THE
MILITARY SKETCH-BOOK.

REMINISCENCES OF
SEVENTEEN YEARS IN THE SERVICE
ABROAD AND AT HOME.

BY AN OFFICER OF THE LINE.

“The wight can tell
A melancholy and a merry tale
Of field, and fight, and chief, and lady gay.”

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1827.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET STREET.

CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.

THE
MILITARY SKETCH-BOOK.

NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.
No. IV.

“Come, you Jack Andrews, lave off your caperin’ about there, and give us that song the Captain made on the bowld Guerilla,” said private Mulligan to his comrade, who was taking a lesson from Lance-Corporal Brogan on the Ballycraggen[1] pushing-step, to set his blood into circulation; for he had been just relieved from a two hours’ stand upon the side of as bleak a mountain as ever sentry stood upon; where the keen winds of a cold frosty night had full play upon his patient and good-humoured countenance.

“Make room, then, and let me have the next place to the hob,” replied Jack. He was very soon accommodated with the desired seat; for Andrews was a good singer, and a still better story-teller: he had seen a great deal of service, although a young man, and from his uncommonly retentive memory could detail the most minute circumstances of his campaigns; he therefore was the very life of the guard-room; and the men of the regiment used to say, that if Jack Andrews and Corporal Callaghan were but along with them, they would not refuse two extra guards in the week.

The fire was soon surrounded, and Peninsular Bob, the sergeant of the guard, bestirred himself from his snooze in the old arm chair, right in front of the hearth, to listen to the fine voice and admire the musical taste of Jack Andrews.

“Why,” said Jack, “the song of ‘The Guerilla’ is a very sweet thing, when sung by two voices; but without two it is not quite so good. Corporal Callaghan knows it well, and has often sung it with me; so as soon as he returns from relieving the sentries, I’ll sing the song with him, if you can persuade him to it. He knows the air better than I do, for he learnt it from the Guerillas themselves when there was a troop of them at Tolosa, and I learnt it from him; but if you have no objection, lads, I’ll sing a song which the Captain wrote to a fine bold and romantic French air, which I have heard the French soldiers singing many a night, close to my own post.”

Of course, the proposal was received unanimously; and when silence was perfectly restored, (for all spoke on the subject at once,) Jack Andrews sang the following song, first having taken the precaution of shutting the door, lest he might happen to be heard outside although there was very little danger of being surprised by any of the officers in his melodious dereliction from strict military practice.

THE SENTINEL.

When o’er the camp the midnight moonlight beams,
And soldiers’ eyes are seal’d in happy slumber,
The wakeful sentinel his watch proclaims,
And silence sweetly swells the echoing number:
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I watch, for them I’ll die!”

And, as the foe’s night-fires before him play,
His bosom swells with flames still stronger burning;
He gazes on them—wishes for the day,
With glory and the fight once more returning!
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I’ll fight, for them I’ll die!”

And should he, in the battle’s raging heat,
With valiant heart and arm the foe confounding;
Oh! should the hero then his death-wound meet,
And Victory his glorious knell be sounding,
Again to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with his life’s last sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I fought, for them I die!”

This, sung in admirable style by the manly voice of Jack Andrews, had a powerful effect upon the listeners, for the air was of a romantically martial character, composed during the best days of Napoleon’s glory, when chivalric enthusiasm infused itself into every shade of French imagination. There was not a man of the guard who had not served in the Peninsula during the brightest period of England’s military grandeur, when she stood opposed to Napoleon’s greatest heroes; and from a recollection of the scenes of that time, awakened by the song, there arose a feeling in every breast around the humble hearth of Ballycraggen Guard-house, which commanders might have envied, and philosophers admired. It brought all back to the romance of war; it placed them in situations familiar to their fancy; it touched the most delightful chord of the soldier’s heart, and every tongue became eloquent upon the source of its sensations. There is no sign in Nature’s mnemonics like music: it is a talisman of power. Moore has beautifully expressed this in poetry, but not so effectually as the following lines, attributed to the unfortunate Ensign Dermody.

To him whose heart is dark with shades of care,
How sweet’s the melody it loved to hear
In days gone by! Yet bitter is the strain:
Oh! ’tis a mingling of delight with pain;
For, though the hand of Time well-nigh efface
Each blur and furrow—each deforming trace,
Which stern Adversity’s harsh hand design’d
To spoil the lively landscape of the mind,
Some passing sound, some melancholy lay,
The favour’d pleasure of some former day,
Falls on his soul; and, as the listener hears,
Forth comes the magic stream of memory’s tears,
Which, dropping on the picture, bright again
Enlivens alike each beauty and each stain,
Casting a varnish of so mix’d a dye
That (by its gloss) ’twill please yet pain the eye!

Bob the sergeant spoke more than any one else on the subject of the song;—“That’s a ’nation good thing, Jack,” said he; “it puts me in mind of many a one of my night-guards when I was a private. D—me but it made me think I was on the side of a hill on the advanced-posts, stuck behind a tree, or the corner of a rock, watching the enemy in the moonshine of a fine summer’s night, just as I was immediately before the first battle Sir Arthur ever fought in Portugal. I think I’m there now: it was at Roliça. I was on sentry that night, on a hill, close to the enemy. It was as fine and as calm a night as ever was seen. The French were posted thick upon the heights in front of us—infernal steep and craggy precipices, where it was almost impossible to come at them. There was I about three hundred yards in front of them. On this advanced-post I was the sentry, and was just leaning against an old windmill, looking out at the French vidette, who was stuck on horseback, like the statue at Charing Cross, right out upon a high rock, at the top of a hill. The moon was rising behind him, and I could see the figure of the fellow and his horse just like one of those black shadows they cut out in card. The whole country round was one of the most beautiful pictures in the world. Down under my eyes was a little wood of lightish-coloured trees, (cork, I believe,) a small stream at the end of it: all along, to the distance of about two miles, I could see different old convents, and houses beset with orange and olive-trees; and the moonlight threw such a beautiful colouring over them that I could not help feeling melancholy.—You may smile, lads, but I was a young man then, and only a few days in a foreign country: I could almost smell the sea-air; for we were only three miles from the beach, along which we had been so lately sailing: I had not been many weeks away from a comfortable home—father, mother, sweetheart and all: I was then standing between two great armies, ready to start upon each other: and I did not know but the next day would see my first fight and my last hour. I’ll leave it to any man here, who ever was in any thing like such a situation, to say, whether it is not calculated to make an impression on the feelings.”

“Oh, by my sowl! and that it is, sargeant,” replied private Mulligan; “particularly when you are not a long time at the work.”

“Well,” continued the sergeant, “it was at that old windmill I heard the song of ‘The Sentinel’ first, from one of the enemy, who was sitting with four or five others on the top of one of the heights; and when he was done, a crowd of our fellows, about two or three hundred yards from me, gave him three rounds of applause. The night was so still, that you could hear the cocking of a musket half a mile off, and the song went most melodiously. God knows whether the poor fellow ever sang another song! for the next day there was no singing, but plenty of dancing, to the tune of ‘over the hills and far away,’ and I rather think we made the French pay the piper.”

“Bluranouns! tell us how it was, sargeant,” exclaimed Mulligan, with an anxious smile, and a chuckling twist of his hands. The sergeant was not sorry to have such a favour asked of him, and he did not lose a moment in complying with the request, which now became general.

“After I was relieved that night, I lay down in my guard-coat on some Indian-corn straw, behind a wall or sort of pent-house, where our advanced piquet was, and I slept a couple of hours; after which Tom Singleton and I smoked a little while, out of a short stump of a pipe, which Tom brought with him from England, and warmed our gobs with a drop out of the canteen. It was broad daylight, and we got up to look out at the heights over the wall; for the officer of the piquet was very busy with his spy-glass reconnoitring, and we knew we were soon to begin a little bit of business with the Mounseers.

“Every body thought Sir Arthur would not let us be long before we should be ordered to be ready,—for he looked like a sharp one. We had not been many minutes leaning over the wall, when we saw the blue fellows moving along the height immediately in front of us, as if to take up a position on their own extreme left; and, presently, four or five officers—I suppose the General and his staff—appeared where the vidette was posted, and planted an eagle-flag on the highest point of the hill; after which all drew their swords, took off their hats, and saluted it. Thinks I, ‘Sir Arthur will pay his addresses to that same flag before long.’ The French General took damned good care to place the eagle on the top of a rock, where the boys could not scale her nest very easily.

“The piquet was very soon after relieved; and when we had been with the bivouac of our regiment about a couple of hours, we were all ordered out under arms, along with the other regiments of the brigade. ‘Ho, ho!’ says I to my comrade, ‘there will be something going on very quickly, you may depend upon it.’ We stood behind a line of loose trees and bushes quite covered from the enemy’s view. I could see that other brigades were also under arms, at about a quarter of a mile off; in short, between every opening of either walls, or woods, or houses, upon each plain and little open hill within view, I could see the red coats either drawn up like ourselves, or moving along at quick time with their arms and accoutrements glistening like glass. All the army seemed on the alert—several pieces of artillery passed us down the road towards the front, and Sir Arthur himself was galloping about with his staff giving directions. He once stopped behind a small house along with General Crawford, who commanded us, and showed him a large map, as if pointing out something very important; after which our General came back to where the brigade was, under the trees, and talked for ten minutes or so to Colonel Lake, our commanding officer, (God rest his soul, he was not long alive after that!) I could see by the men’s faces and their manners, that they expected something which was strange to them; but still they were joking and laughing: the officers were uncommonly pleasant, particularly the young ones. It was a most delightful morning—only a little too hot; but we were under the trees, and tolerably well shaded from the effects of the sun. A Portuguese muleteer just then came out from a sandy narrow lane, with a pannier full of grapes and oranges, and the men at the flank of the regiment where I was, were helping themselves to the welcome fruit, which they purchased for little or nothing, when an Aid-de-camp came galloping down the road behind where we were formed, and spoke a few words to General Crawford; then galloped away again. We were helping ourselves to the grapes and oranges, which, with our bread, made a good breakfast, when the word was given “attention,” and the feast was at an end. The whole of the brigade instantly formed into close column, and we moved out towards the front, still covered by the wood, and were joined by three other brigades, all forming into one solid column. As we marched on, there was not a word spoken, except an occasional command from the officers. We knew not what was to be expected; but guessed, from seeing a brigade of artillery not far on our right, ready at their guns, silent and waiting the word. There seemed to be scarcely a breeze or a fly to disturb the silence of that fine summer’s day, and the business upon which all were engaged:—an awful silence it was—nothing to be heard but the soft tread of our feet, as we moved over the heath, and the grass, and the sand.

