Sociology A Down To Earth Approach

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Sociology A Down To Earth Approach

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 Sociology A Down To Earth
Approach

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.
had galloped faster than the noble Captain’s horses, and the officers
set their faces against the affair. He was obliged to return to Lisbon,
with the companion of his trip; when, after some fruitless
endeavours to reconcile the disunited couple, he sent the lady to
England, and thus patched up the honour of his name with his
regiment.

The unhappy husband at first took the matter to heart; but soon
overcame his feelings, and learned to despise both the wretched
woman and her paramour.

It is but fair to mention, however, that the Marquis was not so much
to blame as the lady in this transaction: he laid no siege for years,
nor even months, before the citadel—capitulation almost came with
the summons—the vanity of the woman was touched, and the spell
awakened all her evil passions. Her husband was a man of good
sense, (although in this instance he went “beyond his last;”) he
possessed a good person, agreeable manners, and an affectionate
and sincere heart; yet this wife left him for an acquaintance of an
hour! Blame is always readier to fall upon the man than on the
woman in affairs of this kind, and often very unjustly,—in this case
decidedly so; for although the Marquis acted foolishly and rashly, in
taking the wife away; yet the woman was not worth a thought who
could be thus won. However, the only real sufferer, at present, is the
unfortunate wife.
 ALLEMAR AND ELLEN.

“Ah! why was ruin so attractive made?”

Collins.

Love is never so happy—so gay—so delightful—so fascinating, as

when he decorates himself in military trappings; and had his little
godship been consulted upon how his portrait ought to have been
set forth by the poets and the artists, I have no doubt but he would
have directed them to have pictured him in the dress of a soldier. He
always has delighted in camps and barracks; the clashing of arms
sets his heart into a glow, and the sound of the drum makes him
flutter his wings like a rising lark. Yet, with all this preference for the
profession of the sword, his happiness is seldom long-lived, and he
is often—very often, found weeping over his broken joys—or toys, as
they may be—in bitterness, as proportionately poignant as his
pleasures were vivid. For the truth of this, I appeal to the individuals
of the British army who have served with the little deity, and to
those who are still better judges—their sweethearts.

Amongst the many instances of romantic and unfortunate love which

have fallen under my observation in the service, is the case of a
friend of mine—a young officer of the **th regiment of infantry—to
which are attached circumstances so interesting, that I feel I shall
not be intruding on my readers in sketching a brief history of its light
and shade.
Without giving the real names of the parties, in doing which I should
not feel myself warranted, I will tell the story; and it will not, I hope,
lose its title to credence, by romantic substitutes. Let us then call
one Allemar, and the other Ellen.

Allemar was about four-and-twenty when he first saw Ellen: she was
not then quite sixteen; and although not altogether the “angelic”
and “etherial” beauty which he imagined her to be, and as which his
passionate language was wont to speak of her, yet was she a sweet
girl—such a girl as one, possessing her, would not be inclined to
change for another, although a thousand beauties were given him
for choice:—yellow-silky hair—fine expressive blue eyes—teeth like
ivory—middle size—shape like Venus herself:—gentle, yet acute in
thought; and as musical in her soul as the spheres are said to be in
their bodies. He was a manly, open-hearted—and, what his
companions called—a good-looking fellow; but the ladies of his
acquaintance (and the ladies are the best judges in the world of
such matters) all agreed that he was irresistible amongst them—
whether from his manliness of person, his elegance of mind, or his
suavity of manners; or whether from the happy combination of these
three qualifications, I am not prepared to say—but certain it is that
he was “the man for the ladies.”

When first he marched into the town of ***** in his light-infantry

dress, on the flank of his company, the band merrily playing, and the
sun brightly glistening on his accoutrements, I ween—as bards say—
he disturbed many a quiet heart, and kept many bright eyes from
sleeping so well as they before had been accustomed to do. The
regiment was covered with white dust, and the summer’s sun gave
the countenances of the men a fresh and ruddy appearance. When
the officers retired to the inn, and were lounging at its parlour
windows, out of the many beautiful females who passed and
repassed, (for ladies have always a deal of out-door work to do—
such as visiting, shopping, &c.—on the day a new regiment marches
into a town,) few did not look kindly on my friend Allemar. I
witnessed their glances, and, to do the dear angelic beings justice,
they expressed their meaning in the most mistressly manner.

