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.