"Now, lads!" cried the major, "I'm not going to lose your time and mine by speaking; but there are a couple of toasts I must insist upon your drinking with all the honors; and as I like despatch, we'll couple them. It so happens that our old island boasts of two of the finest fellows that ever wore Russia ducks. None of your nonsensical geniuses, like poets or painters or anything like that; but downright, straightforward, no-humbug sort of devil-may-care and bad-luck-to-you kind of chaps,—real Irishmen! Now, it's a strange thing that they both had such an antipathy to vermin, they spent their life in hunting them down and destroying them; and whether they met toads at home or Johnny Crapaud abroad, it was all one. [Cheers.] Just so, boys; they made them leave that; but I see you are impatient, so I'll not delay you, but fill to the brim, and with the best cheer in your body, drink with me the two greatest Irishmen that ever lived, 'Saint Patrick and Lord Wellington.'"

The Englishmen laughed long and loud, while we cheered with an energy that satisfied even the major.

"Who is to give us the chant? Who is to sing Saint Patrick?" cried Maurice. "Come, Bob, out with it."

"I'm four tumblers too low for that yet," growled out the major.

"Well, then, Charley, be you the man; or why not Dennis himself? Come, Dennis, we cannot better begin our evening than with a song; let us have our old friend 'Larry M'Hale.'"

"Larry M'Hale!" resounded from all parts of the room, while O'Shaughnessy rose once more to his legs.

"Faith, boys, I'm always ready to follow your lead; but what analogy can exist between 'Larry M'Hale' and the toast we have just drank I can't see for the life of me; not but Larry would have made a strapping light company man had he joined the army."

"The song, the song!" cried several voices.

"Well, if you will have it, here goes:"—

LARRY M'HALE.

AIR,—"It's a bit of a thing," etc.

Oh, Larry M'Hale he had little to fear, And never could want when the crops didn't fail; He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred a year, And the heart for to spend it, had Larry M'Hale! The soul of a party, the life of a feast, And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail; He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest, Oh, the broth of a boy was old Larry M'Hale!

It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, His house was as big and as strong as a jail; With a cruel four-pounder, he kept in great order, He'd murder the country, would Larry M'Hale. He'd a blunderbuss too, of horse-pistols a pair; But his favorite weapon was always a flail. I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair, For he handled it neatly, did Larry M'Hale.

His ancestors were kings before Moses was born, His mother descended from great Grana Uaile; He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn; They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M'Hale. He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, With cousins and uncles enough for a tail; And, though loaded with debt, oh, the devil a thinner, Could law or the sheriff make Larry M'Hale!

With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored, None lived half so well, from Fair-Head to Kinsale, As he piously said, "I've a plentiful board, And the Lord he is good to old Larry M'Hale." So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him, It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale; For ould Erin would be a fine country to live in, If we only had plenty like LARRY M'HALE.

"Very singular style of person your friend Mr. M'Hale," lisped a spooney-looking cornet at the end of the table.

"Not in the country he belongs to, I assure you," said Maurice; "but I presume you were never in Ireland."

"You are mistaken there," resumed the other; "I was in Ireland, though I confess not for a long time."

"If I might be so bold," cried Maurice, "how long?"

"Half an hour, by a stop-watch," said the other, pulling up his stock; "and I had quite enough of it in that time."

"Pray give us your experiences," cried out Bob Mahon; "they should be interesting, considering your opportunities."

"You are right," said the cornet; "they were so; and as they illustrate a feature in your amiable country, you shall have them."

A general knocking upon the table announced the impatience of the company, and when silence was restored the cornet began:—

When the 'Bermuda' transport sailed from Portsmouth for Lisbon, I happened to make one of some four hundred interesting individuals who, before they became food for powder, were destined to try their constitutions on pickled pork. The second day after our sailing, the winds became adverse; it blew a hurricane from every corner of the compass but the one it ought, and the good ship, that should have been standing straight for the Bay of Biscay, was scudding away under a double-reefed topsail towards the coast of Labrador. For six days we experienced every sea-manoeuvre that usually preludes a shipwreck, and at length, when, what from sea-sickness and fear, we had become utterly indifferent to the result, the storm abated, the sea went down, and we found ourselves lying comfortably in the harbor of Cork, with a strange suspicion on our minds that the frightful scenes of the past week had been nothing but a dream.

"'Come, Mr. Medlicot,' said the skipper to me, 'we shall be here for a couple of days to refit; had you not better go ashore and see the country?'

"I sprang to my legs with delight; visions of cowslips, larks, daisies, and mutton-chops floated before my excited imagination, and in ten minutes I found myself standing at that pleasant little inn at Cove which, opposite Spike Island, rejoices in the name of the 'Goat and Garters.'

"'Breakfast, waiter,' said I; 'a beefsteak,—fresh beef, mark ye,—fresh eggs, bread, milk, and butter, all fresh. No more hard tack,' thought I; 'no salt butter, but a genuine land breakfast.'

"Up-stairs, No. 4, sir,' said the waiter, as he flourished a dirty napkin, indicating the way.

"Up-stairs I went, and in due time the appetizing little meal made its appearance. Never did a minor's eye revel over his broad acres with more complacent enjoyment than did mine skim over the mutton and the muffin, the tea-pot, the trout, and the devilled kidney, so invitingly spread out before me. 'Yes,' thought I, as I smacked my lips, 'this is the reward of virtue; pickled pork is a probationary state that admirably fits us for future enjoyments.' I arranged my napkin upon my knee, seized my knife and fork, and proceeded with most critical acumen to bisect a beefsteak. Scarcely, however, had I touched it, when, with a loud crash, the plate smashed beneath it, and the gravy ran piteously across the cloth. Before I had time to account for the phenomenon, the door opened hastily, and the waiter rushed into the room, his face beaming with smiles, while he rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight.

