Chapter V: Part 5

After touching at the island of Flores for a supply of water and fresh provisions, we pursued our course for home; and though from my junior station I could not join the company of Sir Edward and his family, nor even approach the captain without his sanction, unless on duty, yet Agnes took frequent opportunities for conversing with me. I did not venture to mention my ardent attachment, or request a return of her esteem; yet I had the satisfaction of knowing that we regarded each other with feelings of affection, founded upon the purest desire of promoting each other’s happiness. None but those who have witnessed, can form an idea of the beauties of a fine clear summer evening passed upon the smooth surface of the ocean; it is the season when the officers assemble on the quarter-deck, and as they pace fore-and-aft, enjoy the social and unrestrained converse which is precious to the heart. The falling shades of twilight conceal the anxious look as busy Memory conjures up scenes of past joys, and Hope portrays the coming future. It was at these hours that Agnes generally came on deck, and I had the inexpressible pleasure of enjoying her society; for Sir Edward had relaxed in his haughtiness though his son remained impenetrably stubborn.

At length we arrived in England, and the baronet repaired to London; but previously to his departure I received the most solemn assurances of the attachment of Agnes. To my friend, the lieutenant, I was indebted for this last interview; and in his presence our vows of fidelity were pledged. A few weeks afterwards, the baronet with his son and daughter once more embarked for Bombay. Agnes wrote me a farewell letter, and every energy of my soul was aroused to fresh exertions in my profession, under the hope of one day calling her mine. As soon as duty would admit, I visited my parents, whose joy at seeing me again exceeded all bounds. They were very comfortably settled, and it was not amongst the least of their gratifications to behold their only child arrayed in the naval uniform of his country.

It would be a useless, though perhaps not altogether an uninteresting task, for me to detail the events of the seven succeeding years, during which I frequently endeavoured to get on the East India station, and at last obtained my desire. At this time I was first-lieutenant of a frigate, (as through the interest of the captain, I received a commission almost immediately after passing my examination,) and had amassed a very handsome property in prize-money; but I knew it would be necessary for me to gain higher promotion before Sir Edward would listen to my proposals. Nevertheless, the prospect of seeing Agnes afforded me the most lively emotions of pleasure. To this moment I can remember the delight which swelled my soul when we anchored at Bombay, particularly as we had captured an enemy’s ship that had long been a great annoyance to commerce in the Indian seas, as it seemed to promise me another step.

As soon as duty would permit, I went on shore and eagerly hastened to the residence of Sir Edward, where almost the first individual that met my sight was the old butler. From him I learned that the baronet had been consigned to the tomb about nine months;--that young Sir Edward retained an important and lucrative office,--and that the gentle Agnes, harassed by the _importunities_ (I afterwards heard _cruelties_) of her brother to become the wife of an extremely wealthy but depraved libertine, had sunk broken-hearted to the grave! and the old man, with many tears, placed in my hands her last letter addressed to me, with a small box containing her miniature and several other mementos of an affectionate heart.

I shall not attempt to describe the anguish of my spirit at this heavy disappointment; at first it seemed to wither up my faculties, as if the only incentive to exertion was entirely destroyed, and all my future prospects were thenceforward to be dark and dreary. Many years have flown away since, and I am now an old post captain; but though I have seen hundreds of beautiful and pleasing women, I am still single. My affection for the devoted Agnes--my first, my only love--remains unshaken, and I look forward to that happy union in the blissful realms of immortality which knows neither separation nor sorrow.

FOOTNOTES

[7] Three miles.

[8] Half-past ten o’clock.

THE VETERAN SOLDIER.

“The brave poor soldier ne’er despise,
Nor treat him as a stranger:
For still he’ll prove his country’s stay,
In every hour of danger.”

The young urchins were taking their last five minutes of play on the beautiful village green at S----, in Devonshire, previous to returning to the school-room for the afternoon, and in the midst of them stood a tall but aged man, who appeared to be regulating the game with all the accuracy of a thorough tactician. I stood watching the interesting group of children (of all ages) whose actions were guided by the tall old man, and witnessed their parting when the sonorous bell called them from their sports. They assembled round the aged mentor, and in a broad Irish accent he bade them mind their “larning,” and be good “childer.”

I entered into conversation with the veteran, and found he was a pensioner on the army, who had also a little property to live upon in the village of S----, which had been left him by an officer whose life he had preserved at the battle of Talavera. Having an hour or two to spare, I requested to hear something of his history, and with the garrulity natural to old age, he readily complied with my request. We seated ourselves, on a rustic bench beneath a giant sycamore, and he began by telling me--but I cannot do better than give it in his own language.

