To wear the sad moments away,
With sorrow he view’d the increase of the tide,
Look’d o’er the dark breast of the ocean, and sigh’d
“My Ellen--ah! why dost thou stay?”
Three sunsetting hours did he visit the shore,
Thrice viewed the slow ebb of the tide;
For the ship was expected full three days before,
To crown all his hopes, and his Ellen restore--
His gentle--his beautiful bride.
The twilight was rapidly lessening his view,
Black hillocks uprose on the main;
Now stronger and stronger the whistling wind blew,
And clouds through the heavens as rapidly flew
As thoughts across Allemar’s brain.
The surf now began to redouble its force,
As it broke at the foot of the rock;
Wave rode upon wave in their hurrying course,
The raven flew home, while his croaking so hoarse,
As he pass’d, seem’d the surges to mock.
Now comes the loud thunder--now flies the bleak rain--
Now flash after flash follows on:
In horror poor Allemar looks o’er the main;
Now turns he away, and now gazes again,--
There’s the ship--see the flash--’tis a gun!
’Tis the call of distress to the heart of the brave:--
Enough!--he determines to dare
Ev’ry fury that rode on the terrible wave,
And there, ’midst their horrors, to perish, or save
His Ellen--oh, should she be there!
He’s away in his bark, and all clear of the shore--
“Holy Mary,” the fishermen pray.
He plied at the sail, and he plied at the oar,
And he toss’d for an hour in the billows’ uproar;
But the ship she was still far away.
And he toss’d, and he toss’d on the fathomless grave,
In the midst of the mountains of foam,
While fast came the night, and still faster the wave;--
Back--back with thy bark, and thyself seek to save,
For the ship has already her doom!
No--onward he went, till across his dark way
He perceived, by the lightning so bright,
A plank of the wreck--there a white figure lay,
Wash’d over and over by every sea;--
It was Ellen--O God, what a sight!
E’er pass’d the red flashes, he seized on his prize--
Oh, think how the lover was blest!
He chafed her--he kiss’d her--she open’d her eyes;--
“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” poor Allemar cries,
As he presses her close to his breast.
How deceitful and vain were his hopes and his boast--
He saw not the ill that was nigh;
The last ray of twilight in darkness was lost,
And, alas! he was more than a mile from the coast--
Not a star could be seen in the sky!
“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” he wildly repeated--
Life rose in her heart at the sound--
“We are safe,” she replied--but how suddenly fleeted
The false light of hope which their love had created!--
The horror of truth was around.
Still loud raged the storm, and still wild roll’d the wave--
Will Heav’n not the fond lovers save?
They kiss--and they cling--and the shriek:--Oh, dismay!--
Break--break not upon them, dark billow!--away!--
It is past--they are sunk in the wave!
THE COUP DE GRACE.
“_Pat._ Holloa! Sergeant, I have caught a Tartar.
_Sergt._ Then bring him along with you.
_Pat._ He won’t come.
_Sergt._ Then come without him.
_Pat._ He won’t let me.
_Sergt._ Ho! ho! is that the way _you_ catch a Tartar?”
HIBERNIAN JOKE.
To those officers who happened to have been on sick leave at Belem,
near Lisbon, in 1810 and 11, General P****** must “of a verity” be well
known: few, indeed, could have sojourned many days in that invalid
retirement, without having observed the stooped shoulder, topped by
the shallow cocked-hat, and covered with the eternal blue frock-coat,
stealing along close to the wall upon a tall English horse. Who of
those have not been haunted by the said phantom, at some time or
other, if perchance in order to relax the dreary and monotonous
hours of a sick chamber, they dared to meet on the road to enjoy a
little cheerful conversation? Terrible, indeed, was this evening
apparition--this warning spirit, who like the death fetch came to
_fetch_ the sick away! No tom cat ever paid more determined attention
to mouse-catching pastime, than did the General to his favourite
pleasure of pouncing upon the invalid officer, who but dared to show
himself out of his melancholy quarters. He conceived that no man could
possibly be sick, who was able to move his legs; and if a half dead
officer could but smoke a cigar, or twist the corners of his mouth into
a smile, the whole medical staff could not have persuaded the General
out of his opinion, that such a person was not only in excellent
health, but fit to brave the rudest weather, and the severest duties of
the field.
