mediating occasionally between angry litigants, whose
jealousies abound to the full as much, in private theatricals, as in
the regular corps dramatique. Then, I was also leader in the orchestra;
and had scarcely to speak the prologues. Such are the cares of
greatness: to do myself justice, I did not dislike them; though, to be
sure, my taste for the drama did cost me a little dear, as will be seen
in the sequel.
We were then in the full career of popularity. Our balls pronounced the
very pleasantest; our plays far superior to any regular corps that had
ever honoured Cork with their talents; when an event occurred which
threw a gloom over all our proceedings, and finally put a stop to every
project for amusement, we had so completely given ourselves up to. This
was no less than the removal of our Lieutenant-Colonel. After thirty
years of active service in the regiment he then commanded, his age and
infirmities, increased by some severe wounds, demanded ease and repose;
he retired from us, bearing along with him the love and regard of every
man in the regiment. To the old officers he was endeared by long
companionship, and undeviating friendship; to the young, he was in
every respect as a father, assisting by his advice, and guiding by his
counsel; while to the men, the best estimate of his worth appeared in
the fact, that corporeal punishment was unknown in the corps. Such was
the man we lost; and it may well be supposed, that his successor, who,
or whatever he might be, came under circumstances of no common
difficulty amongst us; but, when I tell, that our new
Lieutenant-Colonel was in every respect his opposite, it may be
believed how little cordiality he met with.
Lieutenant-Colonel Carden—for so I shall call him, although not his
real name—had not been a month at quarters, when he proved himself a
regular martinet; everlasting drills, continual reports, fatigue
parties, and ball practice, and heaven knows what besides, superseded
our former morning’s occupation; and, at the end of the time I have
metioned, we, who had fought our way from Albuera to Waterloo, under
some of the severest generals of division, were pronounced a most
disorderly and ill-disciplined regiment, by a Colonel, who had never
seen a shot fired but at a review in Hounslow, or a sham-battle in the
Fifteen Acres. The winter was now drawing to a close—already some
little touch of spring was appearing; as our last play for the season
was announced, every effort to close with some little additional effort
was made; and each performer in the expected piece was nerving himself
for an effort beyond his wont. The Colonel had most unequivocally
condemned these plays; but that mattered not; they came not within his
jurisdiction; and we took no notice of his displeasure, further than
sending him tickets, which were as immediately returned as received.
From being the chief offender, I had become particularly obnoxious; and
he had upon more than one occasion expressed his desire for an
opportunity to visit me with his vengeance; but being aware of his kind
intentions towards me, I took particular care to let no such
opportunity occur.
On the morning in question, then, I had scarcely left my quarters, when
one of my brother officers informed me that the Colonel had made a
great uproar, that one of the bills of the play had been put up on his
door—which, with his avowed dislike to such representations, he
considered as intended to insult him: he added, too, that the Colonel
attributed it to me. In this, however, he was wrong—and, to this hour,
I never knew who did it. I had little time, and still less inclination,
to meditate upon the Colonel’s wrath—the theatre had all my thoughts;
and indeed it was a day of no common exertion, for our amusements were
to conclude with a grand supper on the stage, to which all the elite of
Cork were invited. Wherever I went through the city—and many were my
peregrinations—the great placard of the play stared me in the fact; and
every gate and shuttered window in Cork, proclaimed “THE PART OF
OTHELLO, BY MR. LORREQUER.”