However, Ellen was not amongst them; nor did Allemar meet with
her until two months after his arrival at ****. He was, however, not
unknown to her, although she was completely so to him: she seldom
passed a day without seeing him, and with each sight increased her
disposition to see him again. At length, they were introduced to each
other at the house of a mutual acquaintance; and from that hour
they were never happy asunder. Their opportunities of meeting
were, at first, not very frequent, owing to the prudent vigilance of
her widowed mother and a dragon of an old maiden relation, who
had little else to do but attend to Ellen’s morals: however, Allemar
was fortunate enough to attract the kind notice of this antique
virgin, and therefore found his opportunities of conversing with his
beloved increase. I have often been present when they met during a
rural walk, and from what I witnessed in the ancient lady’s manner
towards my friend, I have no doubt that she regarded him with a
tenderness wholly incompatible with their relative ages. And so
changed, too, in her general demeanour!—From a stiff, cold, sour,
puritanical Duenna, she, all on a sudden, was transformed into a
giggling, foolish, taudry-dressed flirt. Instead of an umbrella she now
carried a yellow parasol; and although seldom without clogs of a
moist day before, now ambled in blue-satin shoes. Her conversation,
too, was now on the beautiful tints of the clouds—the varieties and
fragrance of the flowers—illustrating her opinions by quotations from
Darwin’s “Loves of the Plants.” She would sigh as she spoke to
Allemar of the happiness of true friendship, and the sweets of
retirement with those “we esteemed!”—There is no doubt of it—she
was in love with him, and this love was very nigh proving the means
of depriving poor Allemar of his Ellen for ever; for when she found
that her hints, and her sighs, and her languishes, were all thrown
away upon him, and that he was not only the lover, but the beloved
of her beautiful relation, she turned out the most terrible of all she
dragons that ever opened a mouth. But enough of her, let her go to
the—the place to which all superannuated maids must go at last:—
she has nothing more to do with my story—so adieu!

Allemar and Ellen met, and met again;—they walked together by the
moonlight, and parted often as the day peeped over them—they
loved truly, passionately, virtuously:—they seemed made for each
other; and to have divided such would have been the scathing of all
that is divine in love—the destruction of all that such lovers value
more than existence itself.

However, they were obliged to separate; but not without a hope of

meeting again. Allemar’s regiment was ordered to march for
Portugal; and as Ellen’s friends were not disposed to let her marry at
that time—even had Allemar received the consent of his—it was
agreed upon between the lovers, that they should wait a more
favourable opportunity of uniting in matrimony: at the same time,
pledging each other to eternal faith in love.

It was in May the regiment received the route; and Allemar passed
the night previous to marching in sweet converse with his beloved
Ellen. What a romantic night! Let the reasoner say what he will—let
the philosopher prate with his cold tongue—there is nothing of more
real worth to the heart than the sweets of early love;—and the hour
of parting between two true and virtuous lovers is a melancholy
pleasure, perhaps equalling in tender delight their happiest meeting.
It was a beautiful night—there was not a breath of wind; and the
moon, shining brightly down, threw a fairy light over the whole
scene.

On this night, as the clock struck twelve, the enthusiastic and

romantic Allemar stood under Ellen’s window, in the orchard which
was beneath it, and with his enchanting voice, accompanied by an
old harper—such as we read of in romance—and a “second” from
me, serenaded his Beloved. The harp was a small one, but well-
toned;—the harper was a fine bass singer—a man whose pupil in
music Allemar was—and I, although but an indifferent vocalist, made
up the trio. The scene—the time—the music—the circumstance of
parting—all conspired to impress me with an idea of a romantic
dream, the memory of which can never leave me. These are the
words of the

SERENADE.

I.

LOVER.

(Two Voices.)

Sweet maid, arise!—

Yon high bright moon,
Love’s light, alone,
Shines like thy beauty in the deep blue skies.
The winds are gone to rest;
The heavens all silent watch for thee—
This hour—this hour is blest—
Oh! haste—come down to me!

HARPER.

(Bass—One Voice.)

I see the light, and the lattice moves,

And her dark eye looks for the youth she loves—
Sing on—sing on!
Though the harper’s old, yet the harp he bears
Has the fire of youth, for the lovers’ prayers—
Sing on—sing on—sing on!

TRIO.