“Faith, but your honour’s mighty condescending,” he exclaimed, “to listen to the chathering of ould Pat. Fifty years have marched off under General Time since I first shouldered the firelock, and now I am daily expecting the route (for my billet is nearly expired) to assemble for the grand review before the sarcher of all hearts. Och, many’s the time and oft I’ve wished for some kind friend that I might spake a word to and unburthen my sinful spirit; for when I’ve stood sentry all alone by myself in the dark nights in Ameriky and Spain, and in dare little Ireland too, I’ve thought, ‘Arrah Paddy, but you are a great big blaggard, so you are, for running away from your ould mother that’s dead and gone, without so much as seeing her dacently laid under the turf. If she had been alive, it would have broke her heart, so it would, to think how her own beautiful Paddy should desart her in time of need, and not stop to see her waked.’ But ’twas the dthrink, your honour, ’twas the murthering dthrink, and bad manners to Sarjent Linstock for that same; he laughed at poor Pat, and marched us off without bate of drum, saying that ‘She would never wake again;’ for I must be after telling you that there was a recruiting party came down to the fair, so they picked me out as the most likely lad on the sod; and indeed your honour, there wasn’t many in those days, though I say it meself, that dared tread upon my greatcoat, or call my shtick a rascal. But, as I said before, it was the dthrink, and then they chated me by slipping the king’s countenance into my fob when I knew nothing about it at all, at all; but they swore I had ’listed willingly, and had taken the picture meself. Och, by my conscience, didn’t I get into a thundering rage, sure!--not that I minded sarving his Majesty, heaven bless the heart of his soul, that’s in t’other world! but I thought it was not trateing me handsome, your honour, to trap me into it. But I found it was of no use to complain; so I went to bid poor mother good bye, and she’d just breath enough left to tell me not to disgrace the country that gave me birth. ‘Arrah Paddy, (says she,) my own dare Paddy, that I loved so tinderly, and used to get the but--but--but-buthermilk and pra-pratees for!’ Oh, sir, ’tis a big shame to see a sodger cry; but when I think of the dare soul and the buthermilk, how can I help it? ‘Niver dishonour your cloth, Paddy, (says she,) nor the king you sarve, nor the father that begot you. Fight in a just cause, and when the vanquished cry for quarter, unlock the heart and spare the hand. Protect the innocent, and do your duty like a man.’

“Then there was poor Norah, your honour. Och, hone, but I thought it would have broken my heart entirely, to see how the tears chased each other down her pale face! ‘And why will ye lave me, Paddy, (says she) all alone by meself? Oh, look at our cottage and the peat-stack--where will you find the likes of it in another country, Paddy? Then there’s the bit of a bog yonder for the pigs and the geese, and your own dare Norah, and the pratee garden. Oh, why will you go, Paddy, and lave me all alone by meself?’ And then, your honour, I put my arms round her neck, (for I couldn’t spake a word,) and my tears fell trickling on a bosom that looked like twin roses moistened with dew. Oh, I niver felt before nor since as I did at that same moment! But then Mr. Sarjent must have his say, divel twist him to the right about round the rim of the moon,--God forgive me that I should have unchristian feelings tow’rds the vilest of his creatures; ‘Come, come, young man, (says he) fall into the ranks and march; you’ll soon find prettier girls to lead a wild-goose chase!’ Bad manners to him for that same, to try and make my own dare Norah believe that her Pat would iver cease to love her as his own heart’s blood; so I up and tould him I didn’t like to be made game of. ‘Well, well, (says he) I suppose an honest sodger may have a kiss.’--‘Arrah, dress back to the rear, (says I) Mr. Sarjent, for by me soul, if you lay but one of your thieving-hooks upon a digit of her corporal substance, faith! but I’ll brake me arm across your face, so I will.’ Well, your honour, and so he persisted in that same, and cotch’d hould of her gown. Oh, ’twas more than Irish blood could brook, and ‘Lay there jewel!’ says I, stretching him along upon mother earth before he could cry ‘whack!’ and then they put iron mittens on me, and tore my swate love away. I thought me brain would have turned, and so they took me before ould Justice Ballymagfoglem, and poor Pat was committed for a rogue and a vagabond, and marched off for Cork under a military guard; and put into jail.

“A few days afterwards and the transports were going to sail; so they trotted me down to the beach, and there I found a great many more like meself. Well, just as I was stepping into the boat, I heard the swate voice of my own dear Norah, and so I stepped back again. ‘Jump into the boat! you mutinous rascal,’ says the sarjent. ‘Rascal yourself, (says I) Mr. Sarjent; do you think his honoured majesty, God bless him! would refuse me one last embrace from the dare cratur I’d broke the bit o’ gold with? Arrah, be aisey now, and paws off,’ for they began to handle me again, your honour. ‘Let the poor fellow alone!’ said the midshipmite of the boat; ‘let him alone to spake to the girl.’--‘God bless you! young jontleman (says I) for that same. May your father niver have to sorrow over your mother’s son!’

“And so poor Norah came to me; but I couldn’t throw my arms round her neck now, your honour, for the bracelets they had clapped upon my wrists; but she stooped down and got between them, and we were folded to each other’s hearts. Oh, sir, I feel it at this moment, and hope you won’t think the worse of poor Pat for the dthrop in his eye. Well, we were obliged to part; ‘Oh Paddy, (says she) niver, niver forget your country or your Norah!’--and bad luck to me, your honour, if ever I did--and she waved her apron till I saw her out of sight, and then I could have laid down and died. ‘Niver forget your country or your Norah!’ were her last words; and they have ever been engraven on my heart, by the same token that Corporal Flannagan, who had received a ’varsity edecation where he was brought up to run arrands and clane shoes, composed the beautifullest song,--oh! your honour, it would do your heart good to hear it. Faith, and it’s here I’ve got it, along with the bit of broken gold and a lock of my own darling’s hair, all black and shining,--oh! they’re a rich treasure to poor Pat. My hair was like it once, but now my head is silvered over with the snow of age; but my heart is as warm as iver, and melts with tenderness, spite of the frost of adversity that has so often nipped it. Would your honour like to rade that same? or shall I rade it to you? Oh, I can repeat it by heart, for sure it is always laying next to it.

‘Dear land of my fathers, their glory and pride,
Who fought for their homes and in Freedom’s cause died;
The hallow’d green turf-mound marks each sacred spot,
And their spirits still cry, Let us ne’er be forgot!
Forget you? Ah never, whilst Shannon’s stream flows,
And Liberty’s tree on dear Erin’s land grows,
To yield us shilelahs to lather our foes
Will Paddy forget you,--ah never!

