“King Henry. How now! what news? Why com’st
thou in such haste?
King Henry VI.
“Juliet. O, for a falconer’s voice.
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!”
Romeo and Juliet.
The absolute authority exercised by the Partida leaders over the Spanish population, was apparent in the readiness with which their orders were obeyed—and of this, the independent style in which we had lived at free quarters for the last week, would have been a sufficient guarantee. Not contented with the demolition of his supper and the occupation of the state apartments, we found that “mine host” had been laid under farther requisitions, and obliged to remount the Frenchman and Mark Antony, whose horses were sent back by two villagers to the mountains.’ To a casual inquiry that I made touching the safe delivery of the animals, the guerilla, who accompanied us, replied with a stare expressive of surprise that a doubt should be entertained upon the subject; and then pointing significantly to his neck, he led us to clearly understand, that nothing insures punctuality and despatch like an occasional application of the halter.
In the course of an hour’s ride we fell in with the party we expected, and our guide delivered us over to their safe keeping, That night we were entertained at the expense of an alcade, who loaded us with civilities, and would listen to no hint of ours touching remuneration in the morning. The extent of his hospitality, and the anxiety he evinced to anticipate our wants, drew forth from me a flattering eulogium. As I proceeded, the guerilla leader merely shrugged his shoulders—-and then privately assured me, that this generous functionary was one of the greatest scoundrels in the province, and that he was more than suspected of intriguing with the French. “He fancies that he blinds us—no matter—we know him well—all I shall say, my friend, is—that for the horse you ride, I would not have my neck in the same insecurity.”
As he spoke, we gained the crest of a hill which commanded an extensive view of the flatter country that lay beneath, and from a small wood, at a league’s distance in our front, we perceived the smoke of a large fire curling upwards. The partida pointed to the spot, and told us that there a picket of light German cwalry was bivouaced, and therefore, that his escort was no longer necessary—then bade us a friendly farewell—and in half an hour the fosterer and I found ourselves once more within the allied outposts.
On announcing myself to the officer in command as the bearer of a private despatch for Lord Wellington, I was furnished with a fresh horse and the escort of a couple of dragoons—and leaving the Empecinado’s present to the care of the fosterer, I immediately rode off to reach head-quarters at Frenada.
As I passed through the different cantonments, I fancied a general activity prevailed among the soldiers, which formed a striking contrast to the quiet and repose in which, a week before, I had left the allied camp. On the roads I had frequently encountered convoys moving in various directions, and the commissariat department seemed to be particularly on the alert. With an Irish officer, who was riding in the same direction, I entered into conversation for a few minutes, while I and my escort breathed our horses over a rough road that rendered a quicker movement dangerous; and from him I ascertained that the allied army was in perfect readiness, and it was the general opinion that “Lord Wellington had mischief in his head!” As he spoke, wheeling round a bending of the road, we came suddenly in sight of another that crossed it at right angles; and at a quarter of a mile’s distance, observed a staff-officer, followed by an orderly dragoon, riding towards the point of junction at a pace which led me to infer that, like myself, he was the bearer of despatches. “Talk of the devil,” exclaimed my loving countryman—“may the Lord forgive me for saying so!—but that’s himself!” The hint was quite sufficient—I spurred my horse, cantered safely over as rugged a causeway as man could meet with—reached the cross-roads—and halted at the point of junction, before the allied commander gained it.
On perceiving me pull up, Lord Wellington reined his horse in, and a brief colloquy ensued.
“Your name?”
“O’Halloran.”
“Whence come you?”
“From the Empecinado.”
“Where is he?”
“Heaven only knows.
“Your business?”
“To deliver a French despatch.”
“Are you aware of the contents?”
“No—we could not read it;” and I placed the packet in his hand. At one rapid glance his eye ran over the secret characters—
“Ha! I have the key,” he muttered; then placing the document in his coat pocket, he desired me to ride on, report myself at head quarters, wait there for further orders, gave his horse the reins—and thus ended an interview that had barely occupied a minute.
I remembered the marked politeness which he had lavished upon Peter Crotty, and marvelled that his lordship had not the civility to even bid “good morning” to a gentleman, who had risked a broken neck to carry him a sheet-full of hieroglyphics.
I obeyed the order; and intending to hold myself, in readiness, in the event of his lordship requiring any further information respecting the singular manner in which the intercepted despatch had been obtained and confided to me, was seeking some place wherein I might deposit my person in the interim, when whom should I stumble on in the street, but the fortunate object of the Great Captain’s hospitality—Lieutenant Crotty!