We were now halted—still in the wood; but within half-shot of the heights; and the French guns were not idle whenever any of our forces were to be seen; but we were completely covered. Two other brigades now joined us, and the whole of us were formed into one close column. A finer body of fellows never stood together. We did not halt many minutes; and during these few minutes the General officers and staff were very busy—riding up and down the column, and giving orders, as coolly and as calmly as if they were in the barrack-yard; but their countenances were expressive of a seriousness, which I never saw upon a parade—they seemed as if they were not now playing soldiers, but on the point of going to work like good ones. Our Colonel now addressed us in a short but striking manner. He hoped we would show that the regiment was worthy its name. I think his eye met every one of ours. I never saw a man say so much by his looks in my life:—we all knew what he meant, and although we could not speak our mind, we showed it by our faces. I know the tears came into my eyes, and I did not know why; for I could have jumped into a mortar’s mouth at the time, and taken a mile’s ride on a shell; but the fact is, it was the brotherly kindness Colonel Lake felt for us, and the pride he took in the old 29th, which affected me.”

“Oh, faith!” said Mulligan, “It’s not always grief nor sorrow that makes a body’s eyes wathery, sargeant.”

“Well, the moment all was ready, there was nothing but a dead silence. Every man—Generals and all—were in their places. A minute or two would take the column out from the wood, and then ‘ware hawk’ from the guns on the heights. ‘Steady, men,’—‘Forward!’ The curtain was soon up. Bang went the artillery of the French—right into our column, as it poured out from the wood; and rattle went our artillery on the right also, to support us. We moved on steady towards the bed of a stream (quite dry) that winded up the hill: it was about as broad as this room; and so steep that we must have bent a good deal to have got up it: through this passage we were to go and make our way up to the French fellows. On we moved for about three hundred yards under the fire, without being much injured; at all events, it did not make a great difference in our column, although I stood upon three or four poor fellows as I advanced, who had fallen. I could see on my left, at a good distance, a large body of our troops moving on also; and this gave us still more confidence. We were getting vexed from the fire above by the time we got to the passage up the hill, and our fellows began to swear vengeance against the Mounseers. If we could have got up in any numbers at once, I really think we would have eaten the damned rascals; but we were obliged to go—not more than four or five abreast; and had to stumble our way over lumps of stones as big as the big drum. Our orders were to get up as fast as possible, and form above as soon as we had made good our ground. We scarcely lost a man killed or wounded in going up the hill through the crags and stones, until we came nearly to the top. Here the way was a little wider, and our Colonel formed us up in a pretty fair sort of way, giving us the word to advance at double-quick time; when out comes a volley from a green mound of earth in front of us and right in the middle of the way. This mound was covered with bushes, and from behind these the firing came: it was by a set of riflemen who were posted there in ambush: but when they fired they ran like devils back—every one of them, except a few that fell on their faces; for we gave them a volley that knocked them over in good style. Several of my comrades dropped at this point, and our poor Colonel too. He laid himself up against the side of the bank, and although scarcely able to breathe, smiled, and pointed with his sword to go on. We never stopped, but mounted like tigers to the top, although half a regiment let slap at us from the opening. Oh! if they had only stood till we could have got our bayonets into them! but they ran off to about a hundred yards distance, and in a few moments our regiment and two others were up and formed as compactly as you please, when we received another volley from the French, at both sides and in front—thick as hail. Many of our men fell, but we closed up, and did not miss them. ‘Let us at them,’ was heard from many mouths. Vexed and impatient, we soon had the word ‘Charge!’ The French were in full line, and so were we: they advanced to meet us like men,—damned beardy, tall, raw-boned grenadiers, with long grey frock-coats and red-worsted epaulettes. On we went; and when within about ten yards of them, we all gave a yell,—‘Hurrah!’ and Oh, Christ!—We dashed at them,—they huzza’d as well as ourselves; but in a moment every English bayonet was bloody to the hilt. Over they went; and the rear-rank of the French, although they stood a little, and did some execution, was soon settled. We butted them when we were tired sticking them. I broke my musket by a blow I made at a fellow, and missed him; but I jumped at his throat, although he was a tall man, and pulled him right down; however, there I left him, and ran after my regiment; for he lost his musket, and must have been taken prisoner by the troops advancing into the field. The French, now at our right and left, opened a fire on us, which knocked many a poor fellow off the hooks, and we fell back to the main-body of our troops; for we were only treating the enemy with a few steel lozenges, while the remainder of the column was getting up the hill; and how they got up so soon I cannot imagine. I did not think we were five minutes at work in all, when I turns and sees the whole column formed in line, and the right of it pelting away, volley after volley, at the French, who now showed an immense front. It was a sort of even ground enough, but covered with grape stumps, and loaded with bunches; however the grape-shot was of more consequence to me, so I never minded touching the grape fruit. There was nothing done for half an hour but banging away with the musketry and a few of the French guns; but while this was going on, our men were getting up the hill, and forming in our rear as fast as possible. Men were dropping, both French and English, quick enough, I assure you; and we were longing for another charge, to put an end to the peppering. This we were soon indulged with. ‘Steady, my lads,’ was the cry from the officers, ‘another taste of the bayonet.’ The French formed a strong first line, and their battalions in the rear were forming into a second. ‘Now, men,’ says a General who rode behind our first line, ‘keep steady, and do your duty.’—‘Charge!’ was the word:—in a moment we were not forty yards from the enemy.—‘Hurrah!’—Oh such a shout as we gave! But it was answered by the French every bit as loud; and they did not flinch. At them we went, like devils again; and down they went like twigs. They found it was no use trying it,—they were knocked about; and although they did as much as men could do, they were obliged to start about (those that were not down) and make the best of their way off. We halted and loaded, as steady as rocks—most of our gun-barrels were streaming with blood, which wetted the powder as it went in. I’m sure that was my case; for when we gave them a volley, I know my musket did not go off, so I threw it away, and took up another from one of our poor fellows, who lay on his face behind us, with his head knocked all to pieces. I’m certain it was Jem Ellis, by a ring on his finger; but you didn’t know Jem, poor fellow! that ring was given to him by a sweet little girl the day we embarked, and he intended to marry her if God spared his life; but unfortunately he met his fate with a cannon-ball. Well, after this second charge, we expected an attack from the French cavalry; and they certainly came upon our right; but made no impression. Just as we halted, after scattering the line of the enemy, their General came galloping in amongst his men, roaring out to them to rally; it was General Laborde; and at that moment, a battalion on my left poured in a round upon them; but still they formed up in good style: one of the balls hit the General: he alighted, and sat down beside a bank: we could see the surgeons tying up the wound. There was not much harm done him, for he mounted again and rode away along the line. At this time we were getting pretty well used to the business, and the men stood as quiet as logs, wiping their faces, and damning the French; yet the firing continued as brisk as ever; and although our first engagement, we went on just as if we were at a review: whenever a poor fellow dropped, we closed up, and kept our front complete. In a moment I sees, left and right of the field, at about half a mile distant, our red boys moving in towards us: they had got round on the enemy’s flanks—the sight was glorious. We now got the word for another charge, and went to it as confident of success as if we were going to upset a parcel of skittles; but we had much harder work; for the French rather stunned us with a volley just as we approached: however we closed up, and pegged away, right and left, huzzaing and roaring like madmen. Away they ran, and we after them, until we were ordered to form up again: I was just falling in, when I felt my right leg very heavy and numbed like, and rather difficult to move; I put down my hand to my ankle, and found my stocking soaked with blood, but I felt no pain. In a few moments, by George! I could not move my leg at all; so I very reluctantly sat down under a rising bank, pulled off my shoe, and was obliged to cut off my stocking: I was hit, sure enough, right through the fleshy part of my leg, and I felt it now impossible to move. There was a general shout down on the right, and I could see our battalions advancing in double-quick time; the staff galloping about everywhere; and a brigade of artillery of ours blazing away like hell-fire at the enemy. Several regiments passed by me in columns and in high spirits; so that I knew the French were retiring: I gave them three cheers as they passed,[2] in which I was joined by my wounded comrades, lying about, and several of the lads threw us canteens of rum and wine, which were very acceptable. I gave a poor French fellow a drop out of one of them, and I do think it saved his life; he shook hands with me, and said something in French, I suppose to thank me: he looked like a ghost before he took it, and after he lay down a bit, his face got its natural colour, and he seemed much stronger. Here we all lay until near seven o’clock in the evening; the field covered up and down with wounded, dying and dead. I lost sight of the troops in about an hour after I fell; but I had no doubt they settled the matter very soon, for the artillery could not be heard in a short time after the advance. I talked as well as I could to the poor French grenadier beside me, and we seemed happy to speak together, although not understanding much what each other said, except by signs. About six o’clock I sees a Portuguese fellow, with a great slouched hat, poking about amongst the dead, and rifling them of money, watches, clothes, and whatever he could get. A French officer who lay upon a sort of rise was attacked by this fellow: the officer was a powerful man, and resisted being robbed, although he could not stand up. I had no idea what the rascal of a Portuguese meant to do; when I saw him hit the officer with an immense pole, on the head, and the unfortunate man fell flat. There was an English sergeant of the 91st regiment near me, severely wounded, and says I to him, ‘Sergeant, do you see that?’ ‘I do,’ says he. ‘Have you a musket near you?’ says I. ‘Yes, here is one,’ says he. ‘Then keep it, and load,’ says I, ‘for I’ll knock that fellow over with mine.’ The sergeant loaded while lying down, having got a cartridge from a pouch of a dead man near him:—‘Are you ready?’ says I. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then if I miss him, and he should come up to us, wait till he is close—then make sure of him.’ The Portuguese had now left the Frenchman, and was engaged at a dead English officer: he was stooping down. I raised myself up, and leaned my musket on the French grenadier’s shoulder to take good aim—I covered my mark, and fired:—the rascal jumped two feet off the ground, roared out ‘Ai! Jesus!’ and dropped like a cock on his face. He did not lift his long-pole again, I warrant you.

“In a very short time after this, a detachment arrived on the ground, to take away the wounded, and the surgeons had us removed into a house where there was plenty of straw—French, English, and all together. From the men who took us off the field, I learned that the enemy were completely beaten, and retired, leaving their artillery behind.

“This was the very first brush our troops had under Sir Arthur, and for beginners, I never saw better boys in my life. In about five days after this, they had another trial, at the battle of Vimiera; and I wish I had not been wounded so soon, or I should have had a finger in the pie.

“This was before you came to our regiment, Sergeant—wasn’t it?” said Jack Andrews.

“Yes,” replied the sergeant, “I was drafted into this corps two years after that battle.”

“It was a right good shot you made at the Portuguese scoundrel?” said Mulligan; “By the powers o’ Moll Kelly, you sarved him right; an’ if it was my case, I’d just a’ done the self same thing. The rascals used to follow the army, whenever there was a likelihood of a battle, an’ not only rob, but murdther the wounded. The Spaniards were no betther;—ay, an’ what’s worse than all that, some of our own army’s women, at the battle of Vittoria, were seen doin’ the same thing. Several of them were caught in the act by the provost, an’ flogged well, though they were women,—an’ the devil’s cure to them for it.”

“Hush—I think the sentry has challenged. Here comes Callaghan,” said the Sergeant, listening: and the word “Halt!” outside, convinced him that he was right in his conjecture.