‘Your lovely green meadows, all sparkling with dew,
Where Norah first met me, how dear to my view;
Remembrance now pictures the sweet little cot,
And I hear her last words, Let me ne’er be forgot!
Forget you? Ah never! though now far apart,
Still faithful and honest shall be this poor heart;
Till life’s latest breath from my lips shall depart
Can Paddy forget you?--ah never!’

“There, your honour, what do you think of that for a composition? oh sure, it’s a sublimity. ‘Can Paddy forget you? ah never!’ But to make the long of the short of it and go on with my story; I was sent on board a transport, and the next day we sailed with the rest for the West Injees, and all the passage out I was drilled morning, noon, and night, till I was as thin as a pratee dibble,--marching and countermarching between two guns on the deck, that wer’n’t more nor six feet asunder; and what with the sea-sickness, and the drilling, and the six-upon-four,[9] I was almost done up by the time we got to Jemakee, where they make niggers of the poor blacks.

“Och! your honour, but that was the place for the yellow faver and the land crabs, and may-be I didn’t get a long spell in the hospital, that made me as thin as a ramrod and as wake as ten-water grog. But I got over that bout; though many’s the brave sodger I’ve seen hearty and well at sunset--talking about home and the darlins--and a loathsome corpse before morning, and buried by day-break. By me conscience, death gives but little more warning there than he does in the field of battle. Yet I got used to the place at last, and there I was made a corporal, and should have been contint but for the thoughts of my poor Norah.

“Well, many years after this, the regiment was ordered to the River Plate, and so we landed in Maldonado Bay and took the Island of Goretta. Oh, your honour, it made my heart ache to see the poor souls lie bleeding on the ground, and to be obliged to stick my bayonet into the breast of a fellow-cratur! But I thought of my ould mother’s advice, sure,--‘Do your duty like a man.’ After this, we sailed up to Monte Video, and I shall niver forget to remember that same, when we stormed the breach over a scaling ladder of dead bodies that came tumbling down upon us as fast as we could get up. By and by, somebody fetches me the terriblest poke of the sconce; it made the light dance in my eyes like sparks from a skyrocket, and who should it be but my old friend Sarjent Linstock, sure, as dead as a red herring, your honour. ‘Long life to you, jewel! (says I) for taking yourself out of the way so dacently;’ but my heart smote me as soon as I had said it. ‘Shame to you, Paddy, (thought I) to rejoice in the downfall of any man; you don’t know how soon it may be your own turn,’ and it struck me all of a heap entirely, so I stood stock still. ‘On, on, my brave fellows!’ roared somebody in the rear, giving me a prick behind with the bayonet; it made me jump like a billy-goat, and so I rushed on, headed by our brave captain, and we entered the town.

“Well, there was a comical fellow of the name of Taylor[10] (he was a sailor commanding a private brig of war) advanced with us, having a bag of Union-Jacks over his shoulder to hoist upon the batteries. When we got into the great square ould Elio, the governor, stood ready with his troops to receive us; so we charged, and Taylor running on, knocked the ould fellow down with the bag of Jacks, and after that, och! but it was all dickey with them.

“‘Arrah, Paddy, what booty have you got?’ says Corporal Blacketer. ‘Sorrow the scurragh,’ says I. ‘Och, hone to your heart, look here!’ says he; and so, your honour, he turns round upon his back, and puts his hand into his haversack, and pulls out a little silver image, that I knew at first glance was St. Peter. ‘Oh, you tief o-the-world, (says I,) what, rob a church?’--‘No, no, (says the corporal,) I had it from an honest priest, to redeem his _corpas-any-mule-he_ from danger. And see here, (opening his cartouche-box and showing another,) and here, (tapping his knapsack that bulked out,) see here! I’ve got all the saints in the calendar dacently buckled up; faith, here’s enough to make an almanack.’

“But what plased me most was, the good cheer we met with after our long voyage. I’ll engage we wasn’t long getting the camp-kettles to work. Oh, there was beef and mutton for picking up, and turkeys and chickens enough to stock all the _uphoulsterers_ in the united kingdom. Oh, your honour, didn’t we live like fighting cocks, sure?”

At this moment, an elderly female called to the veteran from the door of a snug little cottage, mantled with evergreens and surrounded by a garden neatly laid out, and kept in the most exact order.

“Faith! (said he) but my baccy’s ready; and will your honour condescend to walk into the cabin, to rest yees a little while?”

I told him my engagements would not at that moment permit me; but as I should remain some time in the neighbourhood, I would most certainly visit him once more before I quitted that part of the country.

“I hope no offence,” said he, “but I should be proud to do meself the honour of your acquaintance, so I would; and if you could make it convenient to give poor Pat a call now and then, ’twould cause joy to dance in his heart, and pleasure would stretch out the wrinkles in his withered countenance. Long life to your honour, and may God bless you!”

The veteran rose from his seat, gave his hand a military flourish to his hat, and marched off in ordinary time to his cottage; whilst I pursued my way to the residence of a friend, reflecting on the vicissitudes of life.

A few days after this adventure, I again visited the spot; and on advancing to the village green, I observed my friend Pat with some twenty little urchins drawn up in a line, each with a broomstick or mop-handle, going through the various evolutions of the drill-ground. He was in the first position for facing to the right; and the youngsters, with mouths and eyes wide open, were watching the motion.

Though seventy winters had spent their storms upon his head, he stood erect and firm, and at that moment would have been a fine study for an artist. “To the right face!” said he, and the motion brought him full in my front; his hand was flourished to his hat in an instant, and from a countenance expressive of command, it changed to one of the most lively pleasure. “Oh, joy to the hour that I see your honour again! Faith! but delight is bateing the roll upon the drum of my heart, and every swate sensation is answering to the muster.”