"'It's all over, sir,' said he; 'glory be to God! it's all done.'

"'What's over? What's done?' inquired I, with impatience.

"'Mr. M'Mahon is satisfied,' replied he, 'and so is the other gentleman.'

"'Who and what the devil do you mean?'



"'It's over, sir, I say,' replied the waiter again; 'he fired in the air.'

"'Fired in the air! Was there a duel in the room below stairs?'

"'Yes, sir,' said the waiter, with a benign smile.

"'That will do,' said I, as seizing my hat, I rushed out of the house, and hurrying to the beach, took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an hour had elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had fully as many reasons that although there may be few more amusing, there are some safer places to live in than the Green Isle."

A general burst of laughter followed the cornet's story, which was heightened in its effect by the gravity with which he told it.

"And after all," said Maurice Quill, "now that people have given up making fortunes for the insurance companies by living to the age of Methuselah, there's nothing like being an Irishman. In what other part of the habitable globe can you cram so much adventure into one year? Where can you be so often in love, in liquor, or in debt; and where can you get so merrily out of the three? Where are promises to marry and promises to pay treated with the same gentleman-like forbearance; and where, when you have lost your heart and your fortune, are people found so ready to comfort you in your reverses? Yes," said Maurice, as he filled his glass up to the brim, and eyed it lusciously for a moment,—"yes, darling, here's your health; the only girl I ever loved—in that part of the country, I mean. Give her a bumper, lads, and I'll give you a chant."

"Name! name! name!" shouted several voices from different parts of the table.

"Mary Draper!" said Maurice, filling his glass once more, while the name was re-echoed by every lip at table.

"The song! the song!"

"Faith, I hope I haven't forgotten it," quoth Maurice. "No; here it is."

So saying, after a couple of efforts to assure the pitch of his voice, the worthy doctor began the following words to that very popular melody, "Nancy Dawson:"—

MARY DRAPER.

AIR,—Nancy Dawson.

Don't talk to me of London dames, Nor rave about your foreign flames, That never lived, except in drames, Nor shone, except on paper; I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew, Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew, And let me tell you, mighty few Could equal Mary Draper.

Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue, Her hair was brown of deepest hue, Her foot was small, and neat to view, Her waist was slight and taper; Her voice was music to your ear, A lovely brogue, so rich and clear, Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear, As from sweet Mary Draper.

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team, Or with a fly she'd whip a stream, Or may be sing you "Rousseau's Dream," For nothing could escape her; I've seen her, too,—upon my word,— At sixty yards bring down her bird, Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third, Did lovely Mary Draper.

And at the spring assizes' ball, The junior bar would one and all For all her fav'rite dances call, And Harry Dean would caper; Lord Clare would then forget his lore; King's Counsel, voting law a bore, Were proud to figure on the floor, For love of Mary Draper.

The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too, Were all her slaves, and so would you, If you had only but one view, Of such a face and shape, or Her pretty ankles—But, ohone, It's only west of old Athlone Such girls were found—and now they're gone— So here's to Mary Draper!

"So here's to Mary Draper!" sang out every voice, in such efforts to catch the tune as pleased the taste of the motley assembly.

"For Mary Draper and Co., I thank you," said Maurice. "Quill drinks to Dennis," added he, in a grave tone, as he nodded to O'Shaughnessy. "Yes, Shaugh, few men better than ourselves know these matters; and few have had more experience of the three perils of Irishmen,—love, liquor, and the law of arrest."

"It's little the latter has ever troubled my father's son," replied O'Shaughnessy. "Our family have been writ proof for centuries, and he'd have been a bold man who would have ventured with an original or a true copy within the precincts of Killinahoula."

"Your father had a touch of Larry M'Hale in him," said I, "apparently."

"Exactly so," replied Dennis; "not but they caught him at last, and a scurvy trick it was and well worthy of him who did it! Yes," said he, with a sigh, "it is only another among the many instances where the better features of our nationality have been used by our enemies as instruments for our destruction; and should we seek for the causes of unhappiness in our wretched country, we should find them rather in our virtues than in our vices, and in the bright rather than in the darker phases of our character."

"Metaphysics, by Jove!" cried Quill; "but all true at the same time. There was a mess-mate of mine in the 'Roscommon' who never paid car-hire in his life. 'Head or harp, Paddy!' he would cry. 'Two tenpennies or nothing.' 'Harp, for the honor of ould Ireland!' was the invariable response, and my friend was equally sure to make head come uppermost; and, upon my soul, they seem to know the trick at the Home Office."

"That must have been the same fellow that took my father," cried O'Shaughnessy, with energy.

"Let us hear the story, Dennis," said I.

"Yes," said Maurice, "for the benefit of self and fellows, let us hear the stratagem!"