The Corporal, with four men as cold as the weather without, now entered the guard-house, and joined their comrades at the fire. They brought with them a stranger, an exciseman, whose face was somewhat disfigured; and the Corporal informed the Sergeant, that some countrymen, who kept a private still, had attacked him, and would perhaps have killed him but for the guard who were within call. “Captain Jones met us,” said Callaghan, “an’ desired me to conduct this man safe to the guard-house; an’ said that he would send the ordtherly officer down to you with further ordthers. The man is supposed to be very active about private stills here; an’ this is the way they have rewarded him.—Pon my sowl, Sir, you got a hell of a dthrubbing.”

“I think I did,” returned the exciseman; “but I’ll make them pay for that through the nose, please the pigs.”

The orderly officer now entered the guard-room, and directed the Sergeant to take three men of the guard, and to conduct the exciseman safely home across the mountain; for which the latter returned thanks. The party set out immediately, and the orderly officer returned to his quarters; while Corporal Callaghan took a snooze in the Sergeant’s chair, during his absence.

ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE;
OR,
GONE TO SEA IN A COACH.

Ay; now we see it,
And there’s the coach!——
Southey.

In many, if not in most, of the regiments of our army, there is to be found a sort of officer who is a privileged oddity,—who takes liberties with all his brethren of the mess with impunity, and who pockets every thing short of a blow with the best possible humour. In general, the individuals of this description are designated in the mess-room vocabulary, “Good-tempered Old Stagers,” and “Old Stickers,” meaning thereby, that they can “go” at the bottle, and “stick” at the table till “all’s blue.”

One of these, a Quartermaster of infantry, with a nose of the genuine Bardolph complexion, a rosy and eternal smile, a short figure, and a big head, having dined with a party of brother officers at the Three Cups, Harwich—the day on which his regiment marched into the barracks of that town—was in the best possible spirits: so much so, that he gave the bottle no rest until about eleven o’clock; and became “glorious,” just as the company broke up—right or wrong he would go along with three of the youngest subalterns to ramble by the sea-side in the moonshine, having been “so long i’ the sun.” They permitted him reluctantly; perhaps, indeed, because they could not prevent him; but when the party got down to the place where passengers and goods are usually embarked, the Quartermaster became totally overpowered, and sank senseless into a snore. The officers whom he accompanied could not think of carrying his corpus back to the inn; nor were there any persons near whom they could employ for the purpose: one of them, therefore, opened the door of a private carriage which stood near, “unshipped” from the wheels—ready for embarkation, and in a moment the sleeper was bundled into it, where he was left to his repose with the door fast shut upon him.

Next morning at daybreak (about three o’clock) the coach, with its contents, was put on board the Hamburg packet, and stowed away at the very bottom of the hold: in half an hour after this, the vessel put to sea.

For the whole of the day the packet had a brisk breeze, and at midnight was a good hundred miles away from Harwich: a dead calm set in. It was a beautiful night in July, and the passengers were not all gone to bed: some walked the deck, and others sat below at cards—every thing was silent, except the rattling of the ropes as the ship yielded to the smooth and gentle swell of the sleeping North Sea. About this time, the Quartermaster, it is supposed, awoke; at least he had not been heard before to utter his complaints, probably from the bustle consequent on the managing of the vessel in a stiff breeze. However, it was at this time that his cracked and buried voice first fell upon the ears of the crew; and for about twenty minutes the panic it created is indescribable. The whist company in the cabin, at first thought it was one of the sailors in a chest, and called the captain; who declared he had been that minute examining into the cause of the unearthly sounds, and had mustered his crew, all of whom were on deck, as much astonished as he was—nay, more so, for one of them, a Welshman, felt convinced that the voice proceeded from the speaking trumpet of the ghost of David Jones, his former shipmate, “who had died in ill will with him.”

“Hallo—o—o—o—o!”—“Murder!”—“Murder!” now rose upon all ears, as if the voice were at the bottom of the sea. The Welshman fell upon his knees, and begged forgiveness of his injured and departed friend, David Jones: the rest of the crew caught a slight tinge of his fears, and paced about in couples to and fro; some declaring the voice was below the rudder, and others that it was at the mast-head. The passengers, one and all, hurried on deck; in short, none on board, not even the Captain and the oldest seaman, were free from alarm: for they had searched every habitable place in the vessel without discovering the cause of their terrors, and the hold, it was evident, could not have contained an extra rat, it was so crammed with luggage, &c. “Let me out, you d——d rascals! let me out—let me out, I say!” screamed the voice with increased vigour. These exclamations the Welshman declared were addressed to devils, that were tormenting his deceased enemy David; and he uttered a fervent prayer for the peace of the wandering and unhappy soul: but a different idea was awakened in the mind of the Captain by the words “Let me out,” “There is somebody packed up in the hold,” exclaimed he; and instantly ordering the men to follow him down, all began to remove the upper layer of articles; which being done, the voice became louder and more distinct.

“Where are you?” bawled the Captain.

“I’m here in a coach, d——n you!” answered the Quartermaster.

The mystery was now solved, and the Welshman made easy; but no one could imagine how a human being could have got into the carriage. However, satisfaction on this point was not to be waited for; so the men fell to work, and after about half an hour’s hard exertion, succeeded in disincumbering the vehicle. They then proceeded to unpack the Quartermaster, whose astonishment amounted almost to madness, when he found that he had not only been confined in a coach, but in a ship, and that the said ship was then in the middle of the German Ocean!

It was impossible to put back to Harwich, so no remedy was left the little fat gentleman but to proceed to the end of the voyage, and to take a passage back from Hamburg as soon as possible. This was bad enough; but his hopes of an early return were almost destroyed by the setting in of adverse winds, which kept the vessel beating about in a most bile-brewing and stomach-stirring ocean, for ten days and nights; during which time, when not sea-sick, the Quartermaster was employed in profoundly meditating how he could have got into the coach; and even after having taken the opinion of the captain, the crew, and all the passengers, upon the matter, he felt himself as much in the dark as ever. The last thing he could recollect of “the land he had left,” was that he dined and wined at the “Three Cups,”—what followed was chaos.

But the worst of the affair, decidedly, was that the day on which he had been put to sea was the 22d of the month, and as it was impossible for him to make his appearance with his regiment on the 24th, he knew he must, as a matter of course, be reported “Absent without leave” at head quarters, and that he would most probably be superseded. This reflection was even worse than the weather to the Quartermaster, though the rough sea had already almost “brought his heart up.” However, he had great hopes of being able to join his regiment on the 10th of the following month—the next return-day—and, by due application, he thought he might contrive to prevent supersession. Ten days of this time was, however, consumed before he set a foot upon the German shore, and then only half of his excursion was over: all his hopes rested upon a quick passage back to Harwich. This, however, the Fates denied him; for having drawn on the agent—got the cash—engaged his passage to England—laid in sea-stock, and all things necessary—the packet, just as she was leaving Hamburg, was run foul of by a five-hundred-ton ship, and so much injured that she was obliged to put back, and the unfortunate Quartermaster was thus compelled to wait a fortnight for another opportunity of returning to England. He not only was delayed beyond the 10th (return-day) but beyond the following 24th, and when he did arrive, he found that he had been not only superseded by the Commander-in-chief, but considered dead by all his friends and relations!

However, on personally applying for reinstatement, he obtained it, and once more joined his old corps at Harwich, where he many a night amused the mess with the recital of his trip to sea in the coach; which was always given with most effect when he was half-seas-over.

THE PUNISHMENT.

The image of this suffering quite unmans me.
Lee.

“Parade, Sir!—Parade, Sir!—There’s a parade this morning, Sir!”

With these words, grumbled out by the unyielding leathern lungs of my servant, I was awakened from an agreeable dream in my barrack-room bed one morning about a quarter before eight o’clock.

“Parade!”—I reflected a moment;—“Yes,” said I, “a punishment parade.”

I proceeded to dress; and as I looked out of my window I saw that the morning was as gloomy and disagreeable as the duty we were about to perform. “Curse the punishment!—curse the crimes!” muttered I to myself.

I was soon shaved, booted, and belted. The parade-call was beaten, and in a moment I was in the barrack-yard.

The non-commissioned officers were marching their squads to the ground: the officers, like myself, were turning out: the morning was cold as well as foggy: and there was a sullen, melancholy expression upon every man’s countenance, indicative of the relish they had for a punishment parade: the faces of the officers, as upon all such occasions, were particularly serious: the women of the regiment were to be seen in silent groups at the barrack-windows—in short, every thing around appealed to the heart, and made it sick. Two soldiers were to receive three hundred lashes each! One of them, a corporal, had till now preserved a good character for many years in the regiment; but he had been in the present instance seduced into the commission of serious offences, by an associate of very bad character. Their crimes, arising doubtless from habits of intoxication, were, disobedience of orders, insolence to the sergeant on duty, and the making away with some of their necessaries.

The regiment formed on the parade, and we marched off in a few minutes to the riding-house, where the triangle was erected, about which the men formed a square, with the Colonel, the Adjutant, the Surgeon, and the drummers in the centre.

“Attention!” roared out the Colonel. The word, were it not that it was technically necessary, need not have been used, for the attention of all was most intense; and scarcely could the footsteps of the last men, closing in, be fairly said to have broken the gloomy silence of the riding-house. The two prisoners were now marched into the centre of the square, escorted by a corporal and four men.

“Attention!” was again called, and the Adjutant commanded to read the proceedings of the court-martial. When he had concluded, the Colonel commanded the private to “strip.”

The drummers now approached the triangle, four in number, and the senior took up the “cat” in order to free the “tails” from entanglement with each other.

“Strip, Sir!” repeated the Colonel, having observed that the prisoner seemed reluctant to obey the first order.

“Colonel,” replied he, in a determined tone, “I’ll volunteer.”[3]

“You’ll volunteer, will you, Sir?”

“Yes; sooner than I’ll be flogged.”

“I am not sorry for that. Such fellows as you can be of no use to the service except in Africa. Take him back to the guard-house, and let the necessary papers be made out for him immediately.”

The latter sentence was addressed to the Corporal of the guard who escorted the prisoners, and accordingly the man who volunteered was marched off, a morose frown and contemptuous sneer strongly marked on his countenance.

The Colonel now addressed the other prisoner.

“You are the last man in the regiment I could have expected to find in this situation. I made you a corporal, Sir, from a belief that you were a deserving man; and you had before you every hope of farther promotion; but you have committed such a crime that I must, though unwillingly, permit the sentence of the court which tried you to take its effect.” Then turning to the Sergeant-major, he ordered him to cut off the Corporal’s stripes from his jacket: this was done, and the prisoner then stripped without the slightest change in his stern but penitent countenance.