It cannot be denied that, even among the _officers_ of the peninsular
army, there have been “_skulkers_”--men who, in order to avoid the
necessary fatigues of a campaign, have “shammed” sickness, or having
been really ill, contrived to obtain sick leave for a long time after
they had recovered; but such instances, highly to the credit of “the
cloth,” were very rare indeed.
Belem was the place appointed for sick officers, and General P******,
no doubt in his zeal for the service, conceived that most of the
residents there were (in his own phraseology) “_humbugging_;” he
therefore, in addition to his proper duties, took upon himself those
of the staff surgeons, and left no experiment untried for the cure of
the malady which he believed epidemically to rage at Belem, namely,
the _Idle Disease_ or _Lazy Fever_. The treatment which he principally
adopted was of the _stimulating_ description; but, alas! his method of
cure obtained no favour for him in the eyes of his patients.
It was common among those sick officers at Belem, whenever any of them
in their walks happened to be so unlucky as to have met the General,
to go home and make instant preparations for joining, whether capable
of doing duty or not; for their names were sure to be in the garrison
orders of the following day, for marching.
This system of _espionnage_ was very naturally looked upon as cruel
and insulting in the extreme; it rouzed the indignant feelings of all
the officers against the General; but for obvious reasons they could
not resent his proceedings in any other way than by demonstrations of
contempt. One, however, a convalescent Lieutenant, who had
“Done the state some service,”
happened to have fallen within the General’s _evening_ eye: he was, in
fact, as the phrase is, _dogged_ a mile out of the town, and next day
popped into orders for “_joining forthwith_,” although still very weak,
and a man
“---- Who never turned his back
On duty or the foe.”
The Lieutenant prepared to obey, and the day previous to his departure,
in riding through Lisbon, whither he had gone to purchase some
articles necessary for his march, accompanied by a brother officer,
he met General P. in one of the main streets, attended by his orderly
dragoon--one of the Portuguese police. The Lieutenant, on perceiving
him, allowed his friend to ride on, while he pulled up a little, so as
to come very slowly in front of the General. As soon as he breasted
him, he stopped--affected an animated smile of recognition--took off
his hat in a most respectful manner--held out his hand to the General,
which was duly received; and, still smiling, griped his fingers as
fast as if they were fixed in a vice, while he thus emphatically
addressed him:--“Sir, an officer who has served in seven actions, and
who has been thrice wounded, has the pleasure of telling you that you
are a most _contemptible spy_, and a _disgrace to the commission you
hold_. You are fit for no command unless it be in the police. Good
morning, _mouchard_.” The General instantly called to the orderly
dragoon;--“Listen to this officer,” said he; “Mark him, Sir--mark his
words, Sir.” Then calling after the officer--who trotted off bowing
politely--“Come back here, Sir--Mr.---- I say--do you hear, Sir?”
he almost gasped with passion; but the Lieutenant was gone, and the
General left with his orderly, who looked as apathetically as the
statue in St. James’s square.
The Lieutenant went home, but was not permitted to march so soon as
he expected: for he was placed in arrest, and his conduct submitted
to the investigation of a court of inquiry, upon charges of mutinous
conduct highly unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,
&c. &c., preferred against him by General P******.
The Court was composed of the highest officers in Lisbon, and on the
awful day of inquiry, the General minutely detailed before it, the
circumstance of which he had to complain. The Lieutenant, with an air
of the utmost confidence totally denied the charges, and insinuated
that the General must have laboured under some aberration of mind,
or else had mistaken him for another person. The only witness of the
transaction (the Portuguese dragoon) was called, who answered by an
interpreter. His evidence was conclusive against the General: for,
on being asked by the Court to describe what he had seen, he said
that the Lieutenant met the General in the street--_took off his hat
most politely--that the parties shook hands cordially_--that in a
few moments they parted, the Lieutenant _bowing, with his hat off,
most respectfully_:--and that then the General talked a good deal to
himself.
“But, Sir,” demanded the complainant petulantly, through the
interpreter, “what did the Lieutenant _say_?” To which the evidence
answered with a Portuguese shrug--“that he _did not understand a
word of English_, but that he supposed the Lieutenant to have been
_enquiring after the state of the General’s health_!”
Further evidence in favour of the officer than the prosecutor’s own
witness was needless--the Lieutenant was released from his arrest, and
the General obliged to “pocket the affront.”
A VOLUNTEER OF FORTY.