"The way of it was this," resumed O'Shaughnessy. "My father, who for reasons registered in the King's Bench spent a great many years of his life in that part of Ireland geographically known as lying west of the law, was obliged, for certain reasons of family, to come up to Dublin. This he proceeded to do with due caution. Two trusty servants formed an advance guard, and patrolled the country for at least five miles in advance; after them came a skirmishing body of a few tenants, who, for the consideration of never paying rent, would have charged the whole Court of Chancery, if needful. My father himself, in an old chaise victualled like a fortress, brought up the rear; and as I said before, he were a bold man who would have attempted to have laid siege to him. As the column advanced into the enemy's country, they assumed a closer order, the patrol and the picket falling back upon the main body; and in this way they reached that most interesting city called Kilbeggan. What a fortunate thing it is for us in Ireland that we can see so much of the world without foreign travel, and that any gentleman for six-and-eightpence can leave Dublin in the morning, and visit Timbuctoo against dinner-time. Don't stare! it's truth I'm telling; for dirt, misery, smoke, unaffected behavior, and black faces, I'll back Kilbeggan against all Africa. Free-and-easy, pleasant people ye are, with a skin, as begrimed and as rugged as your own potatoes! But, to resume. The sun was just rising in a delicious morning of June, when my father,—whose loyal antipathies I have mentioned made him also an early riser,—was preparing for the road. A stout escort of his followers were as usual under arms to see him safe in the chaise, the passage to and from which every day being the critical moment of my father's life.

"'It's all right, your honor,' said his own man, as, armed with a blunderbuss, he opened the bed-room door.

"'Time enough, Tim,' said my father; 'close the door, for I haven't finished my breakfast.'

"Now, the real truth was, that my father's attention was at that moment withdrawn from his own concerns by a scene which was taking place in a field beneath his window.

"But a few minutes before, a hack-chaise had stopped upon the roadside, out of which sprang three gentlemen, who, proceeding into the field, seemed bent upon something, which, whether a survey or a duel, my father could not make out. He was not long, however, to remain in ignorance. One, with an easy, lounging gait, strode towards a distant corner; another took an opposite direction; while a third, a short, pursy gentleman, in a red handkerchief and rabbit-skin waistcoat, proceeded to open a mahogany box, which, to the critical eyes of my respected father, was agreeably suggestive of bloodshed and murder.

"'A duel, by Jupiter!' said my father, rubbing his hands. 'What a heavenly morning the scoundrels have,—not a leaf stirring, and a sod like a billiard-table!'

"Meanwhile the little man who officiated as second, it would appear to both parties, bustled about with an activity little congenial to his shape; and what between snapping the pistols, examining the flints, and ramming down the charges, had got himself into a sufficient perspiration before he commenced to measure the ground.

"'Short distance and no quarter!' shouted one of the combatants, from the corner of the field.

"'Across a handkerchief, if you like!' roared the other.

"'Gentlemen, every inch of them!' responded my father.

"'Twelve paces!' cried the little man. 'No more and no less. Don't forget that I am alone in this business!'

"'A very true remark!' observed my father; 'and an awkward predicament yours will be if they are not both shot!'

"By this time the combatants had taken their places, and the little man, having delivered the pistols, was leisurely retiring to give the word. My father, however, whose critical eye was never at fault, detected a circumstance which promised an immense advantage to one at the expense of the other; in fact, one of the parties was so placed with his back to the sun, that his shadow extended in a straight line to the very foot of his antagonist.

"'Unfair, unfair!' cried my father, opening the window as he spoke, and addressing himself to him of the rabbit-skin. 'I crave your pardon for the interruption,' said he; 'but I feel bound to observe that that gentleman's shadow is likely to make a shade of him.'

"'And so it is,' observed the short man; 'a thousand thanks for your kindness, but the truth is, I am totally unaccustomed to this kind of thing, and the affair will not admit of delay.'

"'Not an hour!' said one.

"'No, not five minutes!' growled the other of the combatants.

"'Put them up north and south,' said my father.

"'Is it thus?'

"'Exactly so. But now, again, the gentleman in the brown coat is covered with the ash-tree.'

"'And so he is!' said rabbit-skin, wiping his forehead with agitation.

"'Move them a little to the left,' said he.

"'That brings me upon an eminence,' said the gentleman in blue. 'I'll be d—d if I be made a cock shot of!'

"'What an awkward little thief it is in the hairy waistcoat!' said my father; 'he's lucky if he don't get shot himself!'

"'May I never, if I'm not sick of you both!' ejaculated rabbit-skin, in a passion. 'I've moved you round every point of the compass, and the devil a nearer we are than ever!'

"'Give us the word,' said one.

"'The word!'

"'Downright murder,' said my father.

"'I don't care,' said the little man; 'we shall be here till doomsday.'

"'I can't permit this,' said my father; 'allow me.' So saying, he stepped upon the window-sill, and leaped down into the field.

"'Before I can accept of your politeness,' said he of the rabbit-skin, 'may I beg to know your name and position in society?'

"'Nothing more reasonable,' said my father. 'I'm Miles O'Shaughnessy, Colonel of the Royal Raspers,—here is my card.'

"The piece of pasteboard was complacently handed from one to the other of the party, who saluted my father with a smile of most courteous benignity.

"'Colonel O'Shaughnessy,' said one.

"'Miles O'Shaughnessy,' said the other.

"'Of Killinahoula Castle,' said the third.

"'At your service,' said my father, bowing, as he presented his snuff-box; 'and now to business, if you please, for my time also is limited.'

"'Very true,' observed he of the rabbit-skin; 'and, as you observe, now to business; in virtue of which, Colonel Miles O'Shaughnessy, I hereby arrest you in the King's name. Here is the writ; it's at the suit of Barnaby Kelly, of Loughrea, for the sum of L1,482 19s. 7-1/2d., which—'

"Before he could conclude the sentence, my father discharged one obligation by implanting his closed knuckles in his face. The blow, well aimed and well intentioned, sent the little fellow summersetting like a sugar hogshead. But, alas! it was of no use; the others, strong and able-bodied, fell both upon him, and after a desperate struggle succeeded in getting him down. To tie his hands, and convey him to the chaise, was the work of a few moments; and as my father drove by the inn, the last object which caught his view was a bloody encounter between his own people and the myrmidons of the law, who, in great numbers, had laid siege to the house during his capture. Thus was my father taken; and thus, in reward for yielding to a virtuous weakness in his character, was he consigned to the ignominious durance of a prison. Was I not right, then, in saying that such is the melancholy position of our country, the most beautiful traits in our character are converted into the elements of our ruin?"