“Arrah!—murder—is it you?” was Peter’s opening inquiry.
I assured him of my identity.
“And who would have expected to meet ye here?” continued Peter; “and what the divil druv ye back?”
“Why—I returned on an errand similar to your own on the morning of that auspicious day when I had the pleasure of first making your acquaintance.”
“And what was that?” demanded Mr. Crotty—“for upon my conscience I forget it.”
“Nothing more, than to transact a little private business with Lord Wellington.”
“Have ye met him yet?” inquired Peter.
“Merely on the road; I expect, however, to be favoured with an evening interview.”
“Ah, then,” responded Mr. Crotty, “a pleasanter gentleman ye never met. I hadn’t time to finish my story; for I remember that ould bothering divil of a Colonel called me off. Well—when I rose to come away, he, that’s Lord Wellington, says to me, ‘Arrah, Peter, won’t ye sit a little longer?’ ‘Bad manners to me,’ says I, ‘but it’s more than I dare do.’ ‘What a pity ye’r in such hurry,’ says he, ‘I suppose, however, it can’t be helped at present; but the next time ye come, Peter, put ye’r best breeches into your portmantle, and stop with us as long as ye can.’”
“And is his lordship generally so hospitable and polite to every body that drops in with a message?”
“Oh, then, upon my sowl! he’s not. And if I swore it on a bag full of bibles, there’s some of the divils here that wouldn’t believe me. For one, there’s Major Fitzmaurice—and, Holy Mary! now that I mind it—hasn’t he a whole bundle of letters for you! and he’s in the town too.—Well, I’m not bothered with letter-writin, and that’s a comfort. What would they have to tell me from home, but that rack rents would be their ruin—and what could I say in favour of this villanous country, where, if a man at times happens to have a dollar in his pocket, he couldn’t get a drop to wet his whistle, although it was dry as a lime-burner’s wig, because the people have neither change nor daceney. But—see—there’s the man I spoke about—and now, may the Lord bless ye, if it’s possible.” So saying, and pointing out Major Fitzmaurice, Peter bolted round a corner, as he termed it, “for a rason he had of his own.”
In Major Fitzmaurice, I easily recognised the kind personage who had shared his tent with me on mv first appearance in cantonments.
Like Peter Crotty, he also expressed much surprise at seeing me again, when, as it might have been supposed, I was en route to Valencia.
“I have a packet of letters for you,” he said; “and in hope that I might meet with somebody bound for the east of Spain, I have carried them in my pocket. How fortunate to have dropped upon you! I came in to dine with some friends on the staff who are quartered in Frenada; and, if you have no better engagement, you shall join them with me, and in the evening we will return to the old shop. There it stands as formerly—the same mattrass and bullock-trunk—and ‘ceade millia fealteagh.’ Talking of trunks—I saw Peter Crotty leave you. He has put a finish to his celebrated visit to Lord Wellington. Did he tell you of ‘the portmantle,’ as he calls it, and his ‘best breeches’ into the bargain?”
“All these important facts were faithfully narrated to me.”
“Then come along—I’ll give you your despatches when I find my great coat; and by the time you have perused them, dinner will be ready.”
I found, on opening the packet, four letters addressed to me, and two to the fosterer. Mine were respectively written by my parents, my uncle, and my mistress—and, may Heaven forgive me! love left duty in the back-ground, and Isidora’s was the first seal broken.
I could scarcely believe that the letter I perused was hers. Not a year since I met her a timid and retiring girl—she had never mingled with society—to her, man was strange—she blushed when addressed—and if she answered,
“Back recoiled, she knew not why,
E’en at the sound herself had made.”
But now, girlish apprehension had given place to woman’s firmness, and with gentle but modest sincerity, she repeated her assurances of attachment, told me how much pain my absence caused, and urged me, “if I loved her,” to return.