---- “Seeking the bubble reputation,
Even in the cannon’s mouth.”
SHAKSPEARE.
Cæsar was forty years of age before he fought his first battle; or,
indeed, before he could be fairly said to have been a soldier: yet he
became one of the most able and successful generals the Roman empire
ever produced. This age in a general is by no means out of keeping
with the wisdom and energy required to constitute a good commander:
it may be rather considered as not sufficiently advanced, by at least
from five to ten years. But an _ensign_ of forty is a thing quite out
of character--a monstrous absurdity, as the army is now constituted;
and if Cæsar himself had had to enter the Roman army in that grade,
judging by our British scale of promotion, he never would have arrived
at a brevet-majority. An Ensign is the boy of the colours--the page
to regimental victory, whose chin should never bear a beard while
he holds the post--a youthful soldier,--a Mars of fifteen, with the
staff of his country’s flag fixed firmly in the earth, supporting and
supported by him, while the rough mustachioed band like rocks surround
and shield him from the tempest of the fight. But a _Volunteer_
of forty!--Is not that an odd production? I do not mean a “_City
Volunteer_,” nor a “_County Volunteer_;” but an individual who joins
a regiment of the line on service in the field, by permission of its
Colonel--clothes himself--and, although avowedly for the purpose of
becoming soon an Ensign--and although received as a gentleman by the
officers of the corps he joins, is drilled in the ranks, and fights
as a private soldier. Such a man, I say, “begins at the beginning” of
his profession, and has a tolerably long road to travel ere he obtain
his first commission--that of Ensign. A Volunteer of forty, then, is
a ridiculous anomaly, a _rara avis in exercitu_, and (thank Minerva!)
was even more scarce during the Peninsular war, than is a French Eagle
in “this piping time of peace.” However, we _had_ one of those odd
birds, _nigroque simillima cygno_, who flew out from his native hills
in Cambria to the more classic mountains of the Pyrenees, at the very
_latter end_ of the very _last_ campaign which the Anglo-Lusitanian
army accomplished. Considering, then, this hero’s age, and the time at
which he joined the standard of war, every one must allow that he did
not “begin at the beginning;” and it must appear equally evident that
he never could have become a Cæsar, even though he had lived to the age
of old Parr.
This military aspirant arrived at Passages a little after the siege
of San Sebastian, and I happened to be on the verge of the quay, as
the vessel which contained him brought up:--it was a wretched-looking
schooner, and not at all engaged in the service; but contained, in
addition to the _Volunteer_, a cargo of butter, cheese, and ready-made
slops.
When her anchor was dropped, and the master of the vessel, with
his passenger, jumped on shore beside me, I thought the latter was
the former, and the former a mate. Without hesitation I asked them
had they come from England, and what news. The hero immediately
furnished me with an abridgement of the preceding month’s “_Times_”
and “_Chronicle_,” in such a peculiar way, and with such familiarity,
that I immediately concluded I had caught hold of as odd a fish as ever
came from the ocean; and I should have had no objection to examine him
further, but the time which I had to spare was expired; and as he had
concluded his _report_, I wished him good morning, stepped into the
ferry-boat, and passed to the other side of the gut which divides the
town.
When I had made the purchases of various articles of provision for
which I had come to Passages, I went back to _Renteria_, the town in
which I was quartered, and which is situated about a league from the
former.
I had dined at home--(_home!_ where is the soldier’s home?) I had dined
at my quarters at Renteria, and had strolled along the beach, listening
to the boat-women singing as they crossed the lake of Leso, when I saw
the “new arrival” approaching the shore in a ferry-boat.
“Captain, Captain!” roared he out, “how are you _again_, Sir? I’ll be
with you in a moment.”
Thus was I saddled with his company, rather against my will; but as I
had nothing either to amuse or employ me at that moment, I submitted
quietly, and we walked together towards the market-place. It was
during this walk I learned that my companion was not the master of
the butter-schooner, but a “Gentleman Volunteer,” absolutely on his
way to the head-quarters of the army. So sincerely did he assure me
of this, ridiculous as it appeared, that I hesitated not to offer the
hospitality of my quarters, which he very readily accepted, and we
lost not a moment in proceeding to crack a bottle; or, rather, broach
a pig-skin, for in such vessels was the wine of Renteria usually
contained.
