nor yet so loud. But before ya begin, here tak' a——.”
It is impossible to say what the Sergeant offered the Corporal; but it
has been since seriously hinted at by Pat Mulligan, and some others.
Whatever it was, I have no business to blab—even if I thought it
nothing less than pure Inishowen: however, when compliments had passed,
and all the men were comfortably seated round the fire, the Corporal
and Jack Andrews sung the following verses to a beautiful Biscayan
air:—
THE FRIAR OF ST. SEBASTIAN.
Deep the matin-bell toll'd from Benedict's tower,
Long the Friar alone had sighed for the hour,
When all were at rest—
All but the gentlest lady of Spain
Who loved him the best.
In secret he gave her his passion again,
Unholy, unblest:
His lamp of religion was clouded by love,
Too thick and too dark to be seen from above!
Soon the Friar's boat came her bower beneath,
While Sebastian's rock was silent as death,
And gloomy, and steep.
Soft she descended, while, close to her breast,
Her baby lay asleep;
Gentlest innocent, long is thy rest,
Long, long in the deep!
O Friar! the depth of Sebastian's wave
Cannot cover the crime or the little one's grave.
Light the little boat skimmed the moon-covered sea,
Guilt fell dark on the dawn that pointed their way.
Woe followed their flight:
Soon they were brought to St. Benedict's tower—
The deed came to light.
Down to the dungeon the lovers they bore
On St. Benedict's night.
The lamp of religion had scarcely a ray
To chase the deep gloom of their prison away.
None can tell of the fate that either befell;
Yet on holy record 'tis noted full well
In Benedict's tower.
Often the sentinel, trembling, fears
The matin-bell hour:
Often the sentinel fancies he hears
Heaven's punishing pow'r;
And the moans of dying grow loud in his mind,
As the Friar and Lady flit by on the wind.
At the conclusion of this ballad, the door of the guard-house flew
open, and the noise which it made, together with the sudden flapping of
the window-shutters, astonished the whole guard, and terrified one or
two. The wind roared, the night was as dark as chaos, and the song had
wound the soldiers' minds up to a climax. They, for an instant forgot
themselves, when the door was thrown open. Perhaps they expected a
visit from the Friar himself, accompanied by the Lady, to remonstrate
with them on the impropriety of thus disturbing their departed spirits.
There was no very great demonstration of fear; but even soldiers—and
soldiers used to behold the dying and the dead, cannot be always
prepared against the effects of romance and music allied against them.
None fell from their seats, nor was any stool overturned; but there
was a certain shuffling and huddling up together, which sufficiently
demonstrated to the sentry at the door, that his trick (for _he_ was
the ghost that opened the door,) had the effect he intended. He laughed
without, and the guard laughed within; but none had the _right of
laugh_ except the sentry himself; which, to do him justice, he rightly
enjoyed.
“Shut the door, then, God dom ye! for a blatherinskate, and mind yar
duty,” roared out Sergeant M'Fadgen to the sentry, who obeyed the
peremptory words as soon as he had expended his laugh in the dark;
and order thus being restored, Jack Andrews was unanimously requested
to tell the story of the “_Friar and the Lady_,” as he heard it at
St. Sebastian: to this he assented, and gave it in something like the
following words:—
“You all know, lads, that when the storming of the town was over,
we took the duty there. Well, in the house where I was quartered,
there lived nobody but an old couple: the man had been a smuggler,
and had once been a prisoner of war in England, so that he managed by
his intercourse with British and Americans, to speak English pretty
tolerably. The old woman was a regular Basquentian mountaineer, with
scarcely a bit of flesh on her bones, and not less than eighty years of
age. This old couple had returned to St. Sebastian to occupy the house
of a leather-seller, who retired from the town before the siege. And
the house was certainly in a complete state of dilapidation, with the
exception of the ground-floor; it had been on fire during the siege,
and although the flames had not made much havoc in it, yet the shot and
shell had done enough to reduce it to a complete wreck. Here I used to
sit with the old pair of a night, talking of various subjects, and it
was from the old man I heard the particulars of the ‘_Friar and the
Lady_.’ He told me that his wife lived in the capacity of waiting-maid
with the heroine of the tale, and that the convent of St. Benedict, to
which the friar belonged, was in the same street where we then resided.