My lady mother, of course, claimed next precedency. Her letter was dated from London—for thither she had proceeded, as it appeared, accompanied by her honoured lord. It breathed the warmest wishes of maternal anxiety for my safety—hoped, as I was ill a Catholic country, that I occasionally attended mass; hinted that my father became more intolerant, since the priest had cursed Mark Antony for his truant conduct to Biddy Toole—wondered what had brought them, meaning my father and herself, to England—and on this point, she seemed at a dead loss even to imagine what the object of their singular migration would prove to be. It had been suddenly occasioned by the receipt of a letter; and whether the poor dear Colonel was come over to speculate in the stocks, or raise a regiment—which latter might God forbid! the thing was equally mysterious. She had been introduced to a Mr. Hartley and his daughter—English Catholics, and the nicest people in the world. Would to Heaven, she continued, that, instead of following a horrible profession, in which body and soul were equally endangered, I would marry Miss Hartley—and, avoiding the dear Colonel’s example, settle down for life with the general complement of legs and arms. There was an extensive repetition of affectionate rigmarole in prayers and wishes; but the gist lay, lady-like, in the Postscript.
“Remember the gospel I bound round your neck. Preserve it—but open it only in extremity.”
Mr. Hartley’s epistle was purely diplomatic, and couched in such general terms, that while they conveyed a meaning clearly, had the letter fallen into the hands of my grandfather’s confessor, I question whether the Jesuit himself could have unravelled it. All, as he led me to understand, went prosperously. My parents were on the spot, and perfectly unconscious of the action of the drama. He, Mr. Hartley, wished me to return as quickly as I could with proper respect to character. He concluded with one comprehensive sentence—“The cards play favourably—the crisis is at hand.”
Had I expected to glean any information from my father’s despatch, I should have been grievously disappointed. He had come to London, as he admitted, “the Lord knew why.” The mysterious present of 500L. had reached him in annual course, and the letter which enclosed it, conveyed a wish to visit the metropolis, that he deemed prudent to obey. To a Mr. Hartley, he had been especially recommended as a person deeply engaged in some secret proceedings, which might prove of important advantage to his family and himself. As yet, Mr. H. had not explained what these proceedings were; but, as he had assured him, the Colonel, that I was cognisant of all, and that in a few days himself should be fully informed on the subject, he had, for delicate reasons, forbore to press an explanation. The rest of the letter was rambling and unimportant. It detailed the cursing of Mark Antony, and his own feud consequently, with the priest—a disquisition upon out-post duty—attack in close columns, and movements by echelons. It then proceeded to state, that as Mr. Hartley had assured him that my stay on the Peninsula would be short, and my speedy retirement from the army a certainty, he, the Colonel, would recommend me, as I had lost my staff appointment, to decline going to the east of Spain, retire from the Twenty-seventh, and continue with Lord Wellington’s army as a volunteer. I should thus see more service and sharp fighting—in my case a great desideratum. Acting independently, I might have frequent opportunities of distinguishing myself, which otherwise would only come in regimental routine. Every one expected that the next would be a splendid campaign. For his own part, he had hoped to have slipped over for a few months when the army took the field, but the bare hint at the intention sent my mother into hysterics. Here was a parenthesis about “weakness of women.” The whole concluded in his observing that, if I had luck, many opportunities might present themselves; but breaches, field-works, and defended bridges, were especially recommended for me to try my hand upon. The Lord might even send “a forlorn hope” in the way—that would be a happy chance—but then “people must not be too sanguine.”
Indeed, more ingenious instructions forgetting a man securely shot, were never penned by an affectionate parent. The means were so easy and comprehensive, that I could have half persuaded myself that Mr. Clifford’s steward and confessor had been of the number of counsellors whom the worthy Colonel had called in.
I had just completed the perusal of my varied correspondence, when my friend the Major called for me, and announced that dinner was waiting. I accompanied him to another apartment, where I found half a dozen gentlemen, whose “trade was war,” congregated around a table less remarkable for correctness of appointment than solidity of fore. None give and receive a wanner welcome than soldiers upon service—I met a kind reception from all; and the meal and the evening passed pleasantly. There are few places where more singular characters are encountered than at a mess-table. We had one short gentleman, whose happiness consisted in the belief that he was always uncomfortable and superlatively wretched; and hence his conversation, from cock-crow to curfew, was an eternal jeremiade about dead mules and stolen bullock-trunks, tough beef and damp linen, with “all the ills that flesh is heir to.” He had been wounded in one action, and in the next charged and overthrown by a drunken dragoon, who, in the melee, mistook him for a Frenchman. In short, from friends and enemies, in common, he had received abominable treatment; and latterly, had narrowly escaped being poisoned, by drinking wine from a store-cask, in which, after an undisturbed possession of a week, the mortal remains of a drowned drummer had been unexpectedly discovered. On this evening, he feelingly related a recent atrocity perpetrated by an Irish batman, who had burned the only boot in his possession, in which an angry corn could obtain repose. He ended the lament with the customary finale to all his grievances; namely, an individual inquiry of, “What the devil drove him to this infernal country at all?”