As evening drew near, my cares and occupations were redoubled. My Iago
I had fears for—’tis true he was an admirable Lord Grizzle in Tom
Thumb—but then—then I had to paint the whole company, and bear all
their abuse besides, for not making some of the most ill-looking
wretches, perfect Apollos; but, last of all, I was sent for, at a
quarter to seven, to lace Desdemona’s stays. Start not, gentle
reader—my fair Desdemona—she “who might lie by an emperor’s side, and
command him tasks”—was no other than the senior lieutenant of the
regiment, and who was a great a votary of the jolly god as honest
Cassio himself. But I must hasten on—I cannot delay to recount our
successes in detail. Let it suffice to say, that, by universal consent,
I was preferred to Kean; and the only fault the most critical observer
could find to the representative of Desdemona, was a rather unlady-like
fondness for snuff. But, whatever little demerits our acting might have
displayed, were speedily forgotten in a champagne supper. There I took
the head of the table; and, in the costume of the noble Moor, toasted,
made speeches, returned thanks, and sung songs, till I might have
exclaimed with Othello himself, “Chaos was come again;”—and I believe I
owe my ever reaching the barrack that night to the kind offices of
Desdemona, who carried me the greater part of the way on her back.
The first waking thoughts of him who has indulged over-night, was not
among the most blissful of existence, and certainly the pleasure is not
increased by the consciousness that he is called on to the discharge of
duties to which a fevered pulse and throbbing temples are but
ill-suited. My sleep was suddenly broken in upon the morning after the
play, but a “row-dow-dow” beat beneath my window. I jumped hastily from
my bed, and looked out, and there, to my horror, perceived the regiment
under arms. It was one of our confounded colonel’s morning drills; and
there he stood himself with the poor adjutant, who had been up all
night, shivering beside him. Some two or three of the officers had
descended; and the drum was now summoning the others as it beat round
the barrack-square. I saw there was not a moment to lose, and proceeded
to dress with all despatch; but, to my misery, I discovered every where
nothing but theatrical robes and decorations—there lay a splendid
turban, here a pair of buskins—a spangled jacket glittered on one
table, and a jewelled scimitar on the other. At last I detected my
“regimental small-clothes,” &c. most ignominiously thrust into a
corner, in my ardour for my Moorish robes the preceding evening.
I dressed myself with the speed of lightning; but as I proceeded in my
occupation—guess my annoyance to find that the toilet-table and glass,
ay, and even the basin-stand, had been removed to the dressing-room of
the theatre; and my servant, I suppose, following his master’s example,
was too tipsy to remember to bring them back; so that I was unable to
procure the luxury of cold water—for now not a moment more remained—the
drum had ceased, and the men had all fallen in. Hastily drawing on my
coat, I put on my shako, and buckling on my belt as dandy-like as might
be, hurried down the stairs to the barrack-yard. By the time I got
down, the men were all drawn up in line along the square; while the
adjutant was proceeding to examine their accoutrements, &c. as he
passed down. The colonel and the officers were standing in a group, but
no conversing. The anger of the commanding officer appeared still to
continue, and there was a dead silence maintained on both sides. To
reach the spot where they stood, I had to pass along part of the line.
In doing so, how shall I convey my amazement at the faces that met me—a
general titter ran along the entire rank, which not even their fears
for consequences seemed able to repress—for an effort, on the part of
many, to stifle the laugh, only ended in a still louder burst of
merriment. I looked to the far side of the yard for an explanation, but
there was nothing there to account for it. I now crossed over to where
the officers were standing, determining in my own mind to investigate
the occurrence thoroughly, when free from the presence of the colonel,
to whom any representation of ill conduct always brought a punishment
far exceeding the merits of the case.
Scarcely had I formed this resolve, when I reached the group of
officers; but the moment I came near, one general roar of laughter
saluted me,—the like of which I never before heard—I looked down at my
costume, expecting to discover that, in my hurry to dress, I had put on
some of the garments of Othello—No: all was perfectly correct. I waited
for a moment, till the first burst of their merriment over, I should
obtain a clue to the jest. But their mirth appeared to increase. Indeed
poor G——, the senior major, one of the gravest men in Europe, laughed
till the tears ran down his cheeks; and such was the effect upon me,
that I was induced to laugh too—as men will sometimes, from the
infectious nature of that strange emotion; but, no sooner did I do
this, than their fun knew no bounds, and some almost screamed aloud, in
the excess of their merriment; just at this instant the Colonel, who
had been examining some of the men, approached our group, advancing
with an air of evident displeasure, as the shouts of loud laughter
continued. As he came up, I turned hastily round, and touching my cap,
wished him good morning. Never shall I forget the look he gave me. If a
glance could have annihilated any man, his would have finished me. For
a moment his face became purple with rage, his eye was almost hid
beneath his bent brow, and he absolutely shook with passion.