The children, no longer under control, were charging each other in front and rear, which annoying the veteran, he exclaimed, “Arrah be aisey, and don’t be after making such a hubaboo. Double quick time, march!” and off they started, as wild as young colts. “Are any of these your own?” inquired I. “Oh no, your honour,” he replied mournfully; “when the turf covers poor ould Pat, his lamp will be clane put out. But see at yon gossoon; oh, it makes my heart ache to look at him, for he has never a friend in the world, nor in Ireland eather, save and beside myself, your honour. Sure, isn’t he a darling of a boy, by token that he’s the very image of my own dare Norah. Come here, Casey, und spake to the gentleman; don’t stand rubbing your pate there.”

A fine healthy lad with long flaxen curls approached, and took hold of my hand; but this did not altogether agree with the old soldier’s ideas of etiquette, and he continued addressing the youth, “Run off, you ragged rascal, and let his honour alone. Don’t stand grubbing with your ten toes, like a pig in a pratee garden. Faith, but he’s off; and now perhaps your honour would like to know a little more of my history? But first I’ll go back to the end, and tell you straight forward in a circuitous manner, that we mayn’t set out in a round about way.

“Sure and wasn’t it at Monte Video that you left me last? And faith, I might have staid there till death, and longer, but they ordered me up for Boney’s Airs; and och, hone, but we suffered severely at that place, marching up to our middles in water without rations and without rest for three days. And then the assault,--bad luck to the divil!--didn’t we charge into the town with our bagnets, and nothing but our hammers in the locks? and that, too, where every house was a battery in itself, and we had no enemy to meet on plain ground? By the powers of Moll Kelly, but they knocked us down like bastes in a slaughter-house, and divil a rap could we give ’em again. Only think, your honour, of straight streets crossing each other at right angles, so that a nine-pounder at the end of one street was a defence for the whole; and then they pulled down a part of the cathedral, so that nothing might stop the shot.

“Oh, that was a terrible consarn, so it was, and many brave fellows lost their billet; for these Spaniards had an ugly knack of knocking the wounded on the head after they were kilt. Sure, wasn’t I one of the party that stormed the Pizzelaro del Tow-row, where the bulls fight? and didn’t we make a big bull of it? for how could we get at ’em, your honour, seeing there was not even the spoke of a ladder by way of staircase? Ah, then poor Pat tumbled down with a wound I got in the breast, and then I thought of dare little Ireland and Norah; and so I struggled to get up again, but all was of no use; so I fainted with the loss of blood, and there I lay, spachless and comical entirely.

“Well, when I woke, I heard a soft swate voice spaking to me in broken English--it was just like Norah’s, your honour; and so I opened my daylights to take a peep at the angel, for I thought it was her own dare self come in a phantomical manner to cheer my weary spirit, about to quit this world of trouble, only I couldn’t make out the brogue; but not a soul did I see, saving and except a young officer in the uniform of a Spanish hussar kneeling by my side and feeling my pulse, which was now bateing the dead march. The creature started when I showed my peepers, and the cap flew from its head. Oh, I shall never forget to remember that same, for it was a woman, your honour, and her long auburn locks came clustering down her forehead, and she looked like the commander-in-chief of the cherry-bums. Oh, she was beauty’s queen, and a countryman of my own; for though French by birth, she was married to a son of the sod. Long life to her, whether she’s dead or alive, for her kindness to poor Pat! for didn’t she have me carried by the viceroy’s sarvants to snug quarters, where my wound was dressed and the ball distracted? Faith, and she did, your honour, and many more besides me; for after the battle--having a regard for the brave sodger, and knowing that many lay bleeding on the ground--she put on the regimentals of a captain of hussars, as one of General Liniers’ aids-de-camp, and rode through the scenes of carnage to stop the murderers’ hands.[11] Oh, wasn’t she a darling of a soul? Ax General Beresford, your honour, for he knew her very well, by token--but that’s none of my business to notice; only ’twas whispered as soft as a peal of bells, that they found his image in wax-work, all alive and kicking, your honour.

“But the worst of it was the loss of our colours, that hung dangling in the church of San Nicholas, where the brave Sir Samuel Auchmuty had suffered so much, and was compelled to surrender; but that was a sad job to make the most of it, and all through the treachery and cowardice of Whitelocke, bad luck to his powthered fiz-hog. But the colours, your honour, oh, didn’t they stick in my gizzard, sure? and so I spoke a word or two about it to my ould comrade, Corporal Blacketer. ‘What’s to be done,’ says he. ‘Arrah, dacently walk off with them,’ says I. ‘How’s that?’ says he. So seeing he had no liking to the matter, I was obliged to close my chather-box, and soon after we sailed down the river.

“Well, about two years afterwards, an ill wind blow’d me there again, and I couldn’t help going to take a sly peep. Oh, didn’t I get into a big rage, sure, when they struck like a blight upon my eyes? ‘Oh Paddy, (says I) twig ’em, and take shame to yourself for not dislodging them from their height;’ and so it bothered me night and day, your honour, that I couldn’t slape a wink, nor ever cease to think of it while waking.

“Well, one evening Jerry Driscoll and meself were ashore, taking a sup of the cratur. Jerry was a broth of a boy, and knew that two and two made five when his own ugly mug was shoved in to balance the account. He was a blue jacket, your honour, belonging to a sloop of war. ‘Arrah Jerry, (says I) shall we do the thing?’--‘Faith and we will, (says he) and the more by token that they have stuck the bunting up!’ as indeed they had, your honour, with R. M. B. on it, for Royal Marine Battalion. So when night came, off we set with a long rope and got safe into the middle of the centre of the church, and clapped ourselves in ambush clane out of sight where nobody could see us.

