SERENADE.

“Ah! why was ruin so attractive made?”Collins.

Love is never so happy—so gay—so delightful—so fascinating, as when he decorates himself in military trappings; and had his little godship been consulted upon how his portrait ought to have been set forth by the poets and the artists, I have no doubt but he would have directed them to have pictured him in the dress of a soldier. He always has delighted in camps and barracks; the clashing of arms sets his heart into a glow, and the sound of the drum makes him flutter his wings like a rising lark. Yet, with all this preference for the profession of the sword, his happinessis seldom long-lived, and he is often—very often, found weeping over his broken joys—or toys, as they may be—in bitterness, as proportionately poignant as his pleasures were vivid. For the truth of this, I appeal to the individuals of the British army who have served with the little deity, and to those who are still better judges—their sweethearts.

Amongst the many instances of romantic and unfortunate love which have fallen under my observation in the service, is the case of a friend of mine—a young officer of the **th regiment of infantry—to which are attached circumstances so interesting, that I feel I shall not be intruding on my readers in sketching a brief history of its light and shade.

Without giving the real names of the parties, in doing which I should not feel myself warranted, I will tell the story; and it will not, I hope, lose its title to credence, by romantic substitutes. Let us then call one Allemar, and the other Ellen.

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

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

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

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

However, they were obliged to separate; but not without a hope of meeting again. Allemar’sregiment was ordered to march for Portugal; and as Ellen’s friends were not disposed to let her marry at that time—even had Allemar received the consent of his—it was agreed upon between the lovers, that they should wait a more favourable opportunity of uniting in matrimony: at the same time, pledging each other to eternal faith in love.

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

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

(Two Voices.)

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

(Bass—One Voice.)

I see the light, and the lattice moves,And her dark eye looks for the youth she loves—Sing on—sing on!Though the harper’s old, yet the harp he bearsHas the fire of youth, for the lovers’ prayers—Sing on—sing on—sing on!

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

(Two Voices.)

Far, far away,Yon high bright moonSoon, sweetest, soonShall gaze down between us, o’er the wide wide sea.She waits our fond farewell,That when I’m miles and miles from thee,She many a night may tellOf this sweet hour to me.

(Bass—One Voice.)

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

Far, far away,Yon high bright moonSoon, sweetest, soonShall gaze down between us, o’er the wide wide sea.

The regiment marched at sunrise; and my friend with it. He went to Portugal, but returned at the end of the year on sick leave (love-sick leave, no doubt), and was happily married to his Ellen. They lived together for six months; when Allemar was obliged to join his regiment, then stationed before Bayonne; and as every body expected an immediate peace, the friends of Ellen wished her to remain at home, hoping that when the war was at an end, her husband’s regiment would be ordered back to England. However, when Allemar had been but a month gone, the mother of Ellen died. As soon as her feelings for the loss of her beloved parent had subsided into calm, she determined to proceed to join her husband—the only being now in whose society she could be happy. For this purpose, she wrote to him, and having arranged every thing for her departure, she, and a female servant, were providedwith a passage on board a commodious transport for St. Jean De Luz, and sailed with a fair wind for the Bay of Biscay.

The letter she wrote to apprize her husband of her intention, breathed for him the most passionate affection; and it was certainly not thrown away upon Allemar: his love for her was, if possible, greater than hers for him. He was like a moping hypochondriac at Bayonne, before he received this letter; but immediately on its receipt, became the most lively, spirited, and pleasant officer in the corps. He and I have often walked along the beach, looking out for the expected ship and the scenes of happiness which he anticipated formed the subject generally of our conversation—he talked of going on half-pay if peace should take place, and to live a rural life—then he would describe, in glowing terms, the happiness of contentment and retirement, in comparison with the ambition, toil, and peril, of a soldier’s life. These and such were the dreams of fancy, in which we used to indulge, when wandering by the sea-side.

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

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

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

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

My friend insisted on going along with them, and when he was about to step into the boat he handed me his keys; then shaking me heartily by the hand, gave me to understand what he dared not speak—nor, indeed, could I have heard—without exhibiting a woman’s weakness. As it was, we were not far from it—a word would have unmanned us.