The convent in which the young lady lived was at the extremity of the
town, near the sea, which the back windows looked out upon, from an
elevated rock. You have all seen the rock, yourselves.
“The young lady was about seventeen years of age; she had been admitted
as a novice in the convent of Santa Clara, and was to be made a nun in
about ten or twelve months after the period of her becoming acquainted
with the friar. He was on very familiar terms with the mother abbess,
as well as the whole of the establishment; for he was universally
celebrated for piety and wisdom: his age was about thirty-five. This
_holy_ gentleman managed matters so that he got the better of the
novice's virtue, and the consequences were that she became pregnant:
they contrived to conceal all appearances of her frailty; and the holy
father, in order to preserve his reputation, prevailed upon the novice
to elope with him, under a promise of removing her to Italy, whither he
proposed to follow her, and to settle in that country. The night was
fixed for carrying this plan into effect,—this was about a week before
the day on which she was to take the veil—the friar procured a boat,
and with it came to the back of the convent at midnight; the novice
was prepared, and bade adieu to the walls of her sisterhood for ever.
She entered the boat, and the friar easily rowed it along the coast
towards the port of Passages, for it was a fine moonlight night, and
the sea was as bright as a looking-glass. Before they had proceeded
many yards from the beach the young lady became ill, and in half an
hour was delivered of a fine boy in the boat: there were no clothes for
the little stranger, and the friar was determined it should not long
require them, for he sunk it remorselessly into the deep water close to
the rocks, and ended all its wants in a moment.
“The baby was washed on shore next morning stiff and dead. There
was a black silk band, with a clasp, twisted round its little leg,
by accident, or more likely by the providence of God, for it was
recognized as belonging to the unfortunate novice of St. Clara's
convent. Enquiries soon took place; the guilty friar and his victim
were discovered at an obscure house in the town of Passages, and taken
back to St. Sebastian. The influence of the clergy prevented a public
trial for the murder, lest the holy church should be scandalized; but
neither Friar nor Lady were ever afterwards seen, and it is believed to
this day, that they were either privately put to death, or imprisoned
in the Convent for life. The old woman declares they were chained in
separate dungeons, and starved to death; but this only rests upon her
own assertion; however, most of the people of St. Sebastian implicitly
believe that the ghosts of both visit the sea-shore every full moon;
and so much did their stories about ‘_The Friar and the Lady_’ affect
one of our lads, that it nearly killed him.”
“Wha' dy' ye mean,” said the Sergeant.
“I mean John Thomas, the Welshman. You remember we were on guard one
night after the siege of St. Sebastian, on the top of the high hill
in the middle of the town, where the fort stands, and into which
the French retired. Well, this John Thomas was sentry; he was then
only a raw boy, just come from among the goats and ghosts of his
native mountains. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and a fine moonshine
night. You could see the wide Bay of Biscay below your feet; the high
Pyrenees, all misty on the right; and close under you the ruined town.
I suppose the young fellow was superstitious; but be that as it may,
he burst into the guard-room without his musket, fell down on the
floor, against which he cut his forehead, and struggled in a fit for
half an hour. He was taken down to the regimental hospital, and had
three fits before the next morning. When he came quite to himself, he
declared that he saw the Friar of St. Sebastian and the Lady beside him
on the hill, and that the Friar held a dead infant in his hand, which
he dashed down into the sea. Of course, this vision was the effect of
his boyish fears and superstition; but it certainly is a fact that the
lad nearly lost his life by it, for I heard our doctor himself say so.
The poor fellow was afterwards killed at the sortie of Bayonne.”
“I remember the lad weel, Jock; but wha made the sang aboot it?”
demanded Sergeant M'Fadgen.
“The Captain himself wrote the song,” replied Andrews, “and Corporal
O'Callaghan taught me the air.”
“By my sowl,” said O'Callaghan, “I never hard an air I like betther.
I used to sit for hours listening to the boat-women all singing it in
chorus. I used to cross with them from Passages to Renteria of an
evening, for no other purpose than to hear them.”