“About midnight, ‘Now Jerry, (says I) you must mount a reev-o; only take care the rope does not get round your neck.’ Well, just as we were going to begin, we heard the most terriblest noise; and what should it be but one of the padres, who had been sipping the supernaculum and fallen asleep in the sentry-box--arrah, the confessional-box, I mane. Bad manners to him for stretching his daylights and prying into honest men’s affairs. Oh! your honour, he roared like a pope’s bull, and out he came as big as three moderate sized aldermen. ‘Arrah, be aisey,’ says Jerry, giving him a thump in his rotunda, which would have held a cathedral, ‘can’t you behave yourself, jewel?’ Thump went Jerry again, till his coporation sounded like a big drum, or a Chinese gong. The sentry peeped in at the church-door; Jerry twigged him and cotched the friar round the neck, and down they rolled together, both roaring with all their might.--‘Arrah, Jerry, (says I) don’t you mane to get up?’ ‘Oh, the murthering rascal, (says he) don’t you see how he’s using me;’ and indeed, your honour, the padre was belaboring him entirely with both his fists. I ran to assist, but a sarjent entered with the guard.

“‘What’s the matter here?’ says the sarjent,--for he was a countryman, your honour, that had deserted from Whitelocke’s army.--‘Oh, by my conscience, (says Jerry) but that same fellow is a thumping rogue, so he is.’--‘Be aisey,’ says the sarjent; and so he speaks to the padre in broken Spanish, and tells him to get up; but he couldn’t do that thing till the sodgers lever’d him up with their firelocks. And then he tells them a long story about his being asleep, and dreaming that somebody was trying to steal the Virgin Mary, and that San Nicholas tweaked his noise, and that he woke and cotched us at it. ‘Do you hear that?’ says the sarjent. ‘Faith and I do,’ says Jerry; ‘but sorrow the silly-bull do I understand at all, at all. All I know of the matter is, that we were passing by and heard the poor jontleman hollaing; so we ran in, and thinking he’d got the cramp in the stomach, I rubbed his _eminence_ a little; when the ungrateful fellow knocked me down, and threw himself on the top of the outside of me, and I’m almost mumm’d to a jammy--arrah, no, jumm’d to a mammy--och, botheration, it’s jamm’d to a mummy I mane.’--‘But what’s that rope?’ said the sarjent, pointing to it. ‘Oh, the sinner,’ says Jerry, ‘and sure he was going to hang himself, but didn’t like it; faith, but it’s all plain enough now, Mr. Sarjent, and by the powers we’ve saved his life.’

“However, your honour, they marched us off to the guard-house, Jerry and I; and there we staid till morning light, like the babes in the wood, our hearts bateing the tattoo all the time, fer we’d no great relish to the mines for life. But, joy betide the friar; he made it all out to be a miracle, and so we were released for the honour of San Nicholas, in spite of the thwacks he got in his corporation, that would have held a whole bench of bishops; and so the colours hang there till this time, your honour, unless they’ve taken them down since.[12] Happy enough were we to get out of that, and they said the friar would be _cannonized_; but Jerry swore they should ram him into a _mortar_, or marry him to the gunner’s daughter, before he would go colour-staleing again, with a vengeance to it.”

I left the old man with a promise of visiting him again; and in a few months afterwards, being in the same part of the country, I strolled towards his usual resort--the village green. There was no busy hum of voices--no cheering laugh, or infantile prattle; the grass grew as luxuriant as ever, but the children were listlessly scattered about, as if they had lost the common tie which once had bound them together:--the veteran was no more. In a corner of the churchyard, below a time-shattered elm, was a turf-raised mound, and beneath it lay the mouldering remains of poor Pat. It was a lonely spot, and the villagers took delight in keeping it clear from weeds. A few wild flowers blossomed around, and some rustic had carved a rude memorial on a slab of wood. There were guns and swords neatly cut at the top, and underneath was cyphered a plain P. M. Below these letters appeared this simple elegy,--

A Soldier’s Grave.

It was enough, and its language spoke more closely to the heart than all the pompous eulogies which deck the monumental urn, or sculptured tomb. It was indeed a soldier’s grave, and a sailor’s tear was shed upon it.

FOOTNOTES

[9] Six men upon four men’s allowance of provision.

[10] This anecdote of Taylor, I have since found to be correct. He commanded a small brig, and was commissioned by the Spaniards; so that when the English fleet first anchored off Monte Video, he was under Spanish colours, having brought in the most daring manner a cargo of cattle for the city, which, being closely invested, was short of provisions. These cattle he landed in a small sandy bay, but payment for them was refused. That night he came out in his boat (a beautiful Deal galley) clandestinely to the English admiral, and offered his services as a pilot, and also to bring off the cattle that was landed, provided he had a strong party from the ships to assist him. His offer was accepted, and he accomplished the undertaking. After the cessation of hostilities, he settled at Buenos Ayres, and acted as a pilot for the River Plate; but on the declaration of independence and the war between Buenos Ayres and Monte Video, he was appointed to command the squadron of the former. Since then, he joined Lord Cochrane, when admiral of the Brazilian navy, and commanded a Brazilian frigate. He is, I believe, still in existence, and holds high rank at Rio Janeiro.