The boat bounded away from the harbour over the high surges, shaping her course well for her object; and considering that she had to beat to windward, she made wonderful progress: however, it was four o’clock ere she got within half a mile of the vessel. The tempest was now increasing frightfully—the worn out transports seemed as if they were giving up the ghost tothe overwhelming storm—none carried more canvass than topsails close reefed, and the opinion of every one on the beach was, that all would be wrecked if the weather did not change. It was getting dark: I saw the boat labouring amidst the hills of foaming water, and the ship was within hail of her. It darkened:—we could see no more of either boat or ships; and could only ascertain what direction they were in by the flashes of the occasional guns of distress which some of them fired. It was a sickening sight. I knew not what to do:—Icoulddo nothing—except, indeed, offer up my prayers for the safety of the poor souls that were hurling over the frightful abyss of horrors.14

Guns were repeated and repeated; but no assistance could those on shore render the ships. I was bewildered;—I wandered home—back again—lay down—arose restless—watched the daylight; and then was the horrid reality:—the ship had gone to pieces; so had the boat—my dearfriend, and all his dream of happiness, gone! Not a being either in the ship or boat was saved, and the bodies of Allemar and Ellen were washed on shore about a mile below St. Jean de Luz.

This catastrophe has since caused me many painful reflections. The manner in which the lovers met and died in the tempest, was before my eyes night and day for a long time after it happened: indulging in these melancholy thoughts, I drew the following imaginative picture of their fate:—

Along by the sea-cliff as Allemar hied,To wear the sad moments away,With sorrow he view’d the increase of the tide,Look’d o’er the dark breast of the ocean, and sigh’d“My Ellen—ah! why dost thou stay?”Three sunsetting hours did he visit the shore,Thrice viewed the slow ebb of the tide;For the ship was expected full three days before,To crown all his hopes, and his Ellen restore—His gentle—his beautiful bride.The twilight was rapidly lessening his view,Black hillocks uprose on the main;Now stronger and stronger the whistling wind blew,And clouds through the heavens as rapidly flewAs thoughts across Allemar’s brain.The surf now began to redouble its force,As it broke at the foot of the rock;Wave rode upon wave in their hurrying course,The raven flew home, while his croaking so hoarse,As he pass’d, seem’d the surges to mock.Now comes the loud thunder—now flies the bleak rain—Now flash after flash follows on:In horror poor Allemar looks o’er the main;Now turns he away, and now gazes again,—There’s the ship—see the flash—’tis a gun!’Tis the call of distress to the heart of the brave:—Enough!—he determines to dareEv’ry fury that rode on the terrible wave,And there, ’midst their horrors, to perish, or saveHis Ellen—oh, should she be there!He’s away in his bark, and all clear of the shore—“Holy Mary,” the fishermen pray.He plied at the sail, and he plied at the oar,And he toss’d for an hour in the billows’ uproar;But the ship she was still far away.And he toss’d, and he toss’d on the fathomless grave,In the midst of the mountains of foam,While fast came the night, and still faster the wave;—Back—back with thy bark, and thyself seek to save,For the ship has already her doom!No—onward he went, till across his dark wayHe perceived, by the lightning so bright,A plank of the wreck—there a white figure lay,Wash’d over and over by every sea;—It was Ellen—O God, what a sight!E’er pass’d the red flashes, he seized on his prize—Oh, think how the lover was blest!He chafed her—he kiss’d her—she open’d her eyes;—“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” poor Allemar cries,As he presses her close to his breast.How deceitful and vain were his hopes and his boast—He saw not the ill that was nigh;The last ray of twilight in darkness was lost,And, alas! he was more than a mile from the coast—Not a star could be seen in the sky!“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” he wildly repeated—Life rose in her heart at the sound—“We are safe,” she replied—but how suddenly fleetedThe false light of hope which their love had created!—The horror of truth was around.Still loud raged the storm, and still wild roll’d the wave—Will Heav’n not the fond lovers save?They kiss—and they cling—and the shriek:—Oh, dismay!—Break—break not upon them, dark billow!—away!—It is past—they are sunk in the wave!

Three sunsetting hours did he visit the shore,Thrice viewed the slow ebb of the tide;For the ship was expected full three days before,To crown all his hopes, and his Ellen restore—His gentle—his beautiful bride.

The twilight was rapidly lessening his view,Black hillocks uprose on the main;Now stronger and stronger the whistling wind blew,And clouds through the heavens as rapidly flewAs thoughts across Allemar’s brain.