"I dinna think ye ha'e made out your case, Major?" said the Scotch doctor, who felt sorely puzzled at my friend's logic. "If your faether had na gi'en the bond—"

"There is no saying what he wouldn't have done to the bailiffs," interrupted Dennis, who was following up a very different train of reasoning.

"I fear me, Doctor," observed Quill, "you are much behind us in Scotland. Not but that some of your chieftains are respectable men, and wouldn't get on badly even in Galway."

"I thank ye muckle for the compliment," said the doctor, dryly; "but I ha'e my doubts they'd think it ane, and they're crusty carls that's no' ower safe to meddle wi'."

"I'd as soon propose a hand of 'spoiled five' to the Pope of Rome, as a joke to one of them," returned Maurice.

"May be ye are na wrang there, Maister Quell."

"Well," cried Hampden, "if I may be allowed an opinion, I can safely aver I know no quarters like Scotland. Edinburgh beyond anything or anywhere I was ever placed in."

"Always after Dublin," interposed Maurice; while a general chorus of voices re-echoed the sentiment.

"You are certainly a strong majority," said my friend, "against me; but still I recant not my original opinion. Edinburgh before the world. For a hospitality that never tires; for pleasant fellows that improve every day of your acquaintance; for pretty girls that make you long for a repeal of the canon about being only singly blessed, and lead you to long for a score of them, Edinburgh,—I say again, before the world."

"Their ankles are devilish thick," whispered Maurice.

"A calumny, a base calumny!"

"And then they drink—"

"Oh—"

"Yes; they drink very strong tea."

"Shall we ha'e a glass o' sherry together, Hampden?" said the Scotch doctor, willing to acknowledge his defence of auld Reekie.

"And we'll take O'Malley in," said Hampden; "he looks imploringly."

"And now to return to the charge," quoth Maurice. "In what particular dare ye contend the palm with Dublin? We'll not speak of beauty. I can't suffer any such profane turn in the conversation as to dispute the superiority of Irishwomen's lips, eyes, noses, and eyebrows, to anything under heaven. We'll not talk of gay fellows; egad, we needn't. I'll give you the garrison,—a decent present,—and I'll back the Irish bar for more genuine drollery, more wit, more epigram, more ready sparkling fun, than the whole rest of the empire—ay, and all her colonies—can boast of."

"They are nae remarkable for passing the bottle, if they resemble their very gifted advocate," observed the Scotchman.

"But they are for filling and emptying both, making its current, as it glides by, like a rich stream glittering in the sunbeams with the sparkling lustre of their wit. Lord, how I'm blown! Fill my pannikin, Charley. There's no subduing a Scot. Talk with him, drink with him, fight with him, and he'll always have the last of it; there's only one way of concluding the treaty—"

"And that is—"

"Blarney him. Lord bless you, he can't stand it! Tell him Holyrood's like Versailles, and the Trossach's finer than Mont Blanc; that Geordie Buchanan was Homer, and the Canongate, Herculaneum,—then ye have him on the hip. Now, ye never can humbug an Irishman that way; he'll know you're quizzing him when you praise his country."

"Ye are right, Hampden," said the Scotch doctor, in reply to some observation. "We are vara primitive in the Hielands, and we keep to our ain national customs in dress and everything; and we are vara slow to learn, and even when we try we are nae ower successfu' in our imitations, which sometimes cost us dearly enough. Ye may have heard, may be, of the M'Nab o' that ilk, and what happened him with the king's equerry?"

"I'm not quite certain," said Hampden, "if I ever heard the story."

"It's nae muckle of a story; but the way of it was this. When Montrose came back from London, he brought with him a few Englishers to show them the Highlands, and let them see something of deer-stalking,—among the rest, a certain Sir George Sowerby, an aide-de-camp or an equerry of the prince. He was a vara fine gentleman, that never loaded his ain gun, and a'most thought it too much trouble to pull the trigger. He went out every morning to shoot with his hair curled like a woman, and dressed like a dancing-master. Now, there happened to be at the same time at the castle the Laird o' M'Nab; he was a kind of cousin of the Montrose, and a rough old tyke of the true Hieland breed, wha' thought that the head of a clan was fully equal to any king or prince. He sat opposite to Sir George at dinner the day of his arrival, and could not conceal his surprise at the many new-fangled ways of feeding himself the Englisher adopted. He ate his saumon wi' his fork in ae hand, and a bittock of bread in the other. He would na touch the whiskey; helped himself to a cutlet wi' his fingers. But what was maist extraordinary of all, he wore a pair o' braw white gloves during the whole time o' dinner and when they came to tak' away the cloth, he drew them off with a great air, and threw them into the middle of it, and then, leisurely taking anither pair off a silver salver which his ain man presented, he pat them on for dessert. The M'Nab, who, although an auld-fashioned carl, was aye fond of bringing something new hame to his friends, remarked the Englisher's proceeding with great care, and the next day he appeared at dinner wi' a huge pair of Hieland mittens, which he wore, to the astonishment of all and the amusement of most, through the whole three courses; and exactly as the Englishman changed his gloves, the M'Nab produced a fresh pair of goats' wool, four times as large as the first, which, drawing on with prodigious gravity, he threw the others into the middle of the cloth, remarking, as he did so,—

"'Ye see, Captain, we are never ower auld to learn.'