Sweet love, arise!—

Yon high bright moon,
Love’s light, alone,
Shines like thy beauty in the deep blue skies.

II.

LOVER.

(Two Voices.)

Far, far away,

Yon high bright moon
Soon, sweetest, soon
Shall gaze down between us, o’er the wide wide sea.
She waits our fond farewell,
That when I’m miles and miles from thee,
She many a night may tell
Of this sweet hour to me.

HARPER.

(Bass—One Voice.)
Didst see the maid, and her hand so white,
As she kissed it to thee, in the soft moonlight?
Good night—good night!
She comes—she comes!—and I hear her tread—
Oh, happiest youth!—oh, happiest maid!
Good night! good night! good night!

TRIO.

Far, far away,

Yon high bright moon
Soon, sweetest, soon
Shall gaze down between us, o’er the wide wide sea.

The regiment marched at sunrise; and my friend with it. He went to

Portugal, but returned at the end of the year on sick leave (love-sick
leave, no doubt), and was happily married to his Ellen. They lived
together for six months; when Allemar was obliged to join his
regiment, then stationed before Bayonne; and as every body
expected an immediate peace, the friends of Ellen wished her to
remain at home, hoping that when the war was at an end, her
husband’s regiment would be ordered back to England. However,
when Allemar had been but a month gone, the mother of Ellen died.
As soon as her feelings for the loss of her beloved parent had
subsided into calm, she determined to proceed to join her husband—
the only being now in whose society she could be happy. For this
purpose, she wrote to him, and having arranged every thing for her
departure, she, and a female servant, were provided with a passage
on board a commodious transport for St. Jean De Luz, and sailed
with a fair wind for the Bay of Biscay.
The letter she wrote to apprize her husband of her intention,
breathed for him the most passionate affection; and it was certainly
not thrown away upon Allemar: his love for her was, if possible,
greater than hers for him. He was like a moping hypochondriac at
Bayonne, before he received this letter; but immediately on its
receipt, became the most lively, spirited, and pleasant officer in the
corps. He and I have often walked along the beach, looking out for
the expected ship and the scenes of happiness which he anticipated
formed the subject generally of our conversation—he talked of going
on half-pay if peace should take place, and to live a rural life—then
he would describe, in glowing terms, the happiness of contentment
and retirement, in comparison with the ambition, toil, and peril, of a
soldier’s life. These and such were the dreams of fancy, in which we
used to indulge, when wandering by the sea-side.

About a fortnight after he had received the letter announcing his

wife’s resolution to join him, the weather became very stormy; and
one morning, after breakfast, Allemar came to me with an
expression of anxiety in his face, which he could not disguise: he
seemed cold, and was endeavouring to check, by internal efforts, a
certain trembling which was evident all over his frame. I asked him
what was the matter. He replied, that a fleet of transports were in
sight, and as it blew so violently, great fear was entertained by the
pilots, with whom he had spoken, that many of them would be
driven on shore; for in such weather, to make the port was
impossible. I saw how things were, but I consoled my friend as
much as I possibly could, by seeming to laugh at the idea of such
danger.

We hastened down to the beach, and there joined a group of navy

officers, French pilots, fishermen, &c., whose remarks upon the
vessels in the offing were such as to give rise to the most serious
apprehensions in me for the safety of my friend’s wife, should she be
so unfortunate as to have come on board one of the ships then
struggling with an increasing tempest on a lee-shore. I pitied my
friend from my heart, when I looked at his face and saw the
workings of his feelings there so strongly depicted.

He would not move from the beach the whole day, except
occasionally to make inquiries in the town of St. Jean de Luz, as to
the means of assistance to be rendered the vessels in case of
necessity. By his field-glass he often fancied he saw the letters which
marked the transport in which his Ellen sailed, and was as often set
right by me. The vessel in which she took her passage, was marked
A. Z. T., in letters of two feet in length; and the glass nearly dropped
from my hand, when I perceived the identical letters on the quarter
of a brig which had been all the morning nearly out of sight, but
now approached the land. I could not tell my friend of what I saw;
but he too soon confirmed my discovery, and clasping his hands in
the most intense agony of mind, cried out, “It is the ship—O God,
protect her!”