“Go, Sir,” said he at length, as soon as he was able to find utterance
for his words; “Go, sir, to your quarters; and before you leave them, a
court-martial shall decide, if such continued insult to your commanding
officer, warrants your name being in the Army List.”
“What the devil can all this mean?” I said, in a half-whisper, turning
to the others. But there they stood, their handkerchiefs to their
mouths, and evidently choking with suppressed laughter.
“May I beg, Colonel C——,” said I——
“To your quarters, sir,” roared the little man, in the voice of a lion.
And with a haughty wave of his hand, prevented all further attempt on
my part to seek explanation.
“They’re all mad, every man of them,” I muttered, as I betook byself
slowly back to my rooms, amid the same evidences of mirth my first
appearance had excited—which even the Colonel’s presence, feared as he
was, could not entirely subdue.
With the air of a martyr I trod heavily up the stairs, and entered my
quarters, meditating within myself, awful schemes for vengeance, on the
now open tyranny of my Colonel; upon whom, I too, in my honest
rectitude of heart, vowed to have “a court-martial.” I threw myself
upon a chair, and endeavoured to recollect what circumstance of the
past evening could have possibly suggested all the mirth in which both
officers and men seemed to participate equally; but nothing could I
remember, capable of solving the mystery,—surely the cruel wrongs of
the manly Othello were no laughter-moving subject.
I rang the bell hastily for my servant. The door opened.
“Stubbes,” said I, “are you aware”——
I had only got so far in my question, when my servant, one of the most
discreet of men, put on a broad grin, and turned away towards the door
to hide his face.
“What the devil does this mean?” said I, stamping with passion; “he is
as bad as the rest. Stubbes,” and this I spoke with the most grave and
severe tone, “what is the meaning of the insolence?”
“Oh, sir,” said the man; “Oh, sir, surely you did not appear on parade
with that face?” and then he burst into a fit of the most
uncontrollable laughter.
Like lightning a horrid doubt shot across my mind. I sprung over to the
dressing-glass, which had been replaced, and oh: horror of horrors!
There I stood as black as the king of Ashantee. The cursed dye which I
had put on for Othello, I had never washed off,—and there with a huge
bear-skin shako, and a pair of black, bushy whiskers, shone my huge,
black, and polished visage, glowering at itself in the looking-glass.
My first impulse, after amazement had a little subsided, was to laugh
immoderately; in this I was joined by Stubbes, who, feeling that his
mirth was participated in, gave full vent to his risibility. And,
indeed, as I stood before the glass, grinning from ear to ear, I felt
very little surprise that my joining in the laughter of my brother
officers, a short time before, had caused an increase of their
merriment. I threw myself upon a sofa, and absolutely laughed till my
sides ached, when, the door opening, the adjutant made his appearance.
He looked for a moment at me, then at Stubbes, and then burst out
himself, as loud as either of us. When he had at length recovered
himself, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and said, with a tone
of much gravity:—
“But, my dear Lorrequer, this will be a serious—a devilish serious
affair. You know what kind of man Colonel C—— is; and you are aware,
too, you are not one of his prime favourites. He is firmly convinced
that you intended to insult him, and nothing will convince him to the
contrary. We told him how it must have occurred, but he will listen to
no explanation.”