Every one of the regiment felt for the unfortunate Corporal’s situation; for it was believed that nothing but intoxication, and the persuasion of the other prisoner who had volunteered, could have induced him to subject himself to the punishment he was about to receive, by committing such a breach of military law, as that of which he was convicted. The Colonel, himself, although apparently rigorous and determined, could not, by all his efforts, hide his regret that a good man should be thus punished: the affected frown, and the loud voice in command, but ill concealed his real feelings;—the struggle between the head and the heart was plainly to be seen; and had the head had but the smallest loophole to have escaped, the heart would have gained a victory. But no alternative was left; the man had been a Corporal, and, therefore, was the holder of a certain degree of trust from his superiors: had he been a private only, the crime might have been allowed to pass with impunity, on account of his former good character; but, as the case stood, the Colonel could not possibly pardon him, much as he wished to do so. No officer was more averse to flogging in any instance, than he was; and whenever he could avert that punishment, consistent with his judgment, which at all times was regulated by humanity, he would gladly do it. Flogging was in his eyes an odious punishment, but he found that the total abolition of it was impossible; he therefore held the power over the men, but never used it when it could be avoided. His regiment was composed of troublesome spirits; and courts-martial were frequent: so were sentences to the punishment of the lash; but seldom, indeed, were those punishments carried into execution; for if the Colonel could find no fair pretext in the previous conduct of the criminal, to remit his sentence, he would privately request the Captain of his company to intercede for him when about to be tied up to the triangle; thus placing the man under a strong moral obligation to the officer under whose more immediate command he was: and in general, this proved far more salutary than the punishment ever could have done.

It is not flogging that should be abolished in the army, but the cruel and capricious opinions which move the lash. Humanity and sound judgment are the best restrictions upon this species of punishment; and when they are more frequently brought into action than they have formerly been, there will be but few dissentient opinions upon military discipline.

The prisoner was now stripped and ready to be tied, when the Colonel asked him why he did not volunteer for Africa, with the other culprit.

“No, Sir,” replied the man; “I’ve been a long time in the regiment, and I’ll not give it up for three hundred lashes; not that I care about going to Africa. I deserve my punishment, and I’ll bear it; but I’ll not quit the regiment yet, Colonel.”

This sentiment, uttered in a subdued but manly manner, was applauded by a smile of satisfaction from both officers and men; but most of all by the old Colonel, who took great pains to show the contrary. His eyes, although shaded by a frown, beamed with pleasure. He bit his nether lip; he shook his head—but all would not do; he could not look displeased, if he had pressed his brows down to the bridge of his nose; for he felt flattered that the prisoner thus openly preferred a flogging to quitting him and his regiment.

The man now presented his hands to be tied up to the top of the triangle, and his legs below: the cords were passed round them in silence, and all was ready. I saw the Colonel at this moment beckon to the surgeon, who approached, and both whispered a moment.

Three drummers now stood beside the triangle, and the sergeant, who was to give the word for each lash, at a little distance opposite.

The first drummer began, and taking three steps forward, applied the lash to the soldier’s back—“one.”

Again he struck—“two.”

Again, and again, until twenty-five were called by the Sergeant. Then came the second drummer, and he performed his twenty-five. Then came the third, who was a stronger and a more heavy striker than his coadjutors in office: this drummer brought the blood out upon the right shoulder-blade, which perceiving, he struck lower on the back; but the surgeon ordered him to strike again upon the bleeding part: I thought this was cruel; but I learnt after, from the surgeon himself, that it gave much less pain to continue the blows as directed, than to strike upon the untouched skin.

The poor fellow bore without a word his flagellation, holding his head down upon his breast, both his arms being extended, and tied at the wrists above his head. At the first ten or twelve blows, he never moved a muscle; but about the twenty-fifth, he clenched his teeth and cringed a little from the lash. During the second twenty-five, the part upon which the cords fell became blue, and appeared thickened, for the whole space of the shoulder-blade and centre of the back; and before the fiftieth blow was struck, we could hear a smothered groan from the poor sufferer, evidently caused by his efforts to stifle the natural exclamations of acute pain. The third striker, as I said, brought the blood; it oozed from the swollen skin, and moistened the cords which opened its way from the veins. The Colonel directed a look at the drummer, which augured nothing advantageous to his interest; and on the fifth of his twenty-five, cried out to him, “Halt, Sir! you know as much about using the cat as you do of your sticks.” Then addressing the Adjutant, he said, “Send that fellow away to drill: tell the drum-major to give him two hours additional practice with the sticks every day for a week, in order to bring his hand into—a—proper movement.”

The drummer slunk away at the order of the Adjutant, and one of the others took up the cat. The Colonel now looked at the Surgeon, and I could perceive a slight nod pass, in recognition of something previously arranged between them. This was evidently the case; for the latter instantly went over to the punished man, and having asked him a question or two, proceeded formally to the Colonel, and stated something in a low voice: upon which the drummers were ordered to take the man down. This was accordingly done; and when about to be removed to the regimental hospital, the Colonel addressed him thus: “Your punishment, Sir, is at an end; you may thank the Surgeon’s opinion for being taken down so soon.” (Every one knew this was only a pretext.) “I have only to observe to you, that as you have been always, previous to this fault, a good man, I would recommend you to conduct yourself well for the future, and I promise to hold your promotion open to you as before.”

The poor fellow replied that he would do so, and burst into tears, which he strove in vain to hide.

Wonder not that the hard cheek of a soldier was thus moistened by a tear; the heart was within his bosom, and these tears came from it. The lash could not force one from his burning eyelid; but the word of kindness—the breath of tender feeling from his respected Colonel, dissolved the stern soldier to the grateful and contrite penitent.

May this be remembered by every commanding officer, when the cat is cutting the back of the soldier! May they reflect that both the back and the heart have feeling; and that the tear of repentance is oftener brought from the culprit’s eyes by kindness than by the lash!

ECCENTRICITIES OF THE LATE MORRIS QUILL.

I knew him, Horatio—a fellow of infinite jest—of most excellent fancy.
Shakspeare.

Few indeed are there in the army who have not heard of Morris Quill; and fewer still are they who have known a better man, or a merrier companion. He was a medical officer of the 31st regiment—an Irishman, with one of the softest, soundest, and most gentlemanly brogues that ever eulogised a bottle of genuine port, or asked a favour from a wealthy widow’s lip. He was a fine portly, good-humoured looking, summer-faced son of Erin, with that sort of fun about him which, if it did not injure himself, carried no sting to the bosom of any body else, except when his wit was directed to the operation of crushing some impudent coxcomb; and then it left its penal effects with him who deserved them. He is now no more, poor fellow! He died at Cork a short time ago, and his last march was attended by all the military (both half and full pay) in the city and its vicinity. His memory still lives; and so long as there shall be a gallant Peninsular hero to sit at a mess-table, the eccentricities and whims of Morris Quill can never be forgotten. The few which I recollect will be recognized as genuine by all those officers who served in the Duke of Wellington’s army. I knew him: I have known his friends: I have seen and heard of most of his drolleries; and from the many I select the few which follow.

For the purpose of creating hilarity, Morris would often affect the greatest simplicity of Irish manners when strangers were at the mess-table. He would on those occasions tell such anecdotes of himself, as were calculated to make him appear but little removed from barbarism; and this always afforded the highest degree of enjoyment to those who were by, most of whom knew that he was any thing but a barbarian. I was once present when he played off this whim in a most laughable way. There were several very prim and “monstrous” important gentlemen dining at the mess—perfect strangers to any thing like a joke, and equally so to Quill.

As soon as the bottle was fairly adrift, Morris seized an opportunity of gravely addressing the President. “Colonel,” said he, “I received a letther to-day from my ould mother in Kerry. Just read the direction on it. I’m sure ’tis plain enough, and yet it has been two months coming.” The letter was handed about the table, and the officers read aloud the address to the perfect astonishment of the visitors.

“To Misther Docthor Morris Quill, Esquire. Along with Lord Wellington’s fighting army in France, or Spain, or Portingale, or maybe elsewhere, and the Western Indys. From his loving mother.”

The gravity with which he managed this piece of humour, excited the mirth of all his companions, at the expense of the strangers, who looked very contemptuously on Morris, when they saw this specimen of the family education. However, before they left the table, all was explained, and Quill reinstated in their good opinion.

Morris had served in a regiment before he joined the 31st; and one of his old brother-officers having met him in Dublin, shortly after the exchange, asked him why he did not stay with his old friends?—“Oh, I’ll tell you then,” replied Morris. “You see I have a brother in the 32d, and I wanted to be near him in the wars, so I changed into the 31st, which you know is as close as possible to his regiment.” At this time they happened to be two thousand miles asunder.

With all the apparent simplicity which Quill exhibited, he was as good a judge of politeness, and knew as well the difference between gentlemanlike familiarity and impertinent freedom, as any man in the army; which the following anecdote will in a great measure prove. He exchanged from the 31st, after having been a long time in the regiment, for no other purpose but to be attached to one about to go on actual service, in order that he might have a better chance of promotion. On joining, he had in his pocket letters from all those officers of his old corps who had happened to be acquainted with those of the one into which he exchanged; but he did not take the trouble to present a single one, lest they would suppose, as he said himself, that he wanted them to give him a dinner. In a few days after his joining, a very supercilious officer of the regiment, no less a personage than one of the majors, met him in the mess-room, tête-à-tête, and after a little conversation, put a very impertinent question to Morris. “Pray, Sir,” said he, “were not you a considerable time in the 31st?”

“Oh, yes, I was, ’faith.”

“It is a very good corps indeed—very good corps. I wonder you did not remain in it! Pray, what made you leave it, Sir?”

Morris hesitated a little, and then replied: “Why, ’faith, I don’t like to mention exactly the reason, Major.”

“God bless me! what was it?”

“Why, you see, Major, I know you are a gentleman every bit of you; and if you will solemnly pledge me your honour that you will never mention it to any body, I’ll tell you the whole affair.”

“’Pon my honour, I won’t. I pledge you my honour, I will not mention it.”

“’Pon your honour,” said Morris emphatically.

“’Pon my honour!” echoed the Major.

“Well, that’s enough,” observed Morris; “I’ll tell you all about it. But shut the door, Major.”—The Major obeyed and hurried back to his chair.—“Well, then, you see, when I was in the 31st, I owed a little money here and there; and I was bothered with duns—Oh! the 31st was a fine regiment; it was there we had plenty of credit wherever we went: more is the pity for me; because I just—one day that I was short of a little money”—(whispering)

“Well, Sir!” interrupted the Major.

“I—a—just—a—put a few of the mess-table spoons and silver forks into my pocket;—that’s all.”

“Indeed!” observed the Major, drawing back his chair.

“Yes, indeed,” continued Morris; “and a fellow there, dressed up in livery (they call him the mess-waiter), saw me do it, and stopped me before the officers;—so I was obliged to leave the regiment; for the colonel was a civil fellow, and let me off without a court-martial.”

“Indeed!—ho—hum——Good morning, Sir,” politely replied the Major, and left the room.

Of course a thing of this kind was not suffered to lie hidden under a bushel half an hour by the Major. He proceeded instantly to the Colonel, and gravely laid open to him the alarming discovery. The Colonel lost not a moment in calling a meeting of the mess. The mess assembled (all excepting Morris, to whom the meeting was not made known, for obvious reasons), and the Major, in an energetic speech, informed the mess that he had heard the fact from Mr. Quill’s own lips, with that gentleman’s solemn injunction upon the Major to be secret. All were equally astonished and alarmed; each man put his hand instinctively to his fob; and a little attorney-faced captain despatched his servant to see if his trunks were all safe. The mad dog had got amongst them, and there was but one opinion about his expulsion.

Morris was sent for forthwith:—the orderly-serjeant was despatched to tell him that the Colonel and the members of the mess were assembled, and that he was to attend immediately.