“I imagine, my dear Neville, the gentleman you name had an active agency in driving us all here—if men would only speak the truth,” observed Major Fitzmaurice. “I fancy he was close at your elbow, Richards, before you quitted London.”
“At my elbow, certainly,” replied the hussar. “Had I kept that quiet, I should have been still doing duty at the Horse-guards.”
“And may I inquire, my young friend, what might have formed the immediate inducement of your favouring us with a visit?” continued the Major, addressing a volunteer upon his right—“Did you shake the elbow—teach tradesmen book-keeping—shoot a friend who differed with you in opinion?—or—”
“None of these delinquencies have I committed. I am suffering for the sins of another,” was the reply.
“What a pity!” said Fitzmaurice; “and your friend, the sinner, pays the penalty by proxy—very convenient for him but rather hard on you. Would you oblige us with particulars?”
“‘Tis a short story,” said the volunteer, with a smile;—“An accursed cousin of mine paid some delicate attentions to the wife of his next-door neighbour; and, unfortunately, I was acquainted with the proceedings. ‘A d—d good-natured friend’ informed the little doctor, that his lady and my kinsman were fitting him for a state of beatitude, and ‘the injured husband’ commenced legal proceedings, to recover compensation for the loss he had sustained. Loss! To get rid of a regular virago, who lalopped him three days in the week, and made him miserable for the other four. Had the doctor possessed a spark of generosity, he would have given my wicked kinsman a service of plate, devil as he was! Well, though every body knew the truth, it was necessary to lug me in, as evidence, to prove it. ‘If you appear,’ said the defendant, ‘you’ll be my ruin, Tom;’—‘If you don’t, I’m done brown,’ said the doctor,—but to make all right, I’ll get an ne exeat regno.’ Here I was in a regular fix—between my cousin and the chancellor—the devil and the deep sea.’ I had no alternative but to bolt at once, and come here, hurry-scurry, like a sheep-stealer.”
“‘Well, there is one thing certain,—the devil was at the bottom of your business. And pray, may I inquire why you, Sir, sought this refugium peccatorum?” said Fitzmauriee, to a pale gentleman nearly opposite.
The person addressed “looked unutterable things,” and sighed profoundly.
“Ah—I see it. Nothing transportable,—not even suspicion of debt?”
The pallid gentleman shook his head.
“Then your sufferings are sentimental. Come—make a clean breast, and you’ll sleep all the sounder.”
“‘Twas woman’s falsehood,” returned the “pale lover.”
“Oh—indeed!”
“Yes—Julia, false as thou wert, this widowed heart shall never own another image than thine own.”
“But who was Julia, and what did she do?” inquired the Major, with provoking insensibility.
“Who was she?” returned the desponding Lieutenant,—“that secret shall perish with me.”
“Well—no matter; but what the devil did she do? Had she a kick in her gallop?—or—”
“No,” said the bereaved gentleman; “I loved, and wooed, and won her,—as I fondly fancied. I urged my suit, and pressed her to name the day that should seal our mutual happiness;—I would have wedded her—but, alas! she left me for another. That, Sir,—ay—that fatal visitation, made me the wanderer and the outcast that I am.”
“Bless me,” replied the Major, “how heavily you took it! Now, is it not funny enough, that an occurrence, opposite as the antipodes, actually bundled me into the Peninsula a second time?”
“Indeed! my dear Major,”’ I replied.
“True, sir;—the ease was desperate—and nothing but expatriation could have saved me from the bonds of Hymen. The lady would not be denied; and to escape connubial captivity, I levanted at an hour’s notice.”
“Were the inquiry not impertinent, nor one that would painfully recall the past and probe the breast too deeply, I should feel curious to learn the particulars,” I observed.
“Faith, my dear fellow, I have been, as you properly suspect, the victim of a too sensitive heart, and have suffered accordingly. But here goes to make a clear confession, and give you the leading incidents of my amatory adventures. I omit, of course, skirmishes of love with femmes de chambre, dress-makers, gentlewomen wayfaring in stage-coaches, or encountered gipsying a mile or two from Islington or the Elephant,—appertaining to the corps de ballet, or met with at a conventicle in the afternoon—sheltering in July, under a portico, from a shower, or lost in November, in a fog. I shall pass over all diurnal notices in The Times, beginning with ‘should this meet the eye,’ and affairs transacted by the agency of twopenny postage. But why detain you? Fill, gentlemen—I fear you’ll find the story very long, and, what is worse, very melancholy and affecting.”