“Haud yer tongue, Corporal,” observed Sergeant M'Fadgen. “It's na' for
a sang that ye wad stay sae lang amongst a parcel o' bonny lasses like
them.”—
“TURN OUT THE GUARD!” roared the sentry: and out the guard turned,
leaving Patrick Mulligan in quiet possession of the old arm chair, and
a blazing fire.
THE FATE OF YOUNG GORE.
Stars that shine and fall,
The flower that droops in springing;
These, alas! are types of all—
To which our hearts are clinging.
_Moore._
Eight bullets pierced this young man's body! In the full light of glory
and in the warm lap of love he died, esteemed, honoured, wept, in the
blossom of his youth, and in the pride of manly beauty!
Young Gore was a captain in the 51st regiment, and, I have heard, a son
of the Earl of Annan. He fought at the battle of Vittoria, and it was
in that town, a few days after the fight, that I first saw him, as well
as the fair and soft black-eyed girl who was the innocent cause of his
death.
When the sanguinary and memorable fight was at an end, a few officers,
of necessity, remained in the town. In consequence of this battle, the
Constitution was published on the Sunday succeeding it, in the main
square or market-place, with great pomp and rejoicing. In addition
to bull-fights[10] and public dancing upon the platform erected in
the square for proclaiming the Constitution, a ball was given in the
evening expressly to the British officers then in the town, at which
all the inhabitants of consequence attended. At this ball I first saw
Captain Gore; he was then, apparently, about twenty-two or three years
of age, and as handsome a young man as ever I beheld; his hair was a
light brown, and hung in a profusion of graceful ringlets; he was of a
florid complexion, about the middle size, compact, yet light, and in
the beautiful uniform of the 51st, a light infantry regiment, faced
with green and gold; he was decidedly the most striking figure in the
ball-room; and, in addition to this, was the best dancer amongst the
English officers—nay as good as any of the Spanish and French[11] who
exhibited on that evening their saltatory powers. Whether it was that
our English style of dancing at that time wanted something to be added
to its grace by a communication with the Continent or not, I will not
pretend to say; but certain it is, that my countrymen were not so happy
in plucking the laurels from the French that night in the dance, as
they had been a few days before in the fight.
With qualifications such as I have described, it is not to be wondered
at if the eyes and hearts of many fair ladies followed the young
captain: it would rather have excited wonder if they had not. The warm
hearts of the Spanish _Signioritas_ are but too susceptible to the
charms of Love when his godship dresses in British regimentals.
My friend D., of the 13th light-dragoons, and I, were admiring the
waltzers of the evening, when he observed to me that the young officer
of the 51st was not only the best dancer, but had the prettiest and
best partner; “and,” said he, “I think the lady seems quite smitten
with him; they have been partners the whole of the evening.” From
this observation I was led to remark the young lady more closely than
I had done before, and the result in my mind was, that Captain Gore
was blest with a partner the most bewitching in all Spain, and that
_he_ was of the same opinion. She was about seventeen, rather _en bon
point_, and middle-sized; large, dark, and languishing eyes; black,
glossy ringlets, with a beautifully fair skin; she was dressed in the
graceful black costume of her country, and appeared a personification
of the Beauty of a Castilian romance; her manners were gentle, and
with Captain Gore as her partner, she attracted the admiration of every
one present.
Where is the moralist who has looked into the book of nature, and
will say that they were culpable in loving each other, although
circumstances wholly forbade their union? Let us draw a veil over the
weakness of human nature, when opposed by such powerful influences
as those which surrounded these young persons. Let us not, with the
austerity of mature and experienced wisdom censure, but pity them,
circled as they were with a glowing halo of youth and love. They
loved—marriage was impossible:—she left her father's house and fled to
him, while he vowed to protect her with his life, even unto the end of
it. This happened in about three weeks after the ball.