The delinquent appeared without the least hesitation, and looking as pleasantly as ever. On being informed by the Colonel of the cause of the meeting, he paused, cast his eyes archly at the Major, and exclaimed, “Ah! Major, Major! so you have told on me, though you pledged your honour!” (Not a word from the Major.) “Now, Colonel, the fact of the matter is this: I was asked a question by that gentleman, which, however he might have meant it, I could not receive but as a joke (a little too free, I must say), and so I—just answered him as the joke deserved. The Major, in a way I did not much relish, asked me, ‘What was the reason I quitted the 31st?’ and I gave him an answer. It was a question of an odd meaning, and so I gave him an odd reply.” (A stare and a smile from all except the Major.) “Now,” continued Morris, pulling out a bundle of letters, “there’s a letter for you, Colonel; and one for you, Captain Smith; and for you, Captain Jones; and for you, Lieutenant Edwards:”—so on, until he delivered the bundle of introductions which he brought from his last regiment. The letters were read aloud, and better fun was never enjoyed in the mess-room, nor relished with greater zest before or since; even the Major “Join’d in the laugh that almost made him sick;”
and Morris became the favourite of every officer in the regiment, always excepting the honourable Major himself.

At one period of the Peninsular war, the army was several months in arrear of pay. Money was not to be got anywhere by the advanced troops, except in the class of Generals and higher officers. Morris Quill was, of course, one of those whose purses were empty—indeed there was not a dollar to be caught in the regiment from right to left.

A general officer was passing with his staff (General Crawford, I believe) through the village in which Morris was quartered. As soon as he saw the General, he turned to a brother officer, and said, “By J——! I’ve a great mind to ask the General for a few dollars.”

“That you may do,” replied the officer; “but I’m sure you will not get them.”

“Will you bet me £5 I don’t?” returned Morris.

“I will bet you £5 you do not borrow £5 or 20 dollars from him.”

“Done. I’ll bet you a bill on the paymaster.”

“Done.”

“Done—and I’ll dine with him too,” said Morris, as he started off on his poney. He trotted up to the General: taking off his hat in the most “official” manner,—“General,” said he, “I beg your pardon—I have to mention to you that my sick are without any comforts,[4]—they will be in a bad way if I cannot buy something for them; and I have no money at all.”

“Well, Mr. Quill, that is a very unfortunate thing. How much money will be enough for you?”

“Oh! about 20 dollars, Sir; and if you will lend that sum to me, I will give you an order on Cox and Greenwood for the money; which you can send over, and it will be just the same thing to you.”

“Very well, Mr. Quill. Come to my quarters, and you shall have the money.”

Morris jogged off with the General about two miles to his quarters; and during the time they were going, the General found him a very pleasant and humorous fellow. Morris, as he was receiving the money, mentioned something about the scarcity of provisions, and concluded by saying, “Faith, General, I don’t know when I had a dinner, or even saw the ghost of one: there is a very savoury smell here, I can perceive; but that is a General thing, I suppose, in this quarter.”

The General without hesitation asked Morris to stay to dinner; and highly enjoyed his society during the evening.

It was eleven o’clock before he returned; when producing the cash, he convinced his friend and the other officers of his success; so they finished the night over a cigar and a bottle of ration grog.

Quill, during the whole time he served in the Peninsula, had a servant who was as whimsical and as humorous as himself. This servant, he used to say, was “the best caterer for a gentleman’s table in hard times, that ever came from Kerry.” And so he was; for Morris Quill had always a fowl or a sucking pig for dinner, when the rest of the officers (except those who dined with Morris) were obliged to be contented with a biscuit and a bit of hard beef. Indeed, so excellent a purveyor and cook was Dennis, that his master made it a practice to ask his friends to dine with him, without (of himself) knowing where the eatables were to come from. “Dennis,” he would say, “I am going to ask a couple of gentlemen to dine with me to-day—indeed I have asked them already. What have you got?”

“Oh musha! Docthor Quill, I don’t know that I have any thing, barrin’ a shouldther o’ vale and a hen or two.”

(A shoulder of veal! and a brace of fowls! when they were starving!—no bad things.)—Or, perhaps, as it might happen, Dennis would say, “Faith! Masther, I havn’t a toothful in the place, barrin’ the rashions.”

“Well, Dennis, get what you can. Try, can you buy any thing about the country?”

(Buy, indeed! and not a sixpence in the whole division!)

Morris and his friends would come to dinner at the usual hour, perfectly confident that Dennis had done his duty; and, perhaps, a good pair of fowls, or a piece of pickled pork, or a sucking pig, would welcome their longing appetites.

“Where did you buy these things, Dennis?” Quill would ask.

“O! plase your honour, up there above—over the hill—down there, at a farm-house yondther.”

“You’re sure you bought them, Dennis?”

“O yes; I ped for ’em, Sir—that is, I offered the money to the farmer; but he said, ‘Never mind, Dennis,’ says he, ‘it will do another time.’ So I mane to pay the next time I go.”

“Very well, very well, Dennis; so as you paid for the provision, it’s all well; but take care the Provost doesn’t give you your change one of these days.”

“Oh, never mind that, Sir; the Portuguese hereabouts all knows me very well, and wouldn’t mind if I never ped them a vintin.”

And they had a right to know Dennis,—at least their live stock had; for there was scarcely a fowl, rabbit, pig, sheep, or calf in the country, that he had not paid his respects to. Dennis used to say, “We are here starvin’ and fightin’ for the Portuguese; so the laste they may do, is to give us our dinner, at any rate.”

The last anecdote of this singular character, which I recollect, is as follows:—

A very hot engagement had taken place, in which the 31st regiment had been hard at work. Quill had his instruments, &c. under a hedge in a valley; at a little distance from the hill which his regiment was endeavouring to take from the French. He stayed pretty near the corps, (for Morris was no flincher,) and one of his brother officers being wounded in the leg, he ran over to him to render what surgical assistance he could. It was necessary to have something from the medicine-chest, which was behind the hedge in the valley, and Morris started off like a hare, to fetch it. At this moment the regiment was suffering from grape-shot, and the Brigadier-General, who was coming at a gallop along a narrow lane, saw Quill running, inside a hedge, as fast as he could, away from the regiment, in the uniform of which he was; and, thinking it was some cowardly officer who feared the grape, the General cried out to him, “Where are you going, Sir?” To which Morris only replied, still running under the hedge, “By J——s! I won’t stay any longer there; it’s too hot.” The General again cried out to him, and ordered his aid-de-camp to follow, and march him back a prisoner; but Morris outran the aid-de-camp’s horse, and arrived before him at the hedge where his instruments were. When the latter saw who it was, he well nigh fell off his horse with laughing, as he galloped back to tell the General his mistake. Morris laughed heartily, too; and, indeed, he had the laugh all on his own side, as he returned with the medicaments for which he had gone, to assist his wounded brother officer, and with which he ran as fast into the field as he had run out of it.

MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. III.

“To laugh with gibing boys, and stand the push
Of every beardless vain Comparative.”
Shakspeare.

Scene.—The Depôt Mess-room at Winchester—a tolerably large apartment, more airy than comfortable; neither carpet nor curtains.—Dinner so so.—Wines of excellent MANUFACTURE.—Company, consisting of fifteen officers, (mostly youths) of different regiments, and of course in different uniforms.—Attendants, three recruits in undress, (white flannel,)—no band; but several dogs barking and scudding about the lobby.

Ensign Newly. By G—d, I never sat down to so d—d a dinner in my life; we get worse and worse every day: the fish smells infernally, and this hash is made of the hard mutton we had on table last Thursday. Simple, my boy, give us a sample of that old cock turkey before you, if you can get a knife into him.

Ensign Simple. I can’t carve. (In a whisper.) Captain Alder, will you cut the turkey? I never carved in my life.

Capt. Alder. Very well, Mr. Simple, I’ll try my skill. Hand that turkey this way, John.

[One of the attendant recruits takes the dish of turkey, and in making an unnecessary circuit of the table, flaps down upon his face; the dish is smashed, and the turkey rolls to the far end of the mess room, followed by streams of gravy and the regrets of the company.]

Ensign Newly. O, curse you for a clodhopper! Run after the turkey, you rascal.

[John runs and takes up the turkey, but drops it immediately.]

Lieut. Short. What do you drop the turkey for, Sir, eh?

John. (Blowing his fingers.) It’s roasting hot, zur.

Capt. Alder. Send the mess-waiter here, and then go to your duty, Sir. You are not fit to be a scullion.

[Exit John; and as he goes out, three pointer dogs and a terrier run into the mess-room, and skurry about; one of them seizes on the turkey, but finding it too hot for his palate, drops his prey, and begins to bark loudly at it. The Mess-waiter and two attendants arrive in time, and beat out the dogs, after some difficulty, owing to the canine taste for gravy.]

Lieut. Grub. Well, d— me, if this is not a pretty mess. I wish I was back with my old corps once more, in the wilds of Canada. I never saw a depôt mess yet that could manage a good servant.

Capt. Alder. Never! (In a whisper.) Did you ever know it to manage any thing good?

Lieut. Short. Mess-waiter! what follows this course?

Mess-waiter. Rabbits, and the cold beef, Sir.

All. The cold beef! The eternal cold beef!

Mess-waiter. Gentlemen, I assure you the market was so bad to-day, that we could only find that turkey; but the beef is very sweet and good yet.

Ensign Newly. Mind, that we have no hashed or deviled turkey this week.

[looking significantly at the dirtied bird.]

Mess-waiter. Oh no Sir; we’ll eat this ourselves.

Ensign Newly. You will have fine sand sauce then.

[Hash and harrico are now served out amongst the half-grumbling, half-laughing mess, but a glass or two of wine restore matters a little; the rabbits and beef are scarcely tasted, and dinner is concluded on cheese and stale tarts.]

Ensign Luby. Send round the wine, Mr. President. I have just touched the cash to-day. Old dad has sent me a fifty, and I am determined to be comfortable.

President. Then I’ll send in your wine account to-morrow, my lad.

Ensign Luby. Ay, do, do—you’ll not find me like Mr. Trotter, who marched off yesterday without waiting for his.

Several. What! is Trotter off?

President. Yes: and in a very ungentlemanly way too. I knew he couldn’t stand the follies he gave way to—out every night until three, and never sober.

Ensign Newly. I think, Mr. President, as I am a member of the same corps to which Trotter belongs, you have shown no great proof of taste in mentioning his name so disrespectfully before me.

President. Mr. Newly, I speak of Mr. Trotter as I think he deserves: he may be very honourable, but I think he outran his means, and thereby his honour also.

Several voices (in confusion.) Certainly, d—d dishonourable conduct.

Ensign Luby. Come, lads, hear me: I know Trotter a little; he is a good young fellow; but somewhat too free with his cash; he does not know how to keep it, when he gets it from home. I do not like to see disputes here,—God knows we have enough of them: last night we were all made unpleasant by two gentlemen contending that one’s facings were handsomer than the other’s, and the day before we were thrown into confusion by an argument between two young gentlemen about superior rank and services—both not yet two months in the army. Come, I say—Trotter owes his wine-bill: and for the best of reasons—he had not money enough left to pay it out of seventy pounds sent by his father; because, you see, he played Hell and Tommy (as the phrase goes): so I’ll tell you what—I will pay it myself—ay, or any other friend’s wine-bill; for, as I said before, I touched a fifty to-day.