"All propriety was now at an end, and a hearty burst of laughter from one end of the table to the other convulsed the whole company,—the M'Nab and the Englishman being the only persons who did not join in it, but sat glowering at each other like twa tigers; and, indeed, it needed, a' the Montrose's interference that they had na quarrelled upon it in the morning."

"The M'Nab was a man after my own heart," said Maurice; "there was something very Irish in the lesson he gave the Englishman."

"I'd rather ye'd told him that than me," said the doctor, dryly; "he would na hae thanked ye for mistaking him for ane of your countrymen."

"Come, Doctor," said Dennis, "could not ye give us a stave? Have ye nothing that smacks of the brown fern and the blue lakes in your memory?"

"I have na a sang in my mind just noo except 'Johnny Cope,' which may be might na be ower pleasant for the Englishers to listen to."

"I never heard a Scotch song worth sixpence," quoth Maurice, who seemed bent on provoking the doctor's ire. "They contain nothing save some puling sentimentality about lasses with lint-white locks, or some absurd laudations of the Barley Bree."

"Hear till him, hear till him!" said the doctor, reddening with impatience.

"Show me anything," said Maurice, "like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn' or the 'Jug of Punch;' but who can blame them, after all? You can't expect much from a people with an imagination as naked as their own knees."

"Maurice! Maurice!" cried O'Shaughnessy, reprovingly, who saw that he was pushing the other's endurance beyond all bounds.

"I mind weel," said the Scotchman, "what happened to ane o' your countrymen wha took upon him to jest as you are doing now. It was to Laurie Cameron he did it."

"And what said the redoubted Laurie in reply?"

"He did na say muckle, but he did something."

"And what might it be?" inquired Maurice.

"He threw him ower the brig of Ayr into the water, and he was drowned."

"And did Laurie come to no harm about the matter?"

"Ay, they tried him for it, and found him guilty; but when they asked him what he had to say in his defence, he merely replied, 'When the carl sneered about Scotland, I did na suspect that he did na ken how to swim;' and so the end of it was, they did naething to Laurie."

"Cool that, certainly," said I.

"I prefer your friend with the mittens, I confess," said Maurice, "though I'm sure both were most agreeable companion. But come, Doctor, couldn't you give us,—

Sit ye down, my heartie, and gie us a crack, Let the wind tak' the care o' the world on his back.'"

"You maunna attempt English poethry, my freend Quell; for it must be confessed ye'e a damnable accent of your ain."

"Milesian-Phoenician-Corkacian; nothing more, my boy, and a coaxing kind of recitative it is, after all. Don't tell me of your soft Etruscan, your plethoric. Hoch-Deutsch, your flattering French. To woo and win the girl of your heart, give me a rich brogue and the least taste in life of blarney! There's nothing like it, believe me,—every inflection of your voice suggesting some tender pressure of her soft hand or taper waist, every cadence falling on her gentle heart like a sea-breeze on a burning coast, or a soft sirocco over a rose-tree. And then, think, my boys,—and it is a fine thought after all,—what a glorious gift that is, out of the reach of kings to give or to take, what neither depends upon the act of Union nor the Habeas Corpus. No! they may starve us, laugh at us, tax us, transport us. They may take our mountains, our valleys, and our bogs; but, bad luck to them, they can't steal our 'blarney;' that's the privilege one and indivisible with our identity. And while an Englishman raves of his liberty, a Scotchman of his oaten meal, blarney's our birthright, and a prettier portion I'd never ask to leave behind me to my sons. If I'd as large a family as the ould gentleman called Priam we used to hear of at school, it's the only inheritance I'd give them, and one comfort there would be besides, the legacy duty would be only a trifle. Charley, my son, I see you're listening to me, and nothing satisfies me more than to instruct inspiring youth; so never forget the old song,—

'If at your ease, the girls you'd please, And win them, like Kate Kearney, There's but one way, I've heard them say, Go kiss the Stone of Blarney.'"

"What do you say, Shaugh, if we drink it with all the honors?"

"But gently: do I hear a trumpet there?"

"Ah, there go the bugles. Can it be daybreak already?"

"How short the nights are at this season!" said Quill.

"What an infernal rumpus they're making! It's not possible the troops are to march so early."

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least," quoth Maurice; "there is no knowing what the commander-in-chief's not capable of,—the reason's clear enough."

"And why, Maurice?"

"There's not a bit of blarney about him."

The reveil sang out from every brigade, and the drums beat to fall in, while Mike came galloping up at full speed to say that the bridge of boats was completed, and that the Twelfth were already ordered to cross. Not a moment was therefore to be lost; one parting cup we drained to our next meeting, and amidst a hundred "good-bys" we mounted our horses. Poor Hampden's brains, sadly confused by the wine and the laughing, he knew little of what was going on around him, and passed the entire time of our homeward ride in a vain endeavor to adapt "Mary Draper" to the air of "Rule Britannia."



CHAPTER XXII.

FUENTES D'ONORO.

From this period the French continued their retreat, closely followed by the allied armies, and on the 5th of April, Massena once more crossed the frontier into Spain, leaving thirty thousand of his bravest troops behind him, fourteen thousand of whom had fallen or been taken prisoners. Reinforcements, however, came rapidly pouring in. Two divisions of the Ninth corps had already arrived, and Drouet, with eleven thousand infantry and cavalry, was preparing to march to his assistance. Thus strengthened, the French army marched towards the Portuguese frontier, and Lord Wellington, who had determined not to hazard much by his blockade of Ciudad Rodrigo, fell back upon the large table-land beyond the Turones and the Dos Casas, with his left at Fort Conception, and his right resting upon Fuentes d'Onoro. His position extended to about five miles; and here, although vastly inferior in numbers, yet relying upon the bravery of the troops, and the moral ascendency acquired by their pursuit of the enemy, he finally resolved upon giving them battle.