“Say I love ‘many’—well, dear soul, I do;
Rut the bright object of my heart is ‘one
I love a thousand flowers, of every hue,
For all are beautiful, though similar none;
I love a thousand stars, for all are bright,
And with their radiant beauty cheer the sight.
..........I have, as thy sweet lips complain,
On many a lip of ruby banqueted.-’
Triojias Wade.
I have ever been romantic. At twelve I wrote poetry—for by that name my grandmother was pleased to designate my melodies—and at sixteen was regularly in love. In two years more, I left “England, home, and beauty,” “to seek the “bubble reputation.” Need I say what agony that parting with the fair one caused? How convulsively Clara sobbed, and how awfully I swore in return, when I received from her hand a ringlet—hue, sunny—binding, violet-coloured silk—which was duly deposited over the fourth rib—left side—with a solemn adjuration, that there the said ringlet should abide and dwell until the heart it covered had ceased to beat, and the lungs adjacent should exercise their expiring functions, in murmuring warm but feeble prayers for the happiness of the donor.
At nineteen I carried the colours of the —th into action at Salamanca, but I lament to say, that the honour of carrying them out was reserved for another gentleman of the sword.
“There’s a d—d ill-looking tirailleur, covering me dead,” observed a brother ensign, to whom “the king’s banner” had been entrusted.
“I’m devilish, glad to hear it,” I responded, “for I thought the scoundrel was levelling at myself.” *
My supposition was, unfortunately, correct; for before I had done speaking, a bullet broke the colour-staff, passed through the arm that held it, and took temporary possession of my person exactly opposite the spot, where the gage d’amour of my absent Clara had been deposited. I dropped—two rear-rank men picked me up instanter—and, though the action was particularly hot at the moment, they insisted on bearing me from the field. The anxiety which these worthy men expressed for the safety of their officer was astonishing, and I think they would have never halted until we had been out of range of the Cadiz mortar, had the same mortar been in battery at Salamanca.
“Where the devil are ye going with the lad?” exclaimed an eighty-eighth man, who was hobbling on as fast as a wounded leg would allow him, to try, as he termed it, to overtake his “darling Faugh-a-ballaghs.”
“To obtain medical assistance,” responded both my Samaritans.
“Then ye had better return,” said the Ranger. “Devil a doctor’s within a mile of you, except an assistant surgeon, who is lying under yon wall in mortal alarm.”
My humane friends at once decided upon employing the gentleman lying under the wall, and I was accordingly committed to his care. “Faint the din of battle bray’d,” and the doctor recovered his self-possession as the roll of musquetry became feebler and more distant—the ball was extracted—I was removed to the house of a gentleman immediately beside—confided to the tender mercies of any who would undertake them; while my deliverers—the greatest cowards who had ever been inflicted on a fighting regiment—considering the plundering had commenced, set out to try what industry would acquire; and, as I verily believe, the assistant surgeon “bore them company.”
Upon my conscience, into a nicer family circle an Irish ensign never contrived to drop himself. The senhor was a steady, sober, respectable gentleman, who went regularly to mass, and never drank in the morning. His lady managed him, the farm, and the domain—rent of the latter not excessive—and the daughter—oh, murder! three years have passed, and as yet I have never managed to forget Agatha’s foot and ancle! But then her eyes—St. Senanus could have never stood a second glance; her teeth would have put a foxhound’s to the blush; and, as the old song goes,—
“Her hair was as flick as the devil.”
Well, she nursed me—her mother offering at matins and vespers a prayer for my recovery and conversion, and her father spending the morning in asking after news, and putting the evening in, by giving me the result of his inquiries.
A fortnight passed—and as one wound healed, another opened. Agatha was ignorant of French, I innocent of Spanish. “With the exception of a monk or two in Salamanca, not a soul (out of the army) spoke Irish; and hence, poor girl! from a neglected education, we were rather puzzled to explain the rapid growth of mutual affection. In time we might have succeeded—but one fine morning in August, a field officer, accompanied by a staff surgeon, dropped into a neighbouring village where some sixty lazy vagabonds were malingering. Of course, they were all ordered to their regiments, and I, with a senior officer, desired to look after the scoundrels.