The surf now began to redouble its force,As it broke at the foot of the rock;Wave rode upon wave in their hurrying course,The raven flew home, while his croaking so hoarse,As he pass’d, seem’d the surges to mock.

Now comes the loud thunder—now flies the bleak rain—Now flash after flash follows on:In horror poor Allemar looks o’er the main;Now turns he away, and now gazes again,—There’s the ship—see the flash—’tis a gun!

’Tis the call of distress to the heart of the brave:—Enough!—he determines to dareEv’ry fury that rode on the terrible wave,And there, ’midst their horrors, to perish, or saveHis Ellen—oh, should she be there!

He’s away in his bark, and all clear of the shore—“Holy Mary,” the fishermen pray.He plied at the sail, and he plied at the oar,And he toss’d for an hour in the billows’ uproar;But the ship she was still far away.

And he toss’d, and he toss’d on the fathomless grave,In the midst of the mountains of foam,While fast came the night, and still faster the wave;—Back—back with thy bark, and thyself seek to save,For the ship has already her doom!

No—onward he went, till across his dark wayHe perceived, by the lightning so bright,A plank of the wreck—there a white figure lay,Wash’d over and over by every sea;—It was Ellen—O God, what a sight!

E’er pass’d the red flashes, he seized on his prize—Oh, think how the lover was blest!He chafed her—he kiss’d her—she open’d her eyes;—“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” poor Allemar cries,As he presses her close to his breast.

How deceitful and vain were his hopes and his boast—He saw not the ill that was nigh;The last ray of twilight in darkness was lost,And, alas! he was more than a mile from the coast—Not a star could be seen in the sky!

“I’ve saved thee, my Ellen!” he wildly repeated—Life rose in her heart at the sound—“We are safe,” she replied—but how suddenly fleetedThe false light of hope which their love had created!—The horror of truth was around.

Still loud raged the storm, and still wild roll’d the wave—Will Heav’n not the fond lovers save?They kiss—and they cling—and the shriek:—Oh, dismay!—Break—break not upon them, dark billow!—away!—It is past—they are sunk in the wave!

To those officers who happened to have been on sick leave at Belem, near Lisbon, in 1810 and 11, General P****** must “of a verity” be well known: few, indeed, could have sojourned many days in that invalid retirement, without having observed the stooped shoulder, topped by the shallow cocked-hat, and covered with the eternal blue frock-coat, stealing along close to the wall upon a tall English horse. Who of those havenot been haunted by the said phantom, at some time or other, if perchance in order to relax the dreary and monotonous hours of a sick chamber, they dared to meet on the road to enjoy a little cheerful conversation? Terrible, indeed, was this evening apparition—this warning spirit, who like the death fetch came tofetchthe sick away! No tom cat ever paid more determined attention to mouse-catching pastime, than did the General to his favourite pleasure of pouncing upon the invalid officer, who but dared to show himself out of his melancholy quarters. He conceived that no man could possibly be sick, who was able to move his legs; and if a half dead officer could but smoke a cigar, or twist the corners of his mouth into a smile, the whole medical staff could not have persuaded the General out of his opinion, that such a person was not only in excellent health, but fit to brave the rudest weather, and the severest duties of the field.

It cannot be denied that, even among theofficersof the peninsular army, there have been “skulkers”—men who, in order to avoid the necessary fatigues of a campaign, have “shammed” sickness, orhaving been really ill, contrived to obtain sick leave for a long time after they had recovered; but such instances, highly to the credit of “the cloth,” were very rare indeed.

Belem was the place appointed for sick officers, and General P******, no doubt in his zeal for the service, conceived that most of the residents there were (in his own phraseology) “humbugging;” he therefore, in addition to his proper duties, took upon himself those of the staff surgeons, and left no experiment untried for the cure of the malady which he believed epidemically to rage at Belem, namely, theIdle DiseaseorLazy Fever. The treatment which he principally adopted was of thestimulatingdescription; but, alas! his method of cure obtained no favour for him in the eyes of his patients.

It was common among those sick officers at Belem, whenever any of them in their walks happened to be so unlucky as to have met the General, to go home and make instant preparations for joining, whether capable of doing duty or not; for their names were sure to be in the garrison orders of the following day, for marching.