We hastened to the port, where my friend, half distracted, called on

the boatmen to go out; but the answer was, that they did not think
any of the ships would go aground; and also that the sea was too
rough for boats. However, by the means of gold, he persuaded a
couple of hardy and brave French fishermen to attempt the
assistance of the ship, in which he believed his wife then to be. The
boat in which they were to put off for the transport was as large as
the Deal boats, and with Deal smugglers on board, might “live”
through any sea: great hopes, therefore, were entertained that the
fisherman would be successful.

My friend insisted on going along with them, and when he was

about to step into the boat he handed me his keys; then shaking me
heartily by the hand, gave me to understand what he dared not
speak—nor, indeed, could I have heard—without exhibiting a
woman’s weakness. As it was, we were not far from it—a word
would have unmanned us.
The boat bounded away from the harbour over the high surges,
shaping her course well for her object; and considering that she had
to beat to windward, she made wonderful progress: however, it was
four o’clock ere she got within half a mile of the vessel. The tempest
was now increasing frightfully—the worn out transports seemed as if
they were giving up the ghost to the overwhelming storm—none
carried more canvass than topsails close reefed, and the opinion of
every one on the beach was, that all would be wrecked if the
weather did not change. It was getting dark: I saw the boat
labouring amidst the hills of foaming water, and the ship was within
hail of her. It darkened:—we could see no more of either boat or
ships; and could only ascertain what direction they were in by the
flashes of the occasional guns of distress which some of them fired.
It was a sickening sight. I knew not what to do:—I could do nothing
—except, indeed, offer up my prayers for the safety of the poor
souls that were hurling over the frightful abyss of horrors.14

Guns were repeated and repeated; but no assistance could those on

shore render the ships. I was bewildered;—I wandered home—back
again—lay down—arose restless—watched the daylight; and then
was the horrid reality:—the ship had gone to pieces; so had the boat
—my dear friend, and all his dream of happiness, gone! Not a being
either in the ship or boat was saved, and the bodies of Allemar and
Ellen were washed on shore about a mile below St. Jean de Luz.

This catastrophe has since caused me many painful reflections. The

manner in which the lovers met and died in the tempest, was before
my eyes night and day for a long time after it happened: indulging in
these melancholy thoughts, I drew the following imaginative picture
of their fate:—

Along by the sea-cliff as Allemar hied,

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 RUGAque 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.

Next morning he was gone; but at about nine o’clock, as I was

about to breakfast, he returned, came into my room and requested
me to look out of the window at a purchase which he had made for
twenty dollars. I looked out: it was a miserable donkey which he had
that moment bought from a Portuguese. On its back was strapped
an old saddle, with a still more veteran valise attached to it, while a
pair of boots, balanced by a striped blue handkerchief full of sundry
articles of provision, hung across the animal’s neck. With perfect
good humour the adventurer philosophized on the poverty of his
stud and baggage, giving me several appropriate quotations. We
then sat down, and after eating a hearty breakfast of chocolate,
eggs, and cold beef, he took his leave of me, mounted the ass, and
proceeded slowly on the road to Irun, where the regiment to which
he had his introduction was stationed.

I heard no more of the Volunteer until the day on which our troops
crossed the Bidassoa—about three weeks after his departure from
Renteria. It was in the evening, and about a mile from Irun, on the
high road. He was walking in custody of the Provost Marshal—had
on a red coatee, torn and bemudded—his head without its proper
covering, and his whole aspect that of a madman. He recognized me
in a moment, and my presence seemed to calm the rage which
burnt within him,—to the no small delight of the Provost, who
evidently had been very much troubled in the management of his
charge. A part of the dialogue which passed between us I will try to
recollect:—

Myself. What have you been doing?

Volunteer. Doing? I have been doing thankless work. I am disgusted

with the service, Sir. A man of mind or genius has no business in it.

Myself. Bless me! what can all this mean?

Provost. The gentleman has been playing the very devil in front, Sir,
and the General has ordered me to see that he goes to the rear.