“Agatha!” I said, as I held her to my bosom the morning that I marched, “Agatha, would that I could remain in this sweet thraldom to eternity.—Curse that bugle! I wish to God the fellow had been shot through the lungs instead of the arm—Agatha!—”
Here sobs broke in—
“Pat, Pat. Do you really regret to leave me? and will you—”
“Return in a month, and make ye Mrs. Patrick Fitzmaurice.”
She flung herself upon my breast—placed a little billet in my hand—inquired how many days in England we reckoned for September; when a gruff voice exclaimed behind, “Mr. Fitzmaurice, Major Oldham is waiting to see the detachment march off, and if you’re not at his elbow in a pig’s whisper, why, he swore by the eternal frost! he’ll report you to the general to-morrow morning.”
“Agatha, my own Agatha!”
“Pat, my darling Pat!”
A long, last, kiss (vide the Corsair, for a particular account of a kiss of this description) succeeded—“Fall in, men,” said the sergeant, and in another minute poor Agatha was on the sofa, and I in the street.
“Agatha!” I exclaimed, as I passed the window whence, “like Nioobe, all tears,” she watched the detachment move off, “Agatha, on that festival you named, expect me.”
“And that’s Tib’s eve,” * said an incredulous scoundrel, who overheard the promise—The bugler played Paddy Carey—an angle of the street intervened.—It was the last I saw of Agatha.
When we halted for the night, I took the little packet from my breast and examined its contents. It contained a billet that professed eternal constancy, and a tress of glossy hair, black as the raven’s wing.
“Yes, Agatha, this memorial of our love shall rest beside that heart which is all thine own. But softly, Mr. Fitzmaurice! Is there not already a tenant in possession? Pshaw! Poor Clara! What fools boys are! Ha, ha, ha! and I really did fancy I was in love? One cannot help laughing at the recollection. Let me see—light brown—Well, the hair is pretty hair enough—but, shafts of Cupid! to compare brown with black!—the very thought is high treason in love’s calendar. Still will I preserve a memorial of thee, my sweet blonde—and therefore, sunny ringlet, I’ll commit thee to—my wilting desk!” The transfer was effected, and the tress of glossy black promoted to the secret pocket of the jacket, in front of fourth rib—left side—vice light brown, “placed on the retired list.”
A year rolled over—the anniversary of my birth came round. It was a sweet October evening, and I stole out from the crowded hall of my father’s mansion to meet my gentle Lucy. All around was so calm, so quiet, and so lovely, that the coldest heart would own its influence, and even a professed woman-hater, for once renounce his heresy, and “plead for pardon.” And who was Lucy? The sweetest girl in Roscommon! Her father was the village curate, not passing rich on forty pounds a year but half starved with a wife and six children upon a hundred. Lucy was the eldest child, and when I left England three years before, she had promised to grow up particularly handsome. I returned—we met by accident—for her father’s circumstances were too humble, and his spirit too high, to allow him to maintain terms of intimacy with my family. It was in one of those sweet green hint’s, bounded by hawthorn hedges and overspread with apple trees, whose boughs bent under the load they bore, that I saw her for the first time after my return. If ever rustic-beauty was calculated to ruin a man’s peace, it was such as Lucy Delmer’s. A lovelier dice I never looked at—but it was its expression that did the mischief. The deep blue eye, that turned on the ground from man’s approval the cheek, which one whispered word reddened to the very brow; those lips, which Suckling poetized and Cupid might have sworn by—but why dwell on the loveliness of Lucy Delmer? I came, I saw—reversed the proverb—and was conquered.
The locality of my father’s house was exceedingly remote, and so was the parsonage—and hence, though Lucy had numbered seventeen summers, the tale of love had never yet been heard. No wonder, then, that to my ardent suit her young heart was not indifferent. She did not tell me so—but, without much difficulty, I guessed the secret.
She was punctual to the hour.—The lane was made for lovers—so sweet—so unfrequented.
“Ten thousand thanks, my sweetest Lucy, I feared this lonely spot might have alarmed you, and made you change your resolutions.”
“Oh no; with your protection, what had I to fear? But why were you so desirous to see me? I know there is a dinner party at the hall!”
“It is my birth-day, Lucy—and before my last one, we carried Badajoz, by assault. From a soldier I purchased this chain, and have kept it as a memorial of that eventful passage in my nameless history.” I threw it round her neck: “And now, my sweet Lucy, the spoil of war becomes the bond of love.”