[11] I have since ascertained the accuracy of poor Pat’s statement. The lady was Madame O’Gorman, a native of the Mauritius, and married to Captain O’Gorman, brother to the great counsellor of that name. She was a remarkably fine woman, and possessed great influence over Liniers, the viceroy. Bold and daring in her manners, and of an intrepid disposition, she attended the viceroy during the battle habited in the dress of an officer of hussars; and after the failure of the attack, she rode through the town, at the imminent risk of her life, to protect the wounded. Her brother was in the Spanish service, and was one of the officers present when Sir Samuel Auchmuty surrendered his sword.

[12] This too I have found to be correct. They had not been taken down a short time since, and the Spaniards were extremely proud of the trophies. The damage done by the British artillery to the churches and steeples was promptly repaired; but the spots where the shot struck were painted black, and in some instances the shot themselves were left remaining in the walls. The Spaniards execrated the name of Whitelocke, and expressed great disgust whenever it was mentioned. As a set-off against this, a friend informs me that, in several houses at Buenos Ayres, he saw framed upon the walls the series of British engravings of the Battle of Trafalgar, Death of Nelson, &c.

THE END.

ADVERTISEMENTS

CHESNUT STREET,
JANUARY, 1835

NEW WORKS

LATELY PUBLISHED,
AND
PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION,

BY
E. L. CAREY & A. HART, PHILAD.

* * * * *

In Three Volumes, 12mo.

JACOB FAITHFUL;
OR, LIFE ON THE WATER.

COMPLETE.

By the Author of “PETER SIMPLE,” “KING’S OWN,” &c.

“It is replete with amusement and oddity. Poor Jacob was born on the water. ‘It was,’ says he, ‘in a floating sort of a box, called a lighter, and upon the river Thames, that I first smelt the mud.’”--_Baltimore Gazette._

“Equal in merit to Peter Simple, and perhaps even more entertaining, are the adventures of Jacob Faithful, another of the whimsical creations of Captain Marryatt’s prolific brain.”--_Saturday Courier._

“It is full of character and incident, and will, we doubt not, be a universal favourite.”--_Lit. Gaz._

* * * * *

In Three Volumes, 12mo.

PETER SIMPLE;
OR, ADVENTURES OF A MIDSHIPMAN.

COMPLETE.

By the Author of the “KING’S OWN,” “NAVAL OFFICER,” &c.

“The quiet humour which pervades the work is irresistibly amusing, and the fund of anecdote and description which it contains, entertaining. The humour sometimes approaches to downright burlesque, and the incident to extravagance, if not improbability; but, altogether, as a book of amusement, it is excellent.”--_Baltimore Gazette._

“Those who are the most competent to Judge, say that Captain Marryatt is altogether superior to any other writer of naval sketches or descriptions, living or dead.”--_N. Y. Commercial Advertiser._

“This is the best work that Captain Marryatt has produced.”--_Atlas._

“‘Peter Simple’ is certainly the most amusing of Captain Marryatt’s amusing novels; a species of picture quite unique; a class by themselves, full of humour, truth, and graphic sketches.”--_Literary Gazette._

“This is an admirable work, and worthy of the noble service it is written to illustrate.”--_Spectator._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE NAVAL OFFICER;
OR, SCENES AND ADVENTURES IN THE LIFE OF FRANK MILDMAY.

By the Author of “PETER SIMPLE,” “THE KING’S OWN,” etc.

“This is the most seaman-like composition that has yet issued from the press. We recommend it to all who ‘live at home at ease,’ and need scarcely say, that no man-of-wars man should remain an hour without it.”--_Atlas._

The following beautiful and judicious compliment to the genius of Captain Marryatt, author of the Naval Officer, is from the pen of Mr. Bulwer, who, it will be acknowledged, is no inexperienced or unobserving critic:

“Far remote from the eastern and the voluptuous--from the visionary and refining--from the pale colouring of drawing-room life, and the subtle delicacies of female sentiment and wit, the genius of Captain Marryatt embodies itself in the humour, the energy, the robust and masculine vigour of bustling and actual existence; it has been braced by the sea breezes; it walks abroad in the mart of busy men, with a firm step and a cheerful and healthy air. Not, indeed, that he is void of a certain sentiment, and an intuition into the more hidden sources of mental interest; but these are not his forte, or his appropriate element. He is best in a rich and various humour--rich, for there is nothing poor or threadbare in his materials. His characters are not, as Scott’s, after all, mere delineations of one oddity, uttering the same eternal phraseology, from the ‘prodigious’ of Dominie Sampson, to ‘provant’ of Major Dalgetty--a laughable, but somewhat poor invention: they are formed of compound and complex characteristics, and evince no trifling knowledge of the metaphysics of social life.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE KING’S OWN;
A TALE OF THE SEA.

By the Author of “THE NAVAL OFFICER,” “PETER SIMPLE,” etc.

“An excellent novel.”--_Edinburg Review._

“Captain Marryat may take his place at the head of the naval novelists of the day.”--_United Service Journal._

“The adventures of the hero, through bold and stirring scenes, lose not a jot of their interest to the last, while the naval descriptions of sights and deeds on shipboard may be compared with any similar production of which we have any knowledge.”--_Atlas._

“A very remarkable book, full of vigour, and characterized by incidents of perfect originality, both as to conception and treatment. Few persons will take up the book without going fairly through it to the catastrophe, which startles the reader by its unexpected nature.”--_Literary Gazette._

“Replete with genius. The work will go far permanently to fix the name of Captain Marryat among the most popular and successful writers of fiction of the age.”--_Felix Farley’s Bristol Journal._

“A work, perhaps, not to be equalled in the whole round of romance, for the tremendous power of its descriptions, for the awfulness of its subjects, and for the brilliancy and variety of the colours with which they are painted.”--_Spectator._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE PACHA OF MANY TALES.