This system ofespionnagewas very naturally looked upon as cruel and insulting in the extreme; it rouzed the indignant feelings of all the officers against the General; but for obvious reasons they could not resent his proceedings in any other way than by demonstrations of contempt. One, however, a convalescent Lieutenant, who had“Done the state some service,”happened to have fallen within the General’seveningeye: he was, in fact, as the phrase is,doggeda mile out of the town, and next day popped into orders for “joining forthwith,” although still very weak, and a man“—— Who never turned his backOn duty or the foe.”

The Lieutenant prepared to obey, and the day previous to his departure, in riding through Lisbon, whither he had gone to purchase some articles necessary for his march, accompanied by a brother officer, he met General P. in one of the main streets, attended by his orderly dragoon—one of the Portuguese police. The Lieutenant, on perceiving him, allowed his friend to ride on, while he pulled up a little, so as to come veryslowly in front of the General. As soon as he breasted him, he stopped—affected an animated smile of recognition—took off his hat in a most respectful manner—held out his hand to the General, which was duly received; and, still smiling, griped his fingers as fast as if they were fixed in a vice, while he thus emphatically addressed him:—“Sir, an officer who has served in seven actions, and who has been thrice wounded, has the pleasure of telling you that you are a mostcontemptible spy, and adisgrace to the commission you hold. You are fit for no command unless it be in the police. Good morning,mouchard.” The General instantly called to the orderly dragoon;—“Listen to this officer,” said he; “Mark him, Sir—mark his words, Sir.” Then calling after the officer—who trotted off bowing politely—“Come back here, Sir—Mr.—— I say—do you hear, Sir?” he almost gasped with passion; but the Lieutenant was gone, and the General left with his orderly, who looked as apathetically as the statue in St. James’s square.

The Lieutenant went home, but was not permitted to march so soon as he expected: for hewas placed in arrest, and his conduct submitted to the investigation of a court of inquiry, upon charges of mutinous conduct highly unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, &c. &c., preferred against him by General P******.

The Court was composed of the highest officers in Lisbon, and on the awful day of inquiry, the General minutely detailed before it, the circumstance of which he had to complain. The Lieutenant, with an air of the utmost confidence totally denied the charges, and insinuated that the General must have laboured under some aberration of mind, or else had mistaken him for another person. The only witness of the transaction (the Portuguese dragoon) was called, who answered by an interpreter. His evidence was conclusive against the General: for, on being asked by the Court to describe what he had seen, he said that the Lieutenant met the General in the street—took off his hat most politely—that the parties shook hands cordially—that in a few moments they parted, the Lieutenantbowing, with his hat off, most respectfully:—and that then the General talked a good deal to himself.

“But, Sir,” demanded the complainant petulantly, through the interpreter, “what did the Lieutenantsay?” To which the evidence answered with a Portuguese shrug—“that hedid not understand a word of English, but that he supposed the Lieutenant to have beenenquiring after the state of the General’s health!”

Further evidence in favour of the officer than the prosecutor’s own witness was needless—the Lieutenant was released from his arrest, and the General obliged to “pocket the affront.”

——“Seeking the bubble reputation,Even in the cannon’s mouth.”Shakspeare.

Cæsar was forty years of age before he fought his first battle; or, indeed, before he could be fairly said to have been a soldier: yet he became one of the most able and successful generals the Roman empire ever produced. This age in a general is by no means out of keeping with the wisdom and energy required to constitute a good commander: it may be rather considered as not sufficiently advanced, by at least from five to ten years. But anensignof forty is a thing quiteout of character—a monstrous absurdity, as the army is now constituted; and if Cæsar himself had had to enter the Roman army in that grade, judging by our British scale of promotion, he never would have arrived at a brevet-majority. An Ensign is the boy of the colours—the page to regimental victory, whose chin should never bear a beard while he holds the post—a youthful soldier,—a Mars of fifteen, with the staff of his country’s flag fixed firmly in the earth, supporting and supported by him, while the rough mustachioed band like rocks surround and shield him from the tempest of the fight. But aVolunteerof forty!—Is not that an odd production? I do not mean a “City Volunteer,” nor a “County Volunteer;” but an individual who joins a regiment of the line on service in the field, by permission of its Colonel—clothes himself—and, although avowedly for the purpose of becoming soon an Ensign—and although received as a gentleman by the officers of the corps he joins, is drilled in the ranks, and fights as a private soldier. Such a man, I say, “begins at the beginning” of his profession, and has a tolerably long road to travel ere he obtainhis first commission—that of Ensign. A Volunteer of forty, then, is a ridiculous anomaly, arara avis in exercitu, and (thank Minerva!) was even more scarce during the Peninsular war, than is a French Eagle in “this piping time of peace.” However, wehadone of those odd birds,nigroque simillima cygno, who flew out from his native hills in Cambria to the more classic mountains of the Pyrenees, at the verylatter endof the verylastcampaign which the Anglo-Lusitanian army accomplished. Considering, then, this hero’s age, and the time at which he joined the standard of war, every one must allow that he did not “begin at the beginning;” and it must appear equally evident that he never could have become a Cæsar, even though he had lived to the age of old Parr.