Volunteer. Ay, playing the devil, Captain Provost. I wanted to prevent

them from playing the devil; that stupid Colonel of mine knows no
more of military tactics than a horse. Now mark you, Sir—the
column of subdivisions was ordered to change its direction on a
moveable pivot: “Left shoulders forward” was given instead of “right
shoulders forward,” and I of course—thinking for the best—cried out
to the Captain of the company I belonged to, that he was wrong;
when he ordered me out of the ranks. I wouldn’t be treated so;
therefore went up to the Colonel to speak with him on the subject,
when the French began to fire grape shot in amongst us. The
regiment halted before crossing the river, while the shot was coming
thicker and thicker; so I was determined to tell my mind—for a good
commanding officer would have moved his men a little under cover,
—and I called out to the Colonel to advance, or to move by an
oblique echelon to the left, in order to get the men under a high
bank. What d’ye think, Sir?—he said he’d order me to be flogged if I
did not immediately go to the rear! The column at this moment
received a shower of shot which knocked some down; so, in the
confusion of eight or ten of the men near the river, I was thrown off
the bank—souse in the water, and was carried down luckily to the
ford, or I should have been lost. I scrambled out—look how wet I
am—and went back to the regiment, when the Colonel sent me to
be flogged by the Provost: and if the General, God bless him! had
not fortunately been riding by, I should have been disgracefully
punished; but he asked what the matter was, and then sent me to
the rear in charge of this gentleman.

Myself. Really, I think you acted very imprudently by interfering with

the command.

Provost. Lord bless you, Sir; he threw the men into the greatest
ferment and confusion.
Volunteer. I’ll tell you, Sir, that they are all ignorant fellows—all, Sir. I
did every thing for the best, and this is the way I was treated: the
fact of the matter is, the service is disgusting, and I will immediately
return to England.

Myself. Where is your cap?

Volunteer. It was shot off my head a little before I was thrown into
the Bidassoa.

I now prepared to part from my quondam acquaintance, for the day

was advancing, and I had yet two leagues to go; so I recommended
him to call at my late quarters at Renteria, where he would be
hospitably received by the owner of the house: he thanked me, and
relaxing into a smile as he nearly squeezed my hand off, he
emphatically exclaimed, “I have this, at least, to consolate me:—I
have stood the fire of the foe, and swam in the stream that waters
Fontarabia: with the poet I may exclaim.

‘Certe ego transilui positas ter in ordine flammas,

Virgaque rorales laurea misit aquas.’”

Thus we parted, and resumed our opposite marches—I for the front,
and the volunteer, with his escort, for Renteria.
 THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN.

“’Tis of little import, Corporal. A gallant soldier’s memory

will flourish, though humble turf be osier-bound upon his grave.
The tears of his country will moisten it.”
Colman.

On a cold and snowy night, in the winter of 1823, I was passing

through the Strand, on my way home from a formal dinner-party,
when I stepped into one of those houses of entertainment which
abound in that semi-fashionable neighbourhood which skirts the
occidental line of aristocratic demarcation—Charing Cross. Although
this house had assumed the dignified appellation of tavern, the only
claim it possessed to such distinction, was the display of a few
mutton-chops, a plate of mutton kidneys, and two fine heads of
celery, in the window. Nor was it what is termed “a public-house”—

“Where ’bacco-pipes, and clumsy pots of beer

Regale the crowd:”

but might be said to have fixed its intrinsic rank midway between the
two. It possessed a neat and comfortable parlour for public use,
and, although perfumed by tobacco, and moistened by homely ale,
neither vulgar “pipe” nor clumsy “pot” disgraced it—the segar, in its
“naked beauty,” and the brightly polished pewter-vessel, there
repelled the rabble, and imparted their cheering pleasures to
respectable visitors. The evening paper was there—and so was the
“Times,” to read both of which, as well as to escape a heavy fall of
snow, I opened the parlour-door, took a seat at an agreeable
distance from a fine blazing fire, and was soon accommodated with
the newspaper, together with a cup of smoking-hot brandy and
water.

There were five persons in the parlour, each at a separate table, but
all conversing freely together on that never-ending and purely
English topic—the weather. One of them, however, but seldom
spoke, and then it was when addressed by others of the company:
he seemed by his air, and the formation of a threadbare and well-
brushed blue frock coat, to belong to the army, and I at once set
him down as one of “the cloth.”

“Waiter, give me a Welsh-rabbit,” said this gentleman, in a mild voice

to the attendant of the room, and then took up the newspaper,
which he continued to peruse until his supper was brought in.