Being sent with despatches to Pack's brigade, which formed the blockading force at Almeida, I did not reach Fuentes d'Onoro until the evening of the 3d. The thundering of the guns, which, even at the distance I was at, was plainly heard, announced that an attack had taken place, but it by no means prepared me for the scene which presented itself on my return.

The village of Fuentes d'Onoro, one of the most beautiful in Spain, is situated in a lovely valley, where all the charms of verdure so peculiar to the Peninsula seemed to have been scattered with a lavish hand. The citron and the arbutus, growing wild, sheltered every cottage door, and the olive and the laurel threw their shadows across the little rivulet which traversed the village. The houses, observing no uniform arrangement, stood wherever the caprice or the inclination of the builder suggested, surrounded with little gardens, the inequality of the ground imparting a picturesque feature to even the lowliest hut, while upon a craggy eminence above the rest, an ancient convent and a ruined chapel looked down upon the little peaceful hamlet with an air of tender protection.

Hitherto this lovely spot had escaped all the ravages of war. The light division of our army had occupied it for months long; and every family was gratefully remembered by some one or other of our officers, and more than one of our wounded found in the kind and affectionate watching of these poor peasants the solace which sickness rarely meets with when far from home and country.

It was, then, with an anxious heart I pressed my horse forward into a gallop as the night drew near. The artillery had been distinctly heard during the day, and while I burned with eagerness to know the result, I felt scarcely less anxious for the fate of that little hamlet whose name many a kind story had implanted in my memory. The moon was shining brightly as I passed the outpost, and leading my horse by the bridle, descended the steep and rugged causeway to the village beneath me. The lanterns were moving rapidly to and fro; the measured tread of infantry at night—that ominous sound, which falls upon the heart so sadly—told me that they were burying the dead. The air was still and breathless; not a sound was stirring save the step of the soldiery, and the harsh clash of the shovel as it struck the earth. I felt sad and sick at heart, and leaned against a tree; a nightingale concealed in the leaves was pouring forth its plaintive notes to the night air, and its low warble sounded like the dirge of the departed. Far beyond, in the plain, the French watch-fires were burning, and I could see from time to time the fatigue-parties moving in search of their wounded. At this moment the clock of the convent struck eleven, and a merry chime rang out, and was taken up by the echoes till it melted away in the distance. Alas, where were those whose hearts were wont to feel cheered at that happy peal; whose infancy it had gladdened; whose old age it has hallowed? The fallen walls, the broken roof-trees, the ruin and desolation on every side, told too plainly that they had passed away forever! The smoking embers, the torn-up pathway, denoted the hard-fought struggle; and as I passed along, I could see that every garden, where the cherry and the apple-blossom were even still perfuming the air, had now its sepulchre.

"Halt, there!" cried a hoarse voice in front. "You cannot pass this way,—the commander-in-chief's quarters."

I looked up and beheld a small but neat-looking cottage, which seemed to have suffered less than the others around. Lights were shining brightly from the windows, and I could even detect from time to time a figure muffled up in a cloak passing to and fro across the window; while another, seated at a table, was occupied in writing. I turned into a narrow path which led into the little square of the village, and here, as I approached, the hum and murmur of voices announced a bivouac party. Stopping to ask what had been the result of the day, I learned that a tremendous attack had been made by the French in column upon the village, which was at first successful; but that afterwards the Seventy-first and Seventy-ninth, marching down from the heights, had repulsed the enemy, and driven them beyond the Dos Casas. Five hundred had fallen in that fierce encounter, which was continued through every street and alley of the little hamlet. The gallant Highlanders now occupied the battle-field; and hearing that the cavalry brigade was some miles distant, I willingly accepted their offer to share their bivouac, and passed the remainder of the night among them.

When day broke, our troops were under arms, but the enemy showed no disposition to renew the attack. We could perceive, however, from the road to the southward, by the long columns of dust, that reinforcements were still arriving; and learned during the morning, from a deserter, that Massena himself had come up, and Bessieres also, with twelve hundred cavalry, and a battery of the Imperial Guard.

From the movements observable in the enemy, it was soon evident that the battle, though deferred, was not abandoned; and the march of a strong force towards the left of their position induced our commander-in-chief to despatch the Seventh Division, under Houston, to occupy the height of Naval d'Aver—our extreme right—in support of which our brigade of cavalry marched as a covering force. The British position was thus unavoidably extended to the enormous length of seven miles, occupying a succession of small eminences, from the division at Fort Conception to the height of Naval d'Aver,—Fuentes d'Onoro forming nearly the centre of the line.

It was evident, from the thickening combinations of the French, that a more dreadful battle was still in reserve for us; and yet never did men look more anxiously for the morrow.

As for myself, I felt a species of exhilaration I had never before experienced; the events of the preceding day came dropping in upon me from every side, and at every new tale of gallantry or daring I felt my heart bounding with excited eagerness to win also my need of honorable praise.