This military aspirant arrived at Passages a little after the siege of San Sebastian, and I happened to be on the verge of the quay, as the vessel which contained him brought up:—it was a wretched-looking schooner, and not at all engaged in the service; but contained, in addition to theVolunteer, a cargo of butter, cheese, and ready-made slops.

When her anchor was dropped, and the masterof the vessel, with his passenger, jumped on shore beside me, I thought the latter was the former, and the former a mate. Without hesitation I asked them had they come from England, and what news. The hero immediately furnished me with an abridgement of the preceding month’s “Times” and “Chronicle,” in such a peculiar way, and with such familiarity, that I immediately concluded I had caught hold of as odd a fish as ever came from the ocean; and I should have had no objection to examine him further, but the time which I had to spare was expired; and as he had concluded hisreport, I wished him good morning, stepped into the ferry-boat, and passed to the other side of the gut which divides the town.

When I had made the purchases of various articles of provision for which I had come to Passages, I went back toRenteria, the town in which I was quartered, and which is situated about a league from the former.

I had dined at home—(home!where is the soldier’s home?) I had dined at my quarters at Renteria, and had strolled along the beach, listening to the boat-women singing as they crossed the lake ofLeso, when I saw the “new arrival” approaching the shore in a ferry-boat.

“Captain, Captain!” roared he out, “how are youagain, Sir? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Thus was I saddled with his company, rather against my will; but as I had nothing either to amuse or employ me at that moment, I submitted quietly, and we walked together towards the market-place. It was during this walk I learned that my companion was not the master of the butter-schooner, but a “Gentleman Volunteer,” absolutely on his way to the head-quarters of the army. So sincerely did he assure me of this, ridiculous as it appeared, that I hesitated not to offer the hospitality of my quarters, which he very readily accepted, and we lost not a moment in proceeding to crack a bottle; or, rather, broach a pig-skin, for in such vessels was the wine of Renteria usually contained.

We sat together for a few hours, and I found that, in his new profession, my guest was an enthusiast of the most capacious calibre; yet upon other subjects rational, and sometimes acute. To carry the matter by comparison, I will say thathis intellect could have hit a thought, as a screw-barrelled pocket pistol might the ace of hearts, at ten paces, when aimed and discharged by a tolerably good shot—he would never fly a mile from it, but seldom if ever pop right through the centre. A short extract from the conversation of the evening will outline my man, far better than comment. This I will attempt from memory. In the dialogue, I will call him I. and myself II.—not that there were two to one against the Volunteer in any sense; but for the sake of brevity.

I. Yes, Captain, I have determined to join my gallant countrymen in their glorious cause, and lend a hand to pull down the tyrant Buonaparte.

II. That is laudable, Sir; but I fear it will not be very profitable to you.

I. Profitable! I don’t much care for profit, so as I obtain well-earned promotion.

II. The war is now drawing to a close, and it will be difficult to succeed in your hopes.

I. The war, Sir, will never end. Excuse me, Sir—when I say never, I say only with the everlasting Scriptures, “We shall have wars and wars and rumours of wars.” Besides, Sir, the Russians,and Prussians, and Austrians, and even British, I fear, cannot effectually overcome that scourge of civil liberty, Napoleon.

II. Pardon me, Sir, I think his day is drawing to a close.

I. Impossible! the hordes of the North must vanish before him, even like the chaff before the wind. England is the only hope.

II. Be that as it may: your Ensigncy will not be very long coming, if you get it at the fall of Buonaparte.

I. I would give up all my hopes to see him fall; for in taking the crown, he betrayed the cause that raised him to glory.