“Dear Pat,” said the blushing girl, in reply; “would that I had some token to offer in return;—I am poor—————”
“Rich, beyond Potosi,” I exclaimed; “ay, and throw El Dorado into the bargain. These nut-brown tresses would manacle Dan Cupid if he came on earth, and replace Berenice’s in hewen afterwards. Give me one lock!
“Hush—I hear footsteps.—Farewell, dear—dear Pat.”
“Adieu—dearest, dearest Lucy.”
We separated. A villanous whistle was perpetrated at a short distance. It was a herd-boy of my father’s—and as he passed me in the lane, I rewarded his melody with a thundering box, that changed “Nora Crina” into “a lament” that might have been heard a mile off.
That night, when I retired I found a letter on my table, and broke the seal. Lucy’s fair hand had indited the billet—and within was enclosed a lock of “nut-brown” hair, which Mr. Truefit of the Burlington Arcade (I forget the number) would have knelt to and worshipped incontinently.
“Lucy—my loved Lucy.” I I exclaimed; “little did I fancy, that from thee love’s influence was to be learned for the first time.—The first?—Easy—Lieutenant Fitzmaurice, Saints and angels! ’tis the festival of the blessed Agatha—the very evening you promised, a year ago, to return to——. Ah! Pat—Pat—What have you to say for yourself?”
What a special-pleader love makes man! In ten minutes, I had ascertained to my own perfect satisfaction, that in Agatha’s case I had jumbled up gratitude with friendship, merely made a mistake, and called the mixture by a wrong name. It was quite certain that ny feeling for Agatha was only brotherly after all—and that night the secret drawer of of’ writing-ease contained a second treasure; for the jet-black tress was safely deposited beside the brown one.
This my third liason was short, but very ardent, while it lasted. Mr. Delmer discovered that we met—instituted inquiries—and learned the secret of our love. Well aware that an alliance with one whose only dower was innocence and beauty, would be objectionable to a family aristocratic in every feeling like mine, he delicately hinted the state of affairs to Sir Edward Fitzmaurice, and removed his daughter to the house of a distant relative. I had written for renewed leave of absence, as the original term had expired—and to my surprise received a refusal, point blank, from Colonel Markham, accompanied with a peremptory order to rejoin. The truth was, my loving father had written privately to the commander, and told him that I meditated matrimony with the daughter of a curate; and to that holy estate, the Colonel being an inveterate enemy, he readily became a consenting party to disturb our course of love.
For a week after I rejoined at Gort, I rejected invitations to tea, left the mess sober, and refused to be comforted. By night, Lucy’s ringlet lay underneath my pillow—and by day, rested on a breast within which, as I religiously believed, the image of the loved one was enshrined to eternity. This extraordinary change on my part, excited a general inquiry—some opining that I had rats in the garret, and would require a gentle restraint and antiphlogistic regimen—while others asserted that I was about to turn Methodist, and were anxious to know whether I had attended field preachings, or been heard to swear since my return. Still my melancholy remained unabated, and I levanted before the third pint of wine—a proceeding in a corps of sharp drinkers, considered totally unregimental. Various were the surmises as to the ruinous results which this unhappy alteration in my habits must occasion. The assistant-surgeon suspected I might drop into a decline; and the red-nosed major added, that I would drop into Pandemonium afterwards.
At this period an event occurred that formed another epoch in my history. The captain of grenadiers, a pleasant gentleman, remarkable for taciturnity and an honesty of purpose that would warrant your drinking with him in the dark, in retiring from the mess-room to his lodgings in the town, with three bottles of Page’s port under his belt and in Christian charity with all men, forgetting that an open cellar lay directly in his route, popped in head foremost, and was found an hour afterwards by the relief, dead as Julius Cæsar. By this deplorable event I got the step and the company together.