By the Author of “PETER SIMPLE,” &c.

* * * * *

ADVENTURES OF
JAPHET IN SEARCH OF HIS FATHER.

By the Author of “JACOB FAITHFUL,” “KING’S OWN” &c.

(_In Press._)

* * * * *

In Three Volumes, 12mo.

TOM CRINGLE’S LOG.

COMPLETE.

A NEW EDITION, REVISED AND CORRECTED.

“The scenes are chiefly nautical, and we can safely say that no author of the present day, not even excepting our own Cooper, has surpassed him in his element.”--_U. S. Gazette._

“The sketches are not only replete with entertainment, but useful, as affording an accurate and vivid description of scenery, and of life and manners in the West Indies.”--_Boston Traveller._

“We think none who have read this work will deny that the author is the best nautical writer who has yet appeared. He is not Smollett, he is not Cooper; but he is far superior to them both.”--_Boston Transcript._

“The scenes are chiefly nautical, and are described in a style of beauty and interest never surpassed by any writer.”--_Baltimore Gazette._

“The author has been justly compared with Cooper, and many of his sketches are in fact equal to any from the pen of our celebrated countryman.”--_Saturday Evening Post._

“A pleasant but a marvellously strange and wild amalgamation of water and earth is ‘Tom Cringle;’ full of quips and cranks, and toils and pranks. A fellow of fun and talent is he, with a prodigious taste for yarns, long and short, old and new; never, or but seldom, carrying more sail than ballast, and being a most delightful companion, both by land and sea. We were fascinated with the talents of Tom when we met him in our respected contemporary from the biting north. His Log was to us like a wild breeze of ocean, fresh and health-giving, with now and then a dash of the tearful, that summoned the sigh from our heart of hearts; but now that the yarns are collected and fairly launched, we hail them as a source of much gratification at this dull season. _Tom Cringle and a Christmas fire! may well join in the chorus of ‘Begone, dull care!_’--The ‘Quenching of the Torch’ is one of the most pathetic descriptions we ever read. The ‘Scenes at Jamaica’ are full of vigour. As a whole, we have no hesitation in pronouncing ‘The Log’ the most entertaining book of the season. There has been a sort of Waverley mystery thrown over the authorship of these charming papers; and though many have guessed the author, yet we take unto ourselves the credit of much sagacity in imagining that we only have solved the enigma:--there are passages in ‘Tom Cringle’ that we believe no living author except Professor Wilson himself could write, _snatches of pure, exalted, and poetic feeling, so truly Wilsonian, that we penciled them as we read on and said, There he is again, and again, and again; to the very last chapter_.”--_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

THE CRUISE OF THE MIDGE.

By the Author of “TOM CRINGLE’S LOG.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE MAN-OF-WAR’S-MAN.

By the Author of “TOM CRINGLE’S LOG.”

“No stories of adventures are more exciting than those of seamen. The author of Tom Cringle’s Log is the most popular writer of that class, and those sketches collected not long since into a volume by the same publishers, in this city, were universally read. A large edition was soon exhausted. The present is, we believe, an earlier production, and has many of the same merits.”--_Baltimore Gazette._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE PORT ADMIRAL; A TALE OF THE SEA.

By the Author of “CAVENDISH.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

LIVES OF THE ENGLISH PIRATES,
HIGHWAY-MEN, AND ROBBERS.

BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

“These are truly entertaining volumes, fraught with anecdote, and abounding in extraordinary adventures.”--_Naval and Military Gazette._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

CAVENDISH;
OR, THE PATRICIAN AT SEA.

_The following Notice is from the pen of Mr. Bulwer._

“The peculiar characteristics of Captain Marryatt are shared by some of his nautical brethren; and the author of ‘Cavendish’ has evinced much ability and very vigorous promise in the works that have issued from his pen.”

“We should find it very difficult to be very angry with the ‘Patrician,’ even if he had fifty times his real number of faults, on account of the jovial, easy, reckless, off-hand style of character that seems to belong to him. Our sea portraits multiply so fast, and advance so rapidly in excellence, that we become fastidious, and insist upon a likeness where formerly we were contented with a caricature. ‘Cavendish’ partakes of both.... Into these thousand or rather ten thousand scrapes, we cannot follow him, but the reader may, much to his advantage. The Navarino narrative, in particular, will be read with an interest proportioned to the truth and spirit with which it is told.”--_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

New and cheap Edition, in Two Volumes, 12mo., of the

MEMOIRS OF VIDOCQ,
THE CELEBRATED AGENT OF THE FRENCH POLICE.

“But it is not our province or intention to enter into a discussion of the veracity of Vidocq’s Memoirs: be they true or false; were they purely fiction from the first chapter to the last, they would, from fertility of invention, knowledge of human nature, and ease of style, rank only second to the novels of Le Sage. The first volume is perhaps more replete with interest, because the hero is the leading actor in every scene; but in the subsequent portions, when he gives the narrative of others, we cannot but admire the power and graphic talent of the author. Sergeant Bellerose is scarcely inferior to the Sergeant Kite of Farquhar; and the episodes of Court and Raoul, and that of Adele d’Escars, are surpassed in description, depth of feeling, and pathos, by no work of romance with which we are acquainted.”