II. Then I suppose you say, he sold liberty for acrown?

I. Precisely. Look at Cromwell, Sir; the man, like David, after God’s own heart—hereigned without a crown. Look at the Roman republic, Sir—thatwas sold for a crown. Look to America—no crowns there.

II. If you have such objections to crowns, why wish to fight for them?

I. Indeed, Sir, I am now only—a—talking as it were—a—on public matters. I am as loyal as any man.

II. ’Pon my honour, if opinions upon such subjects were often canvassed in the army, even by men of half your age, they would stand but a poor chance of promotion.

I. Half my age:—how old do you think I am?

II. About fifty-two.

I. What!—Oh, you joke.

II. Well, how oldareyou?

I. I’m not yet forty.

II. Forty! that’s pretty well, I think, for a Volunteer.

I. It is, in my mind, the proper age for every thing which requires the full energy of the mind; and what calls forthatmore than the art of war? I always had a taste for the noble profession—I havetaughtmilitary tactics.

II. Taught!

I. Yes, Sir, taught—and some of my pupils are now Captains in the local militia.

II. Indeed!

I. Yes, Sir; I led the business of one of the first schools in England.

II. God bless me!

I. Forty! Have you read Cæsar, Sir?—Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres, &c.—Hewas beyond that age, when his talents came into the field. Look at Washington, Sir, that “patriæ Columen”—hewas also beyond that age when he took up arms. Cromwell, too—see what a soldier he became. Pichegru, also, was at my age before he was made an officer. And let me tell you, Sir, that boys arenotfit to command—give me the man, whose sense and judgment are matured. I don’t mind two years as Ensign;—I get my Lieutenancy before I am forty-two: there are now many Lieutenants older than that, Sir.—Well—I know the use of tactics, and as to fighting—give me an opportunity. I wish I had been out time enough for the storming of San Sebastian! Let me have but an opportunity—I’ll die in the breach, or I’ll be promoted. I have entered the temple of Mars, Sir,—I have shaken theAncilia—I have waved his sacred spear, andI have cried “Mars, Vigilia!” But, Sir, this is my motto:—

“ὁτι εν τῳ πολεμῳ αλλ’ εργων χρεία.”

Do you understand that?

II. I see you are very enthusiastic.

I. And is there any thing to be done without it?

II. You are right. Come fill your glass again, Sir.

I. Oh, by George! I have filled too often: I have taken two glasses for your one; but pleasant company, and good wine, are persuasive arguments. Your very good health, Sir; and although you are not three-and-twenty, and I am forty, we shall see who will run up the hill fastest. Excuse me—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.” Your health, Sir.

II. I hope you will not be like Tantalus, in the waters of promotion.

I. What!—

Tantalus à labris sitiens fugientia captatFlumina.

Give me your hand, Sir; you are a classical scholar,—Horace,—I can see that:—I respect you, Sir;—I re-spectyou, Sir.

II. What do you think of an ensign, who passed from the age of seventeen to forty-seven without promotion?

I. He must have had no education,—knew nothing,—nothing of tactics,—nothing of the art of war. I have made it my study; I am well acquainted with the best schools of warfare—the Grecian, the Roman, and the modern. Granicus, Marathon, and Pharsalia, are familiar to me. I have made myself acquainted with the characters of every great conqueror, from Charles the Twelfth, who was my favourite, down to Lord Wellington. The Duke of Marlborough’s campaigns I have deeply studied, and know every move in the battles of Fredlingen, Scardigen, Schwemmingen, Spinbach, Shellenberg, Blenheim, and Ramillies. In short, Sir, if I do not succeed, it will be my own fault.

II. With those qualifications for the military profession, it is to be lamented that you did not embrace it earlier in life.

I. If I had taken up the profession earlier, I should not have been so well qualified. A series of years devoted to the instruction of young gentlemen,in—not only military science—but of general learning, afforded me the very qualification by which I hope to rise in the army.

II. Come, fill again; you are not doing any thing at all.

I. Doing! Ecod, I am doing away with my brains, and I’m half done over; but a pleasant companion and good wine, I say again, are not to be resisted—

Solis æterna est Phœbo Bacchoque juventa.

Isn’t that right, eh?

II.Tunc dolor et curæRUGAque frontis abit.