Crawfurd, too, had recognized me in the kindest manner; and while saying that he did not wish to withdraw me from my regiment on a day of battle, added that he would make use of me for the present on his staff. Thus was I engaged, from early in the morning till late in the evening, bringing orders and despatches along the line. The troop-horse I rode—for I reserved my gray for the following day—was scarcely able to carry me along, as towards dusk I jogged along in the direction of Naval d'Aver. When I did reach our quarters, the fires were lighted, and around one of them I had the good fortune to find a party of the Fourteenth occupied in discussing a very appetizing little supper. The clatter of plates, and the popping of champagne corks were most agreeable sounds. Indeed, the latter appeared to me so much too flattering an illusion, that I hesitated giving credit to my senses in the matter, when Baker called out,—

"Come, Charley, sit down; you're just in the nick. Tom Marsden is giving us a benefit. You know Tom?"

And here he presented me in due form to that best of commissaries and most hospitable of horse-dealers.

"I can't introduce you to my friend on my right," continued Baker, "for my Spanish is only a skeleton battalion; but he's a trump,—that I'll vouch for; never flinches his glass, and looks as though he enjoyed all our nonsense."

The Spaniard, who appeared to comprehend that he was alluded to, gravely saluted me with a low bow, and offered his glass to hobnob with me. I returned the curtesy with becoming ceremony, while Hampden whispered in my ear,—

"A fine-looking fellow. You know who he is? Julian, the Guerilla chief."

I had heard much of both the strangers. Tom Marsden was a household word in every cavalry brigade; equally celebrated were his contracts and his claret. He knew every one, from Lord Wellington to the last-joined cornet; and while upon a march, there was no piece of better fortune than to be asked to dine with him. So in the very thick of battle, Tom's critical eye was scanning the squadrons engaged, with an accuracy as to the number of fresh horses that would be required upon the morrow that nothing but long practice and infinite coolness could have conferred.

Of the Guerilla I need not speak. The bold feats he accomplished, the aid he rendered to the cause of his country, have made his name historical. Yet still with all this, fatigue, more powerful than my curiosity, prevailed, and I sank into a heavy sleep upon the grass, while my merry companions kept up their revels till near morning. The last piece of consciousness I am sensible of was seeing Julian spreading his wide mantle over me as I lay, while I heard his deep voice whisper a kind wish for my repose.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BATTLE OF FUENTES D'ONORO.

So soundly did I sleep that the tumult and confusion of the morning never awoke me; and the Guerilla, whose cavalry were stationed along the edge of the ravine near the heights of Echora, would not permit of my being roused before the last moment. Mike stood near me with my horses, and it was only when the squadrons were actually forming that I sprang to my feet and looked around me.

The day was just breaking; a thick mist lay upon the parched earth, and concealed everything a hundred yards from where we stood. From this dense vapor the cavalry defiled along the base of the hill, followed by the horse artillery and the Guards, disappearing again as they passed us, but proving, by the mass of troops now assembled, that our position was regarded as the probable point of attack.

While the troops continued to take up their position, the sun shone out, and a slight breeze blowing at the same, moment, the heavy clouds moved past, and we beheld the magnificent panorama of the battle-field. Before us, at the distance of less than half a league, the French cavalry were drawn up in three strong columns; the Cuirassiers of the Guard, plainly distinguished by their steel cuirasses, flanked by the Polish Lancers and a strong huzzar brigade; a powerful artillery train supported the left, and an infantry force occupied the entire space between the right and the rising ground opposite Poco Velho. Farther to the right again, the column destined for the attack of Fuentes d'Onoro were forming, and we could see that, profiting by their past experience, they were bent upon attacking the village with an overwhelming force.

For above two hours the French continued to manoeuvre, more than one alteration having taken place in their disposition; fresh battalions were moved towards the front, and gradually the whole of their cavalry was assembled on the extreme left in front of our position. Our people were ordered to breakfast where we stood; and a little after seven o'clock a staff officer came riding down the line, followed in a few moments after by General Crawfurd, when no sooner was his well-known brown cob recognized by the troops than a hearty cheer greeted him along the whole division.

"Thank ye, boys; thank ye, boys, with all my heart. No man feels more sensibly what that cheer means than I do. Guards, Lord Wellington relies upon your maintaining this position, which is essential to the safety of the whole line. You will be supported by the light division. I need say no more. If such troops cannot keep their ground, none can. Fourteenth, there's your place; the artillery and the Sixteenth are with you. They've the odds of us in numbers, lads; but it will tell all the better in the 'Gazette.' I see they're moving; so fall in now, fall in; and Merivale, move to the front. Ramsey, prepare to open your fire on the attacking squadrons."

As he spoke, the low murmuring sound of distantly moving cavalry crept along the earth, growing louder and louder, till at length we could detect the heavy tramp of the squadrons as they came on in a trot, our pace being merely a walk. While we thus advanced into the plain, the artillery unlimbered behind us, and the Spanish cavalry, breaking into skirmishers, dashed boldly to the front.

It was an exciting moment. The ground dipped between the two armies so as to conceal the head of the advancing column of the French, and as the Spanish skirmishers disappeared down the ridge, our beating hearts and straining eyes followed their last horseman.

"Halt! halt!" was passed from squadron to squadron, and the same instant the sharp ring of the pistol shots and the clash of steel from the valley, told us the battle had begun. We could hear the Guerilla war-cry mingle with the French shout, while the thickening crash of fire-arms implied a sharper conflict. Our fellows were already manifesting some impatience to press on, when a Spanish horseman appeared above the ridge, another followed, and another, and then pell-mell, broken and disordered, they fell back before the pursuing cavalry in flying masses; while the French, charging them hotly home, utterly routed and repulsed them.