I thought for one second before I replied, my mind, with the practised
rapidity of an old campaigner, took in all the pros and cons of the
case; I saw at a glance, it were better to brave the anger of the
Colonel, come in what shape it might, than be the laughing-stock of the
mess for life, and with a face of the greatest gravity and
self-possession, said,
“Well, adjutant, the Colonel is right. It was no mistake! You know I
sent him tickets yesterday for the theatre. Well, he returned them;
this did not annoy me, but on one account, I had made a wager with
Alderman Gullable, that the Colonel should see me in Othello—what was
to be done? Don’t you see, now, there was only one course, and I took
it, old boy, and have won my bet!”
“And lost your commission for a dozen of champagne, I suppose,” said
the adjutant.
“Never mind, my dear fellow,” I repled; “I shall get out of this
scrape, as I have done many others.”
“But what do you intend doing?”
“Oh, as to that,” said I, “I shall, of course, wait on the Colonel
immediately; pretend to him that it was a mere blunder, from the
inattention of my servant—hand over Stubbes to the powers that punish,
(here the poor fellow winced a little,) and make my peace as well as I
can. But, adjutant, mind,” said I, “and give the real version to all
our fellows, and tell them to make it public as much as they please.”
“Never fear,” said he, as he left the room still laughing, “they shall
all know the true story; but I wish with all my heart you were well out
of it.”
I now lost no time in making my toilet, and presented myself at the
Colonel’s quarters. It is no pleasure for me to recount these passages
in my life, in which I have had to hear the “proud man’s contumely.” I
shall therefore merely observe, that after a very long interview, the
Colonel accepted my apologies, and we parted.
Before a week elapsed, the story had gone far and near; every
dinner-table in Cork had laughed at it. As for me, I attained immortal
honour for my tact and courage. Poor Gullable readily agreed to favour
the story, and gave us a dinner as the lost wager, and the Colonel was
so unmercifully quizzed on the subject, and such broad allusions to his
being humbugged were given in the Cork papers, that he was obliged to
negociate a change of quarters with another regiment, to get out of the
continual jesting, and in less than a month we marched to Limerick, to
relieve, as it was reported, the 9th, ordered for foreign service, but,
in reality, only to relieve Lieut.-Colonel C——, quizzed beyond
endurance.
However, if the Colonel had seemed to forgive, he did not forget, for
the very second week after our arrival in Limerick, I received one
morning at my breakfast-table, the following brief note from our
adjutant:—
“My Dear Lorrequer—The Colonel has received orders to despatch two
companies to some remote part of the county Clare; as you have ‘done
the state some service,’ you are selected for the beautiful town of
Kilrush, where, to use the eulogistic language of the geography books,
‘there is a good harbour, and a market plentifully supplied with fish.’
I have just heard of the kind intention in store for you, and lose no
time in letting you know.
“God give you a good deliverance from the ‘garcons lances,’ as the
Moniteur calls the Whiteboys, and believe me ever your’s, Charles
Curzon.”
I had scarcely twice read over the adjutant’s epistle, when I received
an official notification from the Colonel, directing me to proceed to
Kilrush, then and there to afford all aid and assistance in suppressing
illicit distillation, when called on for that purpose; and other
similar duties too agreeable to recapitulate. Alas! Alas! Othello’s
occupation: was indeed gone! The next morning at sun-rise saw me on my
march, with what appearance of gaiety I could muster, but in reality
very much chopfallen at my banishment, and invoking sundry things upon
the devoted head of the Colonel, which he would by no means consider as
“blessings.”
How short-sighted are we mortals, whether enjoying all the pump and
state of royalty, or marching like myself at the head of a company of
his Majesty’s 4—th.
Little, indeed, did I anticipate that the Siberia to which I fancied I
was condemned should turn out the happiest quarters my fate ever threw
me into. But this, including as it does, one of the most important
events of my life, I reserve for another chapter.—
“What is that place called, Sergeant?”—“Bunratty Castle, sir,”
“Where do we breakfast?”—“At Clare Island, sir.”
“March away, boys!”