President. If I am wrong, Gentlemen, I’ll appeal to the voice of the company.

All. No! no! It’s all right. Sit down—sit down.

Ensign Luby. Bring in the wine quicker, you Glundy—dy’ hear, d—n ye!

Glundy. Yes, Sir.

(Servant runs out.

Voice without. Yoix! there, my lads,—he—he—hip—yoix!—hark forward, my jolly dogs!—yo—io—io—io—io—hip!

(Enter Ensign Buckskin.

Ensign Buckskin. How are you, my hearty Cocks!—how are you?

All the Mess. How are you? How do, Buck? How do?

President. Where the devil have you been? eh!

Ensign Buckskin. Been! In bed, to be sure—just got up—swallowed a basin of soup and a small glass of brandy. I was squeamish all the day; but now I’m to rights again. Waiter!—clean glass. Well, how are you, my boys?

(Sits down.

Ensign Newly. How are you, after your last night’s work—eh?

Ensign Buckskin. Oh! by George, Sir, they have taken out a warrant against me.

Ensign Newly. For what?

Ensign Buckskin. For burning the old Constable’s nose. Jackson and Jones are off by coach for Fort Monkton, and so have escaped: unfortunate Jack Buckskin, as usual, comes in for a “good thing.” I shall be up before “his Vorship,” as the “Coves” call him; but d—n his eyes, I don’t care the rowel of an old spur about any infernal magistratical methodist in Winchester. Yoix! my lads! ye—he—hip—old Jack Buckskin against the d——l and all his saints.

[An uproarious laugh from the company, which sets all the dogs in the house barking, and Buckskin gives a regular “view halloo,” accompanied by several of the mess.]

President. Well, tell us how the matter occurred. Didn’t you knock the watchman down first?

Ensign Buckskin. Not at all. Just hear me: Jackson and Jones, and Bob Jennings, the young clergyman—you know Bob—great favourite of the Cathedral big-wigs:—well, they and I were going quietly home about three o’clock this morning, a little merry, and just strolled into the church-yard to give little Fanny Giggleton a good-night serenade: her bed-room window, you know, looks into the church-yard. So we began singing “Rest thee babe” in full chorus, and finished by roaring “Jolly companions every one,” when the watchman came over to us and told us to go home. Jennings the clergyman was nearest to him, and bade him to go to the d——l. Charley seized his Reverence, and his Reverence seized him. I went up to the old guardian, and warned him off: he took no notice; so I caught him by the back of his collar with my left hand, and by the posterior portion of his unspeakables with my right: Jennings held one arm, Jackson another, Jones before us—so on we “run” him out of the church-yard and up the watch-house stairs:—The watch-house, you know, is the ancient theatre, and is over the butchers’ shambles. Into it we bundled him—charged him before the night Constable with highly disorderly conduct, in disturbing gentlemen who were enjoying a song, and also with gross insolence. The Dogberry, of course, sided with the watchman. “What’s your name, Sir?” said he to me. “My name,” said I, “is Old Trumpetson, from the Cape.” He then began to write it down, “T. r. u. m. p. son, that’s it,—Trumpetson,—now I have it. Well, Mr. Trumpetson, you are one of the officers of the garrison; I know where to find you in the morning; and you Mr. Jenkins also.” My cane now happened to drop, and I took the candle off the table to look for it. The Constable stooped down also beside me—his red nose looked so tempting that I could not resist the joke—I bobbed the candle into his face; the light went out, and he roared lustily. All was now confusion: I seized a lantern and rattle—Jackson, Jones, and Jenkins ran down stairs—I after them, first locking the door outside upon the pair within; which I did in an instant. There we left them, and I suppose they neither got light nor liberty, until some of their brethren came to open the door. I know I shall meet with no mercy from old Muddlehead, the magistrate: he hates the military—and me more than all the rest.

Ensign Luby. Did you really burn the fellow’s nose?

Ensign Buckskin. Burn?—ay, that you may depend upon.

Lieut. Short. I saw him to-day in the barrack looking for the Commandant—his nose was in a small calico bag. [a laugh.]

Ensign Buckskin. Well, they may all go to the d——l in a bunch. I’ll pay the fellow for his nose.

Ensign Luby. Ay, Jack, my boy, and if you want money—see here! it is at your service.

[pulls out a handful of notes.

Ensign Buckskin. I don’t know that I shall run short yet; however, lend me ten: [takes a note out of Luby’s hand] thank you—all right, Luby; I’ll pay you, my boy.

Ensign Luby. Don’t mention it; I have this day received a remittance, as I said before, and any of my friends may share it as far as it will go. I have not been long in the army, but I know this—that good-fellowship is the soul of it.

Capt. Alder. I think you said this evening, that Trotter’s fault was liberality.

Ensign Luby. Yes, yes—but liberality for ever! that I say.

[A strong hiccup, together with certain rollings of the eye and screwings of the lips, now gave evidence of Mr. Luby’s intellectual state.

Capt. Alder. Well, gentlemen, I must be off. Will you go, Captain Bell?

Capt Bell. Yes.

Capt. Saunders. So will I.

[The three Captains rise and withdraw.

Ensign Luby. Let them go: what do we want with Captains here? we are all jolly subs. now; so Buckskin give us a song.

Ensign Simple. I—think—I’ll—go—too. [rises.

Ensign Luby. Ay, go and take your gruel.

Ensign Simple. I don’t know why you talk of gruel, Mr. Luby. I wish to go to bed early, and to rise betimes in the morning to my drill:

“Early to bed and early to rise,
Make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

Ensign Buckskin. Well, no preaching! good-night—say your prayers, and tie your night-cap well on.

[Ensign Simple now retires sulkily, accompanied by a laugh from all the company.

Ensign Luby. That fellow is fitter for the pro—pro—profession of a—hic—linendraper, than the the—hic—trade of a soldier. Come, I’ll give you a song.

Ensign Buckskin. Bravo! song! song! Now I mean to begin the evening.

[Ensign Luby sings “The glasses sparkle on the board,” so completely out of tune that nobody knows what to make of it; the conclusion, however, is loudly applauded.

Ensign Buckskin.—

“A very good song, and very well sung,

(Chorus by all.)

Jolly companions every one.
We only live life to enjoy—
We only live life to enjoy—

How happy’s the soldier who lives on his pay,
And spends half-a-crown out of six-pence a day.

We are the boys for mirth and glee—
We are the boys for jollity.
And so we fell a drinking,
So we fell a drinking,
Drinking, drinking,
So we fell a drinking.

We shan’t go home till morning,
We shan’t go home till morning,
We shan’t go home till morning—
’Till daylight does appear.”

Ye—he—hip! Yoix! hark forward! stole away! e-oic!—e-oic!—e-oic!—hoo—oo—oo—hip!

All the Mess. Bravo! bravo! bravo!

[Just as the song concludes, a servant enters and approaches the table.

Servant. Plase your honor, Gintlemin, the Major sinds his compliments to yiz, an’ hopes that yiz won’t make such an uproar; becaise the Major’s lady, my misthress, has a great headache. I know, to my own knowledge, that she took physic this mornin’, an’ complained of a gripin’. (A roar of laughter.) Oh, ’faith! I tell yiz no lies at all at all; for she’s as crass as two sticks to boot; which always shows she’s ill.

Ensign Buckskin. Ill-tempered you mean, Sir. Go along, and tell the Major that we shall endeavour to moderate our mirth; and, d’ ye hear?—very sorry for the Major’s lady. (Exit Servant.) What the d——l have ladies to do living in barracks, I say.

Ensign Luby. Right—hic—Barracks are only fit for single men—hic! Fire away, lads! who cares for the—hic—Major?

Ensign Newby. Or his wife either?

Ensign Buckskin. He’ll have us all to drill in the morning for this. So, my lads, let us drill him a little now. Song—song!

[A tremendous noise is heard, something like the rolling of bricks or large stones down stairs.

All the Mess. Eh! what’s that?

Ensign Buckskin. It’s the Major. He has fallen down stairs. (A similar noise is heard nearer the door.) Here he comes—now for a wigging. Don’t laugh for a dukedom.

Voice (without). I’ll see who dared to serve me so—that I will.

[The door opens, and Ensign Simple, half undressed, enters, pushing before him a small donkey. A roar of laughter greets the visitors.

Ensign Simple. You may laugh, Gentlemen, but I am determined to have satisfaction for this disgraceful conduct. (Another roar of laughter.) It is no joke—it is a most disgraceful liberty to take with any one; and I will not suffer it. I neither offend nor meddle with any body, and I expect nobody will meddle with me.

Lieut. Short. What, in the name of all that’s beautiful! is the matter with you? Are you mad?

Ensign Simple. Mad! No, Sir; but I have been disgracefully treated. This donkey, Sir, has been brought up to my room, and tied fast in my bed, Sir;—the whole of my apartment, Sir, has been dirtied and disfigured by the brute. (Shouts of laughter.) You are all concerned in this shameful trick. Why don’t you play upon those who deserve it? I never make free with any of you.

Lieut. Short. Perhaps that’s the reason they play tricks on you.

Ensign Simple. Then I am determined to put it down. I bore with former insults, but I will not with this. You took a leg of mutton and a pound of butter out of my cupboard last week, and put them between my sheets, along with the fender: this I took no notice of. But to put a creature like that into my bed, dirty as he is—I’ll never bear with it. I’ll write to my father to-morrow to come down and investigate the affair.

Ensign Buckskin. You must be a clever fellow, as well as a very presuming one, to fix the donkey-saddle on us. Who told you that we did it?

Ensign Simple. I know it was some of you, if not all.

Ensign Buckskin. Come, ask the gentleman himself who tied him in the bed; he knows more about it than you do, a great jackass as he is.

Ensign Luby. (to the Donkey.) Who tied you, Sir?—hic—eh?—He won’t answer.

Ensign Simple. I see you are all leagued against me, because I don’t squander my money amongst you; but I’ll have satisfaction—that I’m resolved on.

(Ensign Luby, inattentive to the last observation, mounts the donkey and rides him round the mess-table, while Buckskin gives a tremendous view halloo! During the uproar, the Major-commanding enters with his servant, frothing at the mouth with passion.

Major. Turn that donkey out directly. What can all this mean? Mr. Short, I am surprised that you, who have been a member of a regimental mess, should join in such disgraceful proceedings. Who brought this animal here?

Several Voices. Mr. Simple.

Major. Then, Mr. Simple, go to your room. Consider yourself in arrest.

Ensign Simple. I am not to blame, Major.

Major. Go to your room, Sir. I’ll not hear a word to-night; your conduct is disgraceful.

Ensign Simple. I am not the person.

Major. You brought the ass into the mess-room, Sir.

Ensign Simple. I found him in my bed, Sir, and covered with my bed-clothes: it is impossible that I can sleep in my room to-night, from the horrid state in which the animal has left it.