_From the Boston Traveller._

“MEMOIRS OF VIDOCQ.--He who reads this book, being previously unacquainted with the mystery of iniquity, will find himself introduced at once into a new world: but it is a world which must be known only to be avoided. Never before was such a mass of depravity opened to the mind of inquiry in a single volume. It was well said by Byron, ‘truth is strange, stranger than fiction.’ Whoever passes through the details of this singular exposition, supposing it to contain correct delineations of fact, will be satisfied of the justness of this remark.

“The details of the varied scenes through which he has passed in private and public life, surpass all the creations of fancy, and all the delineations of fact, from the wonderful relations of the Arabian Nights to the renowned exploits of Mr. Lemuel Gulliver; and from the extraordinary sufferings and escapes of the celebrated Baron Trenck to the still more marvellous exploits of the famous Mr. Thomas Thumb.

“It would seem, on following this singular writer through his adventures, as if all the crimes of which human nature is capable, all the horrors of which the universe has heard, all the astonishing incidents which history can develope or imagination portray, all the cool-blooded malice of the assassin, and all the varied machinations of the most ingenious and systematic practitioners in the school of vice, in all its varied departments, had been crowded into the life of a single individual, or come beneath his cognizance. The lover of mystery, who delights to ‘sup upon horrors,’ the admirer of romance, who is pleased with the heightened pictures of the most fanciful imagination, and the inquirer into the policy of crime and its prevention, may here have their utmost curiosity satiated.

“Vidocq, during the early portion of his life, was personally initiated into all the mysteries of crime, and becoming afterward a pardoned man, and an active and successful agent of the French police in the city of Paris, ‘girt with its silent crimes,’ as well as its tumultuous depravities, becomes a fit person to delineate its scenes of vice, depravity, and guilt. His work is a study for the novelist, the annalist, the philosopher, and the Christian. But it is a work which should be read with a guarded mind; with a disposition to profit by its lessons, and to avoid scenes which have little enjoyment, and which invariably end in misery.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes 12mo.

THE HAMILTONS.

By the Author of “MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS.”

“This is a fashionable novel, and of the highest grade.”--_Athenæum._

“Mrs. Gore is undeniably one of the wittiest writers of the present day. ‘The Hamiltons’ is a most lively, clever, and entertaining work.”--_Lit. Gaz._

“The design of the book is new, and the execution excellent.”--_Exam._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

FIRST AND LAST.

By the Author of “FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBANS.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

A YEAR AT HARTLEBURY.

BY CHERRY AND FAIR-STAR.

“Most pleasant Cherry! most brilliant Fair-star! we hail ye and welcome ye both: agreeable and profitable will be the scenes you paint.--We cordially recommend ‘Hartlebury’ to our friends, convinced that our friends will be pleased and amused by its acuteness and variety.”--_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE WEST INDIA SKETCH-BOOK.

“The sketches are worthy of George Cruikshank.”--_Globe._

* * * * *

In Three Volumes, 12mo.

THE COQUETTE.

By the Author of “MISERRIMUS.”

“The ‘Coquette’ is a most amusing library book. Several of the characters are exceedingly well drawn: indeed, they are obviously sketches from life, and there is a sparkling vivacity throughout the whole work.”--_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

THE MISERIES OF MARRIAGE;
OR, THE FAIR OF MAY FAIR.

By the Author of “PIN MONEY,” &c.

“Mrs. Gore certainly stands at the head of the female novelists of the day. But we subjoin the opinion of Mr. Bulwer.”--_U. S. Gazette._

“She is the consummator of that undefinable species of wit, which we should call (if we did not know the word might be deemed offensive, in which sense we do not mean it) the _slang_ of good society.

“But few people ever painted, with so felicitous a hand, the scenery of worldly life, without any apparent satire. She brings before you the hollowness, the manœuvres, and the intrigues of the world, with the brilliancy of sarcasm, but with the quiet of simple narrative. Her men and women, in her graver tales, are of a noble and costly clay; their objects are great; their minds are large, their passions intense and pure. She walks upon the stage of the world of fashion, and her characters, have grown dwarfed as if by enchantment. The air of frivolity has blighted their stature; their colours are pale and languid; they have no generous ambition; they are _little people_! they are fine people! This it is that makes her novel of our social life so natural, and so clear a transcript of the original.”--_The Author of Pelham._

* * * * *

In One Volume, 12mo.

SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF
SIR PUMPKIN FRIZZLE, K. C. B.
AND OTHER TALES.

“Decidedly one of the most amusing productions of the year. In addition to the adventures of _Sir Pumpkin_, there are several capital stories, which cannot fail to be popular.”

* * * * *

In Two Volumes, 12mo.

ADVENTURES OF GILBERT GURNEY.

BY THEODORE HOOK,
Author of “SAYINGS AND DOINGS.”

* * * * *

In One Volume, 8vo.

MEMOIRS OF THE
BEAUTIES OF THE COURT
OF CHARLES THE SECOND.

BY MRS. JAMESON.

Author of “DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE,” “CHARACTERISTICS
OF WOMEN,” &c.

“NEW WORK.--Messrs. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, have in press a popular book, ‘The Beauties of the Court of King Charles the Second,’ written by Mrs. Jameson, whose father had been employed by the princess Charlotte to paint cabinet pictures of those too celebrated ladies. The princess died before they were completed, and the consequence was, they were never paid for. The circumstances of the family required some use should be made of the paintings to produce a remuneration; and Mrs. Jameson undertook the delicate task of the letter press, the portraits being engraved in the highest style of art. The London copy costs about twenty-five dollars: the American edition will be an octavo without the portraits. Nell Gwynn, the Duchess of Hamilton, &c. are not unknown characters in history. Mrs. Jameson has executed her department in a remarkably graceful manner.”--_Journal of Belles Lettres._

* * * * *