The lady's father at first knew not of the rash step which his daughter
had taken, but soon learnt the distressing truth; he became almost
frantic, and applied to the authorities for their interference,
representing young Gore as a seducer and a heretic. The authorities (a
very inferior description of men at that time) immediately ordered a
sergeant's guard (Spanish) to accompany the father to the quarters of
the captain: they arrived—his apartments were on the first floor—and
the soldiers were already in the court-yard below. Gore was informed
of the intended purpose, through a Spanish domestic of the house he
lived in. His own servant, a brave and determined soldier, hurried to
the apartment in which his master was, with his bayonet drawn, and
observed that there would be no great difficulty in driving away the
“Spanish fellows below,” if necessary. The young lady clung to Captain
Gore for protection, and besought him not to give her up; declaring
that she would never survive, if he suffered her to be taken away. The
soldiers were mounting the stairs—Captain Gore was decided. There was
very little ceremony in the affair: he and his servant in a few minutes
drove them out of the house, and secured the door with bolts and locks.
Few blows were struck by either the Captain or his servant: the success
which frequently attends sudden and resolute assaults against superior
force, was in this instance manifested; and, considering the opinion
which the Spanish soldiery entertained of the British prowess, it is
not surprising that the guard was ousted.
The defeated soldiers returned to the authorities and related the
failure of their enterprise; they were answered by abuse, and their
officer having been sent for, was peremptorily ordered to take his men
to Captain Gore's quarters and _force_ the lady away. At the same time
he was tauntingly asked whether two Englishmen were equal to a dozen
Spaniards.
The guard, under the command of the officer, immediately repaired to
the place for the purpose of executing their orders, and demanded
admission in the most ferocious manner; but not waiting for reply,
the men began to batter the door with their muskets, and apply their
shoulders to the panels. The door was too strong for them: they grew
still more outrageous, and the officer still more abusive to those
within: again they demanded admittance, but this was peremptorily
refused by Captain Gore. With the old English maxim in his mind, “_my
house is my castle_,” no doubt he believed that he was acting in a
justifiable manner; and perhaps he was right in the line of conduct
he pursued, because there was a British commandant in the town—and a
British officer situated as he was, in the theatre of war, would act
with perfect correctness in questioning any authority but that of his
own nation:—however, nobody ever suspected the modern Spaniards of
good military discipline, or prudence in their actions. As allies, and
under a Commander-in-Chief who always listened to the complaints of
the Spaniards against his officers or men, the British, in the case of
Captain Gore, were treated in a most unwarrantable manner.
The insolent and imprudent officer of the guard was now determined
to do all the injury he could, and hearing the voice of Captain Gore
inside the door, drew up his men in front of, and close to it; then
motioning his orders, which were but too well understood, the whole of
the guard fired; the door was not thick enough to resist the bullets,
and the unfortunate young man within, fell lifeless in an instant.
Would that he had fallen a few weeks before in that battle which
defended the rights of Spain, and not thus by the murderous hands of
those he defended in that action! He was _not_ a seducer: _this_ his
_mistress_ declared over his dead body; and he did not mean to abandon
her, as the melancholy catastrophe but too clearly proved.
The young lady was borne almost heart-broken away, and placed within
the cheerless walls of a convent many leagues from the scene that was
the source of all her love and of all her sorrows.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] These were not, properly speaking, the true Spanish bull-fights,
for there was not a convenient place for such an entertainment; but
exhibitions much less harmless and more exhilarating. The four gates
of the square were shut at twelve o'clock in the day, enclosing a vast
concourse of people within an area of about the same extent as one of
the smaller squares in London, on each side of which the houses were
supported by piazzas. At a given signal, one of seven bulls was let
in amongst the people, who fled, of course, at his approach, with the
exception of two or three expert men, armed with a small dart and a
red cloak; the latter to deceive the animal and cover his eyes, as he
fiercely ran at it; while the former was to serve as an irritating
instrument against him, in order to increase his fury. When the animal
was quite wearied with running after the populace, he was withdrawn,
and another bull, fresh and fierce, was let in. Thus they continued
until six o'clock; and, considering the nature of the exhibition, it is
astonishing that but few received any injury.
[11] Several French prisoners of war (chiefly surgeons) appeared that
night in the ball-room, and mingled as cordially with their _enemies_
as if they had been their best friends.
RECOLLECTIONS
OF THE WALCHEREN EXPEDITION.
—— tristesque ex æthere Diræ,
Et scissâ gaudens vadit Discordia palla,
Quam cum sanguineo sequitur Bellona flagello.