(The Major’s ire could not bear up against this; he struggled against an involuntary laugh, and had nearly overcome it, when a certain motion of the animal, and a grotesque elevation of his tail put an end to all his efforts to be severe; so he gave way to a hearty fit of laughter, in which all but Simple joined.

Major. Take the cursed brute away, you Sir.

(Pat the servant pulls the Donkey out of the room.

Pat. He’s a horrid headsthrong baste as ever I pult.

(Exeunt Pat and Donkey, followed by the mess-waiter.

Major. I see how it is, Mr. Simple; there has been a trick played off at your expense. I am very sorry that folly should lead officers to such excesses, but I fear we can never remedy the evil. I am an old officer, gentlemen—I have been thirty years in the service, and as long as I can remember a depot-mess, it has been the same—all disjointed—one scene of disagreement constantly presents itself. A number of mere boys meet together, unacquainted wholly with the rules and habits of a regiment,—uncontrolled by the friendly opinions and directions of their own superior officers, and they give way to every species of folly. I do believe that the practice of sending Ensigns to depots is most injurious to the service. A youth is sent from school to a depot, where there is not perhaps one officer of his own regiment: little or no attention is paid to his conduct; he is neither advised nor restrained, at a time when he most requires it; and the consequences are, that every folly, if not vice, assails him, and he joins his regiment with an impression which even that excellent school finds difficult to remove—his health impaired, and his pocket exhausted. Gentlemen, I am giving you a friend’s opinion, and hope every one of you will use your exertions to check the follies which prevail but too much at this depot: and let me also assure you that the sooner you all join your respective regiments the better—each of you can use your private exertions to that effect, and I will use mine.

[This address produced symptoms of sanity in the young officers; they in the most cordial manner thanked the Major, who shook hands with them all, and the party retired in the most unexpectedly peaceable disposition.

The above sketch is not at all exaggerated: it is outlined for the benefit of young officers; and also in the hope that it may meet the eye of those of their superiors who may have it in their power to remedy the defect.

RECOLLECTIONS
OF THE
LAST CAMPAIGN IN THE PENINSULA.

Halt ye not for food or slumber,
View not ’vantage, count not number;
Jolly reapers, forward still!
Grow the crop on vale or hill.
Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe,
It shall down before the scythe.
Forward with your sickles bright,
Reap the harvest of the fight.
SCOTT.

After four years of indefatigable exertions—doubt and disaster—success and glory—sickness and privation—hope and delight—the British army began to prepare for the promising campaign of 1813, under a chief whose military talents had riveted the confidence alike of his soldiers, as the citizens of that empire, for whose weal—for whose glory—for whose existence as a mistress of the world, he had shared in all the privations and sufferings of his troops, and was ready still to endure even to death, or crown his country’s hopes with success in that mighty and awful strife which engaged her so long. The winter had passed, and the early spring of Portugal had brought to that country reinforcements, money, and equipments, the want of which had but too frequently impeded the success of our army in the Peninsula. Transports were continually floating up the sunny Tagus, with their red-cross flags waving from the masts—their decks covered with glittering accoutrements, and hearty soldiers: fresh detachments and fresh regiments were daily filing off the public squares of Lisbon, to join the grand army; while the eyes of the often disappointed Portuguese followed them with patriotic hope, and their hearts and tongues ejaculated wishes for their success. The road from Lisbon to Coimbra and Vizeu, which had so often withered under the wasteful tread of war, now glistened with groups of laughing soldiers and brightening prospects; even the ruined towns of Condexia and Pumbal lost their appearance of despair, and assumed a faint aspect of hope—such as the dying feel from leech’s promises. The inhabitants everywhere were kind, the season was propitious, and the soldiery seemed to have caught a spirit of confidence which reacted on the people; and if it did not entirely remove their doubts and fears, it tended considerably to advance their hopes of success, and to tranquillize their long-disturbed minds. The arrival of the Hussar brigade at Lisbon affected the Portuguese more than any of the other warlike preparations—it was a cordial to their feeble spirits. This brigade consisted of the 10th, 15th, and 18th Hussars; and certainly its appearance was sufficient to encourage them highly;—the genius of romantic chivalry never imagined a more warlike and beautiful body of horse—their perfect discipline—their splendid equipments—their health and spirits—the true British halo which seemed to glisten around them—all conspired to elevate the Lisbonians almost to a certainty of success in the approaching campaign.

At no period of the war was there more cause for strong hope in the Portuguese than at this time: all the fortresses in their frontier-towns were in our possession—those provinces of Spain which were the favourites of Soult’s army evacuated—Souchet just defeated by Sir John Murray in the South—and Buonaparte ably opposed by the Russians; but the Portuguese had been so often led astray by flattering prospects, that nothing short of entire success could wholly convince them that they were secure from the persecutions of the French.

On the 20th of April I found myself at Oporto, having marched from Coimbra for the purpose of joining the left, or third column of the army, under the command of Sir Thomas Graham; which was destined to enter Spain by Tras os Montes. This column consisted of the first, third, and fifth divisions, together with the first cavalry division. The second, or centre column, was under the immediate command of his Grace the Duke of Wellington; and consisted, I believe, of the fourth, sixth, seventh, and light divisions: this was to advance to Salamanca. The first, or right column of the army, under the command of Lord Hill, was to proceed along the Tagus toward Toledo. Thus all the forces under the command of the Duke of Wellington were divided into three powerful columns; and so disposed as to be available at several points of attack.—A finer army—better officered and better equipped, from the massy ponton to the tent peg, never took the field; and none ever acquitted themselves there more creditably.

In sketching what I remember of this memorable campaign, it cannot be expected that I should display the pen of the historian; if I did so, I must of necessity draw from other sources than my own observation and the narratives of my brother-soldiers: but to this I do not pretend; what I recollect to have witnessed, or have been told by eye-witnesses, is all I offer to my readers:—an individual on a campaign, as a narrator of what occurred before him, ought not—could not consistently, do more: this I will attempt, so far as I conceive the matter may be interesting; I will describe my humble share in the glories of the army, and note those things only which, in my progress with it, appeared to me not unworthy of remark: I will do so with truth; and if I omit occasionally the notice of some particulars of interest, familiar to the memory of some who served with me, it can only be from want of more acute recollection. I have no doubt forgotten many a town, and wood, and valley, and blue mountain, which lay on my way, and many a circumstance also; however, enough remains to afford my mind a vivid picture of that eventful march,—to me, highly interesting and delightful, notwithstanding the fatigues which frequently attended it; and I trust that what I do remember of it will not be uninteresting to my readers.

I will mention an incident which happened to me when I arrived at Oporto; and the motive I have in touching on so trifling an occurrence is, that an opinion as to the French influence in Portugal, even at that promising time, may be in some measure drawn from it. I arrived at Oporto about five o’clock in the evening, and received a billet upon a respectable house for myself, my servant, and two horses. The master of this house was a rich lawyer; and although I learnt that quarters were very indifferent in the town, yet the appearance of the house inspired me with the hope that I should be enabled to make a better report on this subject, as far as regarded myself.

The outward gates of the house were open, and I walked up a wide staircase: having knocked at a large door, I was admitted by a cross-looking woman, who in answer to my question of whether the gentleman of the house was at home, replied, with a shrug of the shoulders, “Nao esta in caza” (not within). I explained the nature of my visit, producing the paper which authorised it; and immediately the countenance of the dame wore the most vinegar aspect: “Nao esta quartelia, Senhor, nada, nada, nada” (no room, none, none.) This I knew must be false, from the size of the house, as well as from my knowledge of the disposition of many of the Portuguese to shift off the trouble of accommodating English officers. However, I was determined to act only through the authorities; for the Commander of the forces was very scrupulous upon this point, and justly so; for many officers during former campaigns had acted rather despotically in their quarters, and occasioned reports of such a nature as to call forth a general order upon the subject, the effects of which were sorely felt by those officers whose conduct was peaceable and conciliating. Consistent with the spirit of this order, I left the old Donna, telling my servant he was to remain, and returned to the Portuguese authorities, who gave me the billet. On describing my reception, one of them burst out into exclamations of rage, declaring that the person on whom I was billeted was a liar and a favourer of the French. “He had room enough in his house for four French officers,” said he; “and if he does not find accommodation for you, Sir, in every way befitting a British officer, I will send him a dozen of Portuguese soldiers.” He then wrote a note to the lawyer, and requested me to take no excuse from him, but to order my servant to carry my luggage at once into the house. I pursued the directions given,—ordered my boy to unload and place my panniers, &c. in the house, and proceeded up stairs myself. The door was opened, and without ceremony I walked into the principal room of the house, where I discovered the lawyer in a fever of anxiety. He was a little smoke-dried man, of about fifty years of age, dressed in a spotted robe de chambre, and powdered in the highest style of professional ultraism. His fever increased to a paroxysm when he saw me in the heart of the garrison, for he never expected such a surprise; he reiterated the words of the old woman with a grin, (which he thought was a smile)—an attempt at polite denial—a widening of the mouth into a sort of imitation-smile, in which his little eyes took no part; in them could be seen the splenetic rage which would have burnt me into a cinder, if it had possessed the power. He declared that he could not accommodate me, nor any other officer; and had I been weak enough to parley with him civilly on the subject, his presumption would have increased more rapidly than it did; but I coolly threw myself down upon his splendid sofa, and desired him to read the note which I brought from the magistrates. He read it, and after a pause and a protracted shrug of the shoulders, muttered something of the great inconvenience he should be put to by having an officer billeted on him; but that he supposed he must put up with it; and begged that I would walk down to a room which he had below. I followed him; and after a tedious hour’s search for keys, he succeeded in opening an apartment, into which I followed him. Here, he said, he would put a bed on the floor,—the only bed he had; and that he would also send down two chairs and a table; hinting, at the same time, that Lord Wellington’s orders were that no other furniture was in any case to be supplied, except by the voluntary act of those on whom officers were quartered. An adequate idea of the apartment it is scarcely possible to give: it had been a sort of lumber-room, I suppose, for some centuries back—covered with cobwebs—damp, dirty, and dark—not an atom of any kind of moveable;—on the ground floor, too! and, contrasted with the superior accommodation given to officers by the Portuguese generally, it had the effect of exciting my indignation against the little lawyer to such a degree, that had it not been for the respect I bore for the orders of Lord Wellington, I believe I should have punished the insolent old rogue on the spot, by the application of my whip to his parchment skin. I paused a little; then took the key out of the door; and, nodding ironically to my patrao, I said, “esta bon”—“it will do very well.” I then went out, and ordered my servant to lead in both the horses:—there was scarcely a stable to be got in Oporto for love or money; and the thought struck me, that I could not only provide myself with a tolerable substitute for such accommodation, but punish the little hater of the English as he deserved.