The day after the accident, Captain O’Boyle came into my room to offer his congratulations. He lamented the loss the regiment had sustained. It would be many a day before the fellow of the departed could be found—a man who never bothered people with argument, confined himself to “yes and no,” and would as soon forge a bill, as pass the bottle without filling honestly. However, the Lord’s will be done! It would have been all the better if he had taken the senior major. He, Peter O’Boyle, would have got the step, and the removal of a toast-and-water man would have been a happy deliverance. “Now I think of it, Pat,” he continued, “I had a long chat with Miss Maginnis about you, at that tea party with the French name, which her mother gave the night before Bob Purcel broke his neck. D———d dangerous to lewe cellars open with a drinking regiment in town, and men obliged to stagger home after dinner to their cribs. Well, you must know that Flora Maginnis is “a regular clipper.” You wouldn’t match her in the province—takes a country side as the Lord has made it—never cranes a fence—thinks no more of four-feet, coped and dashed, than you would—sweet girl—no humbug about her—worst of it, no fortune—old Denis not worth a ghost—six hundred a-year—spends twelve. Well, as I was saying—‘O’Boyle,’ says she, ‘what the devil sort of a spoon is that chap Fitzmaurice?’”
“Heavens and earth!” I mentally soliloquized, “what would my gentle Lucy say, to hear her beloved Pat denominated ‘a devil of a spoon!’”
“‘The fellow,’ says she, ‘can neither ride nor drink, I hear; what is he good for? I wish to God he had broke his neck instead of that poor dummy, Bob Purcell.’”
“Egad, Pat, I took your part like a true friend, and stuck to you like a brick.”
“‘By my oath,’ says I, ‘Miss Flora, you were, never more mistaken in your life. It would do your heart good to see him seated on the saddle. Why, he brought Marmaluke in, a beautiful second at Knockcroghary, and only he rode over a blind beggarman and broke his back, he’d have won the cup in a common canter. Then, as to head—I never saw him fairly on the carpet but twice. He’ll take off his two bottles without trouble, and troop the guard after it, steady as the serjeant-major.’”
“‘And where the devil does the fellow hide himself?’ says she. ‘Dick, ye’ll deliver a friendly message for me. Tell him I’ll run him one round of the course for a new bonnet, weight for age,—and say, if he does not trot out to mama’s soirée—ay—that’s the name she called it—next Sunday, I’ll go myself to his cursed den, and draw him like a badger. If I don’t, may I never get a husband!’ There’s no use refusing, Pat, for she swore, d——n her if she wouldn’t.”
“Oh, my gentle Lucy!” I ejaculated, “no oath would fall from, thy sweet lips but the murmured vow of eternal constancy!”
“Eternal what?” responded Captain O’Boyle, who had but partially overheard my rhapsody—“If it’s Lucy Dogherty ye mean, I wish ye had been at the brag-table with her last Monday evening, when Mrs. Middleton laid down three natural aces,—Lord—she swore like a trooper. But you’ll go to the soirée, as they call ‘tea and turn out’ in this town, or Flora Maginnis will drop into your den, with a ‘God save all here.’ What will I say about a round of the course? Pon my sowl! it’s worth yir while to lose a bonnet, just to see how beautifully she sticks upon the pig-skin—‘ye’ll come, won’t ye, and I’ll call for ye.”
“I suppose I may as well go with a good grace,” I replied—“your friend, Miss Flora, being a lady, ‘not to be refused,’ as ‘the fancy, call it.”
“That’s right. Give us a glass of water, with a sketch of spirits thro’ it. I wonder what the divil tempts me to eat broiled bacon in the morning!”
Captain O’Boyle’s request being complied with, he bolted the diluted alcohol, and presently took himself off.
On the appointed night, he called and conducted me to the Sunday soiree of “Mother Maginnis,” as the mama of Miss Flora was familiarly termed at the mess. Why this maternal appellation had been conferred upon the lady, I could never exactly learn—but by that soubriquet she had been known for half-a-score years successively to every marching regiment. We found the company already assembled. Some played brag, some played loo, but Captain O’Boyle led me direct to the piano, where, encircled by a crowd of red-coats, ’two ladies were playing a duet; and, on its termination, in due form he presented me to Miss Flora.
She was indubitably a fine animal—a handsome face, a splendid figure, and the most magnificent head of auburn hair imaginable. On Captain O’Boyle announcing me as “his friend, Captain Fitzmaurice,” Miss Flora made a rapid inspection of my outer man from top to toe, and then, as if satisfied with the survey, she gave me a hand, white as alabaster, which I took respectfully in mine.
“How are you, Pat?—Isn’t it Pat they call ye?” said the lady. “Why the devil don’t ye shake my hand?—you take it as gingerly in yours, as if ye had hold of a hot poker. What do ye ride? Can you manage twelve stone without wasting, and on a ten-pound saddle?”
“What a question at first sight?” I mentally ejaculated. “Ah! Lucy, my absent love, were thou and I together, ours would be a softer theme than ten-pound saddles!”