We sat together for a few hours, and I found that, in his new
profession, my guest was an enthusiast of the most capacious calibre;
yet upon other subjects rational, and sometimes acute. To carry the
matter by comparison, I will say that his intellect could have hit a
thought, as a screw-barrelled pocket pistol might the ace of hearts,
at ten paces, when aimed and discharged by a tolerably good shot--he
would never fly a mile from it, but seldom if ever pop right through
the centre. A short extract from the conversation of the evening will
outline my man, far better than comment. This I will attempt from
memory. In the dialogue, I will call him I. and myself II.--not that
there were two to one against the Volunteer in any sense; but for the
sake of brevity.
I. Yes, Captain, I have determined to join my gallant countrymen
in their glorious cause, and lend a hand to pull down the tyrant
Buonaparte.
II. That is laudable, Sir; but I fear it will not be very profitable to
you.
I. Profitable! I don’t much care for profit, so as I obtain well-earned
promotion.
II. The war is now drawing to a close, and it will be difficult to
succeed in your hopes.
I. The war, Sir, will never end. Excuse me, Sir--when I say never, I
say only with the everlasting Scriptures, “We shall have wars and wars
and rumours of wars.” Besides, Sir, the Russians, and Prussians, and
Austrians, and even British, I fear, cannot effectually overcome that
scourge of civil liberty, Napoleon.
II. Pardon me, Sir, I think his day is drawing to a close.
I. Impossible! the hordes of the North must vanish before him, even
like the chaff before the wind. England is the only hope.
II. Be that as it may: your Ensigncy will not be very long coming, if
you get it at the fall of Buonaparte.
I. I would give up all my hopes to see him fall; for in taking the
crown, he betrayed the cause that raised him to glory.
II. Then I suppose you say, he sold liberty for a _crown_?
I. Precisely. Look at Cromwell, Sir; the man, like David, after God’s
own heart--_he_ reigned without a crown. Look at the Roman republic,
Sir--_that_ was sold for a crown. Look to America--no crowns there.
II. If you have such objections to crowns, why wish to fight for them?
I. Indeed, Sir, I am now only--a--talking as it were--a--on public
matters. I am as loyal as any man.
II. ’Pon my honour, if opinions upon such subjects were often canvassed
in the army, even by men of half your age, they would stand but a poor
chance of promotion.
I. Half my age:--how old do you think I am?
II. About fifty-two.
I. What!--Oh, you joke.
II. Well, how old _are_ you?
I. I’m not yet forty.
II. Forty! that’s pretty well, I think, for a Volunteer.
I. It is, in my mind, the proper age for every thing which requires the
full energy of the mind; and what calls for _that_ more than the art
of war? I always had a taste for the noble profession--I have _taught_
military tactics.
II. Taught!
I. Yes, Sir, taught--and some of my pupils are now Captains in the
local militia.
II. Indeed!
I. Yes, Sir; I led the business of one of the first schools in England.
II. God bless me!
I. Forty! Have you read Cæsar, Sir?--_Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes
tres, &c._--_He_ was beyond that age, when his talents came into the
field. Look at Washington, Sir, that “_patriæ Columen_”--_he_ was also
beyond that age when he took up arms. Cromwell, too--see what a soldier
he became. Pichegru, also, was at my age before he was made an officer.
And let me tell you, Sir, that boys are _not_ fit to command--give
me the man, whose sense and judgment are matured. I don’t mind two
years as Ensign;--I get my Lieutenancy before I am forty-two: there
are now many Lieutenants older than that, Sir.--Well--I know the use
of tactics, and as to fighting--give me an opportunity. I wish I had
been out time enough for the storming of San Sebastian! Let me have but
an opportunity--I’ll die in the breach, or I’ll be promoted. I have
entered the temple of Mars, Sir,--I have shaken the _Ancilia_--I have
waved his sacred spear, and I have cried “_Mars, Vigilia!_” But, Sir,
this is my motto:--
“ὁτι εν τῳ πολεμῳ αλλ’ εργων χρεία.”
Do you understand that?
II. I see you are very enthusiastic.
I. And is there any thing to be done without it?
II. You are right. Come fill your glass again, Sir.
I. Oh, by George! I have filled too often: I have taken two glasses
for your one; but pleasant company, and good wine, are persuasive
arguments. Your very good health, Sir; and although you are not
three-and-twenty, and I am forty, we shall see who will run up the hill
fastest. Excuse me--“_Palmam qui meruit ferat._” Your health, Sir.