_Virgil._
On the 20th of July, 1809, about seven o'clock in the morning, I
started from Gracechurch-street on the box of a stage coach, for Deal,
where I was to join my regiment (from which I had been six weeks
absent), and to proceed with it upon the “_secret_ expedition.” I took
with me one good-sized trunk, pretty well stocked, and a cocked-hat
case, which contained its proper lodger, one epaulette, two feathers,
two black silk handkerchiefs, two pairs of white leather gloves,
hat and hair brushes. This case and its contents I lost; and, for
the sake of all young officers who may hereafter travel by coach, as
well as by way of a hint to stagecoach owners to be more careful, I
mention the matter. The articles were left behind in changing coaches
at Canterbury, _by mistake_, as Coachee said; but neither personal
application at the coach-office, nor epistolary remonstrance with the
proprietors, could obtain for me a proper consideration of my _case_,
and, like one in Chancery, there it remains.
A more delightful day never shone, and a more bustling time the Deal
and Dover road never knew; it was crowded like a fair along the
whole of the way. All appeared to have been put into commotion by
the “expedition;” and from the number of tars, soldiers, and their
never-neglected or forgotten associates, who thronged the road, mounted
and otherwise, it may be easily imagined that there was nothing like
dulness to be either seen or felt.
I arrived at the Crown Inn at Deal about dusk, where I found some of
my brother-officers just set up; for they had returned on shore after
having embarked that day. To get a _bed_ was out of the question,
either in the house at which I stopped, or any other in the town; for
every hole and corner, crack and cranny, was crammed. My friends,
consisting of five as jolly _subs_ as ever looked out for a _company_,
and myself, sat down in the coffee-room, and there we “kept it up”
until three o'clock A.M.; when, stretching ourselves at full length
upon the carpet, in company with about two dozen more, we slept until
half-past nine o'clock, and arose as refreshed as if we had reposed all
night upon a bed of down.
The afternoon of that day I spent in providing those little articles
which were pointed out to me as necessary by an old campaigner,—one
of Sir John Moore's; and having done this, as well as replaced what I
had lost at Canterbury, I went with my companions on board the vessel
wherein were our head-quarters,—a transport: here I dined, and felt
myself once more at _home_. I really felt it _was_ my home; for I
thought then, and think now, that the home of every officer ought to be
the place where his regiment is.
We had an excellent mess, and our sea-stock was worthy of the
approbation of the Commander-in-Chief himself—every thing was fresh,
good, and strong.
We lived on board, expecting every day to sail; but occasionally
visited the town, any thing like the bustle of which I never beheld:
a most soul-thrilling and interesting scene there presented itself at
all hours of the day; myriads of splendid uniforms—military and naval,
lovely women, money flying, trade in full motion, faces all smiles, and
the weather all beauty,—glasses, cups, and bottles, savoury odours, and
harmonious sounds,—every thing alive and on tiptoe with delight! The
fine yellow beach stretching along before the houses, within twenty
yards of which were its waves foaming brightly, and slowly rolling! the
wide and majestic expanse of the Downs literally covered with ships,
about which boats were constantly crowding; signals passing through the
fleet; the sound of occasional guns; the constant arrival of vessels to
join the divisions; the bands of music in the ships and in the boats on
the waters!—all made such an impression on the senses, as may not be
renewed once in a century.
On the 27th, the _Blue-Peter_ was flying, and next morning, at half
past ten o'clock, the signal was made for the sailing of the third
division of the fleet, to which our regiment belonged. The anchors were
soon weighed, and with a light breeze we set sail from the Downs, for
the “unknown land.”
As I had settled all my sentimental matters before I left London, (for
which the post is my debtor some odd pounds,) I had nothing to restrain
my mind from the enjoyment of the scene before me; and perhaps the
thought that I was now quitting those I held dear as life, might have
added to the interest with which I contemplated it. The land lessening
into blue mist; the ocean expanded to my view, not in a solitary ship,
but in the midst of moving cities; hundreds on hundreds of vessels,
holding on in the same steady course together, with the warlike crowd
visible on the decks of all; when contemplated in the mass, the whole
North Sea seemed like a forest! It was a scene sublime and magnificent
beyond description.