I. Excellent! good! fine! give me your hand.—Ovid, Sir—good! I respect you, Sir; I reverence you, Sir. You’ll be a general; you’ll be a great commander, depend upon it. I’ll fill a bumper; there, there, there! and now—here is wishing you every success—may you be a field-marshal!

II. Thank you; thank you:—when Iam, I’ll recommend you for promotion, and do for all your sons.

I. Sons! I have no sons. I may say with the great North American Chief,—“There runs not one drop of my blood in any living creature.”

II. But this may not be so hereafter.

I. That’s all over, Sir. I once approached the steps of Hymen’s altar; but the torch of the god was quenched: it never shall be lighted for me again.

II. Ah! I suppose you were jilted?

I. Jilted! Sir, I was shamefully treated. I, for three years, courted a young lady; she was every thing to me; she personified the woman I all my life pictured in my imagination. She was two-and-twenty—tall—fine countenance—bold outline of features;—danced—played;—a perfect scholar, Sir.

II. Take care you don’t make such a beautiful form now, that, like Pygmalion, you will break your rash vow, and pray for the animated reality.

I. Oh, Sir; you delight me. Your classic conversation—I am glad,—glad,—very glad of your acquaintance.

II. Well, about the lady.

I. Ah, Sir! (a deep sigh.) I courted her for nearly three years; she approved—I approved—father and mother approved; and I had absolutely engaged to take a house, Sir—fine, spaciouspremises, fit for an extensive sch—seminary,—ladies’ seminary; for she was the daughter of the gentleman whose business I had conducted. Well, Sir, we were to be married; and what do you think?—Damn me! if she didn’t run away with a Sergeant of the Lancers, two days previous to our intended wedding!—Ah, Sir! (deep sigh) that broke down my habits of business. I gave up every thing connected with seminaries, or schools, or private tuition, and applied to General Dizzyman, for whom my father always votes: he gave me a letter to Colonel Pepperton, and I am now on my way to that gentleman. It produced a shock, Sir; but the life of a soldier will, I hope, make all things right again.

II. Hang all the sex!

I. Hang them all, I say, three times over—the jilts—the runaway wretches!

My guest now grew melancholy: he helped himself to more wine, and gradually fell into an unintelligible grumble. The poor fellow had no quarter; and as it was late, I could not think of turninghim out, so applied to thePatronof myCazafor assistance. He was a good man, and offered a bed; so I directed my servant to lead my guest to his repose.

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

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

Myself.What have you been doing?

Volunteer.Doing? I have been doing thankless work. I am disgusted with the service, Sir. A man of mind or genius has no business in it.

Myself.Bless me! what can all this mean?

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

Volunteer.Ay, playing the devil, Captain Provost. I wanted to preventthemfrom playing the devil; that stupid Colonel of mine knows nomore of military tactics than a horse. Now mark you, Sir—the column of subdivisions was ordered to change its direction on a moveable pivot: “Left shoulders forward” was given instead of “right shoulders forward,” and I of course—thinking for the best—cried out to the Captain of the company I belonged to, that he was wrong; when he ordered me out of the ranks. I wouldn’t be treated so; therefore went up to the Colonel to speak with him on the subject, when the French began to fire grape shot in amongst us. The regiment halted before crossing the river, while the shot was coming thicker and thicker; so I was determined to tell my mind—for a good commanding officer would have moved his men a little under cover,—and I called out to the Colonel to advance, or to move by anoblique echelonto the left, in order to get the men under a high bank. What d’ye think, Sir?—he said he’d order me to be flogged if I did not immediately go to the rear! The column at this moment received a shower of shot which knocked some down; so, in the confusion of eight or ten of the men near the river, I was thrown off the bank—souse in the water, and was carrieddown luckily to the ford, or I should have been lost. I scrambled out—look how wet I am—and went back to the regiment, when the Colonel sent me to be flogged by the Provost: and if the General, God bless him! had not fortunately been riding by, I should have been disgracefully punished; but he asked what the matter was, and then sent me to the rear in charge of this gentleman.

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

Provost.Lord bless you, Sir; he threw the men into the greatest ferment and confusion.

Volunteer.I’ll tell you, Sir, that they are all ignorant fellows—all, Sir. I did every thing for the best, and this is the way I was treated: the fact of the matter is, the service is disgusting, and I will immediately return to England.

Myself.Where is your cap?

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

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

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