II. I hope you will not be like Tantalus, in the waters of promotion.
I. What!--
_Tantalus à labris sitiens fugientia captat_
_Flumina_.
Give me your hand, Sir; you are a classical scholar,--Horace,--I can
see that:--I respect you, Sir;--I re-_spect_ you, Sir.
II. What do you think of an ensign, who passed from the age of
seventeen to forty-seven without promotion?
I. He must have had no education,--knew nothing,--nothing of
tactics,--nothing of the art of war. I have made it my study; I am well
acquainted with the best schools of warfare--the Grecian, the Roman,
and the modern. Granicus, Marathon, and Pharsalia, are familiar to
me. I have made myself acquainted with the characters of every great
conqueror, from Charles the Twelfth, who was my favourite, down to
Lord Wellington. The Duke of Marlborough’s campaigns I have deeply
studied, and know every move in the battles of Fredlingen, Scardigen,
Schwemmingen, Spinbach, Shellenberg, Blenheim, and Ramillies. In short,
Sir, if I do not succeed, it will be my own fault.
II. With those qualifications for the military profession, it is to be
lamented that you did not embrace it earlier in life.
I. If I had taken up the profession earlier, I should not have been so
well qualified. A series of years devoted to the instruction of young
gentlemen, in--not only military science--but of general learning,
afforded me the very qualification by which I hope to rise in the army.
II. Come, fill again; you are not doing any thing at all.
I. Doing! Ecod, I am doing away with my brains, and I’m half done over;
but a pleasant companion and good wine, I say again, are not to be
resisted--
_Solis æterna est Phœbo Bacchoque juventa._
Isn’t that right, eh?
II. _Tunc dolor et curæ_ RUGA_que frontis abit._
I. Excellent! good! fine! give me your hand.--Ovid, Sir--good! I
respect you, Sir; I reverence you, Sir. You’ll be a general; you’ll
be a great commander, depend upon it. I’ll fill a bumper; there,
there, there! and now--here is wishing you every success--may you be a
field-marshal!
II. Thank you; thank you:--when I _am_, I’ll recommend you for
promotion, and do for all your sons.
I. Sons! I have no sons. I may say with the great North American
Chief,--“There runs not one drop of my blood in any living creature.”
II. But this may not be so hereafter.
I. That’s all over, Sir. I once approached the steps of Hymen’s altar;
but the torch of the god was quenched: it never shall be lighted for me
again.
II. Ah! I suppose you were jilted?
I. Jilted! Sir, I was shamefully treated. I, for three years, courted a
young lady; she was every thing to me; she personified the woman I all
my life pictured in my imagination. She was two-and-twenty--tall--fine
countenance--bold outline of features;--danced--played;--a perfect
scholar, Sir.
II. Take care you don’t make such a beautiful form now, that, like
Pygmalion, you will break your rash vow, and pray for the animated
reality.
I. Oh, Sir; you delight me. Your classic conversation--I am
glad,--glad,--very glad of your acquaintance.
II. Well, about the lady.
I. Ah, Sir! (_a deep sigh._) I courted her for nearly three years; she
approved--I approved--father and mother approved; and I had absolutely
engaged to take a house, Sir--fine, spacious premises, fit for an
extensive sch--seminary,--ladies’ seminary; for she was the daughter
of the gentleman whose business I had conducted. Well, Sir, we were to
be married; and what do you think?--Damn me! if she didn’t run away
with a Sergeant of the Lancers, two days previous to our intended
wedding!--Ah, Sir! (_deep sigh_) that broke down my habits of business.
I gave up every thing connected with seminaries, or schools, or private
tuition, and applied to General Dizzyman, for whom my father always
votes: he gave me a letter to Colonel Pepperton, and I am now on my way
to that gentleman. It produced a shock, Sir; but the life of a soldier
will, I hope, make all things right again.
II. Hang all the sex!
I. Hang them all, I say, three times over--the jilts--the runaway
wretches!
* * * * *
My guest now grew melancholy: he helped himself to more wine, and
gradually fell into an unintelligible grumble. The poor fellow had no
quarter; and as it was late, I could not think of turning him out, so
applied to the _Patron_ of my _Caza_ for assistance. He was a good man,
and offered a bed; so I directed my servant to lead my guest to his
repose.