While he was reading, I had an opportunity of observing him closely:

he was bald, except on the sides of the head, and there the thin hair
was grey: his face was thin, his cheeks rather hollow, and his large
and expressive eyes overshadowed by strongly marked brows: his
figure was tall, but wasted; and from the oppressed and hurried way
in which he breathed, it was evident that his health was broken. The
whole of his dress was extremely clean, but almost worn out. I could
perceive that his boots, on which the strong blaze of the fire fell,
were in no state to guard the invalid who wore them from the
dangerous effects of the melting snow, over which he must tread on
his return home. When I thought of this, and considered that it
might cause his death, or at least encrease his illness, I sincerely
pitied his situation. I felt as if I had already learnt his history, and
beheld in him the ruins of a genuine military gentleman.

On addressing my conversation occasionally to him, I found that he

was by no means so reserved as at first I imagined; and in a short
time we fell into a lively and an interesting chat. I politely asked him
if he would take a little brandy and water; but he excused himself,
although pressed, by saying that his health would not permit him to
drink more than half a pint of porter: this, he said, he took usually in
the evening. “Wine,” said he, “is too expensive in London, or I
should certainly prefer it.” I immediately requested the waiter to
bring some wine; but of this the gentleman also refused to partake—
and in such a manner that I felt I should have wounded his feelings
by pressing my request farther.

We were now undisturbed by general observations; for when the

others in the room perceived we were not at all disposed to join
them in chat, they continued to discuss the topics of the day without
interrupting us. We conversed for about two hours, and I was never
more delighted than by his conversation. Military affairs was the
subject: we had both served in the Peninsula, and consequently
talked of many mutual acquaintances, living and dead: this made us
so far familiar, that he gave me an outline of his professional life.

He had entered the army as ensign in 1790, and had served in both
the East and West Indies, Holland, and the Peninsula—obtained his
Lieutenancy by chance, and his company by purchase. At the close
of the last war he was placed on half-pay; in which state he
remained: nor could he succeed in obtaining a return to full pay,
notwithstanding his long services: this, however, was owing to the
great reductions made in the army after the war. He was a native of
Bath,—the son of a clergyman whose interest in the church was
considerable at the time he became an Ensign; and he assured me,
that had he taken his father’s advice and embraced the profession of
the church instead of the army he would have been a rich man—not
a poor pensioner with a ruined constitution, and without hopes of
better days in this world: “But,” said he, “I was fond of gaiety—the
fine uniform of the army caught my young mind, and pleased a
beautiful and interesting young lady whom I afterwards married; so
I gave up the reality for the shadow:” these were his expressions.
His wife died in the West Indies, and left him two daughters: they
grew up: both married officers in the army: one went to Sierra
Leone and died: the other went to Madras; but whether alive or
dead he did not know, not having heard from her for eleven months.
All his relations were extinct. “I returned,” said he, “from Waterloo,
where I was slightly wounded, and on going down to Bath met my
father’s funeral—the only relation I had had then on earth except my
daughter, who is in India.” He was placed on half-pay, by the
reduction of the battalion in which he was effective. He possessed
about four hundred pounds in cash; and this, with his income of
seven shillings per day, promised fairly to place him above necessity.
He remained in London perhaps more from a wish to be on the spot
with the head-quarter people, than from any preference he had to
an overgrown, noisy, expensive, metropolis; where, without wealth
or friends, life is solitude of the worst description. He thought he
possessed a better chance of being re-employed in the service, and
so obtain a majority by staying near the Commander-in-chief, to
watch the progress of military affairs. But year passed after year, in
the same dull expectation, and he found himself as far removed
from his hopes in 1823 as he was in 1817. His four hundred pounds
he lodged in the hands of a mock army agent, who, from day to day,
and month to month, promised him an exchange with some
individual, with whom, perhaps, the impostor never had
communicated. This mock agent at length failed, and ran away;
leaving the poor Captain with nothing but his seven shillings a-day:
and not only did he take with him his client’s four hundred pounds,
but his last quarter’s half-pay, which the knave drew the day before
he departed.15

This took place about six weeks before the evening I met the
Captain. I immediately offered to introduce him to an army agent,
who would advance him the amount of his following quarter’s half-
pay. This offer he not only willingly accepted, but cordially thanked
me for it; indeed, it had the greatest effect upon his spirits—he
became quite another man—his countenance lost much of its
melancholy; and it appeared he had previously much reason to be
depressed; for he frankly informed me, that Greenwood’s had
refused to advance money, and therefore, for the last six weeks, he
had been obliged to have recourse to raising money by pawning his