The horses were brought into the apartment forthwith, to the astonishment, confusion, and intense mortification of the lawyer. Neither my servant nor myself could refrain from laughter at the picture. The little gentleman’s hands clasped in the fervency of his raging astonishment; his frame trembling with passion,—the old dame exclaiming loudly at the door, “Ai! Jesus, Maria, Joze!” and the animals (as all horses will after a journey,) relieving themselves by those actions, which in a parlour may seem out of place and highly laughable, but in a stable “quite correct.” The scene can only be imagined perfectly by those who saw it. The lawyer now lost all patience, and gave way to the most violent and unbounded rage. He called me “heretic Englishman,” and openly proclaimed his hatred of Great Britain and love of France; he stamped, raved, and ejaculated; but I coolly told him to walk out, or that I would lock him in with the horses, as I could not remain longer in my stable. He obeyed with a scowl and a curse; while I thanked him in the most polite manner for the accommodation his house had afforded me, and went back to the magistrates, to whom I related the affair. Their enjoyment of the joke was little less than mine; they advised me to keep the room as a stable while I remained at Oporto (which I did), and gave me another billet for myself, upon a house opposite to the lawyer’s, where I received the most hospitable attention for the few days I remained in the town; and had the pleasure of nodding at old parchment every morning as he went out of his house; which civility he never thought proper to notice, except by a frown, peculiar to his Jacobinical countenance.

As nearly as I can recollect, it was on the twenty-third of May, that our column commenced its march from its cantonments. Illness, brought on by overheating myself in an excursion of pleasure up the Douro, prevented me from marching on the appointed day. By the desire of the medical officer, I remained behind—having been bled but more than one day I would not stay, and although still unwell, persisted in my intention of moving, and mounted for the road.

The weather was very hot when I set out; and having been advised by the surgeon not to fatigue myself, if possible, on the march, until I had perfectly recovered, I pursued my route at one day’s march behind the army, without attempting to gain on it; but had I been in perfect health, I could not have overtaken it, for my baggage horse could not have travelled more than about fifteen or twenty miles a day—the average distance of each march of the army; and this is quite enough, considering the wretched roads over which the animals had to go, together with the great heat of the climate.

I proceeded in the track of the army, by Amarante, Villa Real, Mirandella, and Oitero the frontier town, without beholding a military uniform, and just as if I had been travelling for amusement. The inhabitants of the considerable towns were hospitable and cheerful: from all of those to whom I spoke, I heard the highest encomiums on the army which had but the day before delighted them with its grand appearance. The villages in the province of Tras os Montes presented but little of the power or of the will to afford hospitality to the stranger; many of the houses were shut up and deserted, while those which were inhabited were stripped of almost every accommodation. This arose from the fear which the poor of that province entertained of a passing army, whether friends or foes—they had retired on the approach of ours, as they were often in the habit of doing from the French, and had not returned when I passed. As a proof of the feelings they entertained for the safety of their provisions, &c., I will mention a circumstance in which I was concerned. I had taken possession of a cottage, in a miserable village, between Villa Real and Mirandella; it was inhabited by an old woman, her married daughter, and two little boys: they received me with great civility. I, as usual on the march, enquired whether any sort of provisions in the village could be purchased; and was told that I could not—all was gone—they had been destroyed by the French. I asked if I could not find a fowl, or a few eggs? No, all was gone;—“nada, nada, nada.” I therefore ordered my servant to prepare some chocolate and cold beef, on which I was about to sit down to dine, when I heard a cock crow as if under ground;—the countenances of my hostess and her daughter changed. “Very odd!” thought I:—the cock crowed again:—the greatest confusion was evident in the old woman’s face—she bustled about—threw down a stool—slapped the door, and made every kind of noise possible; but the cock crowed a third time; when my servant, who was a droll Portuguese, without further ceremony addressed the old woman, pointing at the same time to a huge old chest which stood on one side of the room, “La esta o gallo, Senhora,” (there is the cock) said he; and then removed a small chest from the top of the large one—opened the lid; when out flew the tell-tale bird, followed by seven of his hens, delighted, no doubt, as much with his release as their mistress was mortified. I, however, relieved the old lady’s embarrassment, by putting a couple of crucadas novas (about four and sixpence) upon the table: the sight of the money settled the business, and she, without hesitation, gave me two of her prisoners—fine fat hens—assuring me that she had lost many by the soldiers; and fearing another loss from me, she had determined to pack up her poultry in the chest: many had bought fowls from her before, but forgot to pay for them. I passed a pleasant evening and night at this poor cottage, and the whole family gave us a loud “Viva os Inglezas!” at parting next morning.

The country through which I passed was highly picturesque—it was beautiful to look at, but most tiresome to travel over: in general the roads are more like craggy beds of rivers than passages constructed for communication and the benefits of commerce. I remember that the very morning I left the old woman’s cot, it was no more than eight o’clock when I came in sight of the town at which I was to halt. I was on the top of a mountain: beneath me was a river, winding through a fertile valley, on the opposite side of which stood another mountain, apparently not a mile from me; and at the base of the latter was the town, the bells of which I could hear ringing; yet it was five o’clock in the afternoon before I entered it, although I never halted—so intricate and difficult was the winding and steep road I had to pass over. Having mentioned this, I am reminded of a circumstance that occurred as soon as I entered the town, which gave a melancholy proof of the besotted slavery in which the minds of the Portuguese peasantry are held by their clergy. An alarm had been given; the bells were all set in furious motion; every body was running through the streets towards one place. I left my servant with the horses, and proceeded along with the scattered crowd. Every face was woe-begone—as though some dire calamity, such as fire or earthquake, had occurred. The numbers of the people increased as I advanced. We arrived at the principal church: I pushed my way into it, and there the most piteous lamentations assailed my ears. The church was filled with people—all on their knees; tears were streaming down the old people’s cheeks, and the crowd beating their breasts in sorrow. The cause of this mourning was not an earthquake, though it was a conflagration. However, it was neither the church nor the priest that was burnt; but the doll-dressed figure of the Virgin Mary, which had caught fire from the carelessness of the church-clerk, in allowing a lighted candle that he held to touch her holy petticoat!—the satin had blazed; but the flames were soon extinguished, and the damage done was happily confined to the melting of one of her ladyship’s wax fingers, scorching her left cheek, discolouring several tinsel ornaments, and seriously injuring the outer-petticoat. For this the town was thrown into confusion, and the streams of its grief let forth! What crowned the farce, was a young, ignorant-looking priest haranguing the mob upon the calamity; pointing with apparent intensity of sorrow at the burnt hand; kissing it and imploring his dupes to join him in his grief; no doubt with a view that they should join him afterwards in raising funds for re-dressing the Virgin. Such is the deplorable ignorance of the people of a fine country! Yet there is a strong party in Europe, who seek to shut out from them the glorious rays of a liberal constitution, and therefore every chance of enlightenment! But, thank Heaven! there are others who will spread the light amongst them:—the torch of British Liberty now burns over their heads; and they keep their eyes on it, in spite of the “holy” and hateful fogs that are ever rising around them.

I entered Spain from Oitero. In crossing from the one country to the other a thin wood intervenes, and for six or seven miles through it, neither house nor hut is to be seen: it is level ground, and covered with brush-wood. A few goats and their herdsman were all the living things I saw while crossing it: not a bird flew over me.

At the first village which I entered in Spain, I met with some British soldiers (detached) with a commissariat officer, who informed me that the centre column of the main army had entered Salamanca, headed by Lord Wellington, and that the French were retreating everywhere, without making any opposition. Next day I pushed on in hopes of overtaking the troops belonging to my division, and now the country forming a fine level, I was enabled to increase my speed. At length I could descry the wide and sweeping track of the advancing armies—in the abstract, melancholy to contemplate! The country was chiefly covered with a luxuriant crop of corn, over which the immense column of the army passed, with its baggage, artillery, and cattle:—the traces of the cavalry—of the infantry—and of the cannon, could be distinctly and plainly distinguished from each other; and although their road was through the high and firm corn, the pressure upon it was so great that nothing but clay could be seen, except at the verges of the tracks, where the broken and trampled wheat was less over-trodden. Then there was as much cut down for forage as destroyed by feet; the mark of the rough sickle of the commissaries, the dragoons, and the muleteers, were in patches all around, disfiguring the beautiful waving ocean of yellowing corn—ocean indeed—nothing can give so just an idea of its expansion: the corn in that country, does not grow in fields enclosed like our English, but over the whole face of the land, making one wide plain of vegetation, sprinkled at various distances with little villages, which look like heaps of red tiles to the distant eye of the observer: I have counted not less than twenty-two villages within one circular view. Such was the country, nearly all the way to Palencia.

On the third day after I entered Spain, I overtook the rear of the column—I think it was the fourth division—and continued to march with it. Here I had an opportunity of seeing the Portuguese troops in a large body; and they afforded me subject for delightful reflection. I could not help thinking what different beings they appeared, and under what different circumstances they were placed, from their state and prospects about three years before, when I first saw them in the field, a short time after the battle of Busaco: then a more wretched-looking set of creatures never were beheld—the predatory Arabs were not worse clothed, worse disciplined, or worse fed; there was neither uniformity in dress, nor equipment for comfort—threatened by a rapacious enemy, then in the heart of their hapless country—harassed by partial defeat—their only hope resting on their handful of gallant defenders, the British soldiers:—how different did they appear now!—orderly, cheerful, healthy, well disciplined, well armed; their polished accoutrements glistening in the sun; their utensils for comfort all neatly packed upon their backs; tents on their mules; provisions with their commissary: not shut up in a niche of their plundered country, menaced and insulted, but proudly marching towards the heart of Spain—of France (as it turned out)—their hated invaders in their turn flying before their regenerated ranks; the British by their side, and leading them on after the bloody and successful struggles of three years. Oh! it was a sight that could not be seen and reflected upon, without a bounding of the heart! And their cheers, as their clean blue columns passed through the Spanish towns, spoke to the slave’s breast, a magic tongue. Proud indeed may those feel, whose indefatigable exertions brought the soldiers of Portugal to the pitch of perfection in which they then were, and grateful may be that nation to protecting England for those mighty services. “Liberty!” was the cry through the ranks, and “Liberty!” was the cry from the crowd, as they passed through the towns of Portugal and Spain. Their songs were embued with their sentiments of patriotism; and they sung them often as they went: their musicians cheered and nourished this feeling, and their national air “Vencer ou morir,”[5] as sung by a number of them, when they encamped on the frontier of France, with the French in their front, preparing for battle, was, from its patriotic sentiments and martial yet melancholy music, one of the most soul-stirring anthems that ever flowed from the patriot’s heart:—Portogallo, the composer of it, may fairly claim a portion of the laurels which were gained by his countrymen in every action fought after it became popular. I have heard it boldly played in the teeth of the enemy by the Portuguese bands; and I marked the countenances of the listeners with delight: it made all Portuguese hearts pant for the fight, and swell with revenge for the injuries of their trampled country; and as the voices joined the music, “Vencer ou morir” was not sung without meaning.

I have written English words to the air, and perhaps they may not be unacceptable here:—

PORTUGUESE NATIONAL SONG.

I.

The tyrant smote our country—
Arise! arise! revenge the blow:
His ranks are there—prepare—prepare
To meet the hated foe.
Oh! blessed sun of Freedom,
O’er the fight shine high, shine high!
For we’ll conquer—we’ll conquer—
We’ll conquer—or we’ll die.