The leading squadrons of the French now fell back upon their support; the column of attack thickened, and a thundering noise between their masses announced their brigade of light guns as they galloped to the front. It was then for the first time that I felt dispirited; far as my eye could stretch the dense mass of sabres extended, defiling from the distant hills and winding its slow length across the plain. I turned to look at our line, scarce one thousand strong, and could not help feeling that our hour was come: the feeling flashed vividly across my mind, but the next instant I felt my cheek redden with shame as I gazed upon the sparkling eyes and bold looks around me, the lips compressed, the hands knitted to their sabres; all were motionless, but burning to advance.

The French had halted on the brow of the hill to form, when Merivale came cantering up to us.

"Fourteenth, are you ready? Are you ready, lads?"

"Ready, sir! ready!" re-echoed along the line.

"Then push them home and charge! Charge!" cried he, raising his voice to a shout at the last word.

Heavens, what a crash was there! Our horses, in top condition, no sooner felt the spur than they bounded madly onwards. The pace—for the distance did not exceed four hundred yards—was like racing. To resist the impetus of our approach was impossible; and without a shot fired, scarcely a sabre-cut exchanged, we actually rode down their advanced squadrons, hurling them headlong upon their supporting division, and rolling men and horses beneath us on every side. The French fell back upon their artillery; but before they could succeed in opening their fire upon us, we had wheeled, and carrying off about seventy prisoners, galloped back to our position with the loss of but two men in the affair. The whole thing was so sudden, so bold, and so successful, that I remember well, as we rode back, a hearty burst of laughter was ringing through the squadron at the ludicrous display of horsemanship the French presented as they tumbled headlong down the hill; and I cannot help treasuring the recollection, for from that moment, all thought of anything short of victory completely quitted my mind, and many of my brother officers, who had participated in my feelings at the commencement of the day, confessed to me afterwards that it was then for the first time they felt assured of beating the enemy.

While we slowly fell back to our position, the French were seen advancing in great force from the village of Almeida, to the attack of Poco Velho; they came on at a rapid pace, their artillery upon their front and flank, large masses of cavalry hovering around them. The attack upon the village was now opened by the large guns; and amidst the booming of the artillery and the crashing volleys of small fire-arms, rose the shout of the assailants, and the wild cry of the Guerilla cavalry, who had formed in front of the village. The French advanced firmly, driving back the pickets, and actually inundated the devoted village with a shower of grape; the blazing fires burst from the ignited roofs; and the black, dense smoke, rising on high, seemed to rest like a pall over the little hamlet.

The conflict was now a tremendous one; our Seventh Division held the village with the bayonet; but the French continuing to pour in mass upon mass, drove them back with loss, and at the end of an hour's hard fighting, took possession of the place.

The wood upon the left flank was now seen to swarm with light infantry, and the advancement of their whole left proved that they meditated to turn our flank; the space between the village and the hill of Naval d'Aver became thus the central position; and here the Guerilla force, led on by Julian Sanches, seemed to await the French with confidence. Soon, however, the cuirassiers came galloping to the spot, and almost without exchanging a sabre-cut, the Guerillas fell back, and retired behind the Turones. This movement of Julian was more attributable to anger than to fear; for his favorite lieutenant, being mistaken for a French officer, was shot by a soldier of the Guards a few minutes before.

Montbrun pursued the Guerillas with some squadrons of horse, but they turned resolutely upon the French, and not till overwhelmed by numbers did they show any disposition to retreat.

The French, however, now threw forward their whole cavalry, and driving back the English horse, succeeded in turning the right of the Seventh Division. The battle by this time was general. The staff officers who came up from the left informed us that Fuentes d'Onoro was attacked in force, Massena himself leading the assault in person; while thus for seven miles the fight was maintained hotly at intervals, it was evident that upon the maintenance of our position the fortune of the day depended. Hitherto we had been repulsed from the village and the wood; and the dark masses of infantry which were assembled upon our right, seemed to threaten the hill of Naval d'Aver with as sad a catastrophe.

Crawfurd came now galloping up among us, his eye flashing fire, and his uniform splashed and covered with foam:

"Steady Sixteenth, steady! Don't blow your horses! Have your fellows advanced, Malcolm?" said he, turning to an officer who stood beside him. "Ay, there they go!" pointing with his finger to the wood where, as he spoke, the short ringing of the British rifle proclaimed the advance of that brigade. "Let the cavalry prepare to charge! And now, Ramsey, let us give it them home!"

Scarcely were the words spoken, when the squadrons were formed, and in an instant after, the French light infantry were seen retreating from the wood, and flying in disorderly masses across the plain. Our squadrons riding down among them, actually cut them to atoms, while the light artillery, unlimbering, threw in a deadly discharge of grape-shot.

"To the right, Fourteenth, to the right!" cried General Stewart. "Have at their hussars!"

Whirling by them, we advanced at a gallop, and dashed towards the enemy, who, not less resolutely bent, came boldly forward to meet us. The shock was terrific! The leading squadrons on both sides went down almost to a man, and all order being lost, the encounter became one of hand to hand.

The struggle was deadly; neither party would give way; and while fortune now inclined hither and thither, Sir Charles Stewart singled out the French general, Lamotte, and carried him off his prisoner. Meanwhile Montbrun's cavalry and the cuirassiers came riding up, and the retreat now sounding through our ranks, we were obliged to fall back upon the infantry. The French pursued us hotly; and so rapid was their movement, that before Ramsey's brigade could limber up and away, their squadrons had surrounded him and captured his guns.

"Where is Ramsey?" cried Crawfurd, as he galloped to the head of our division. "Cut off—cut off! Taken, by G——! There he goes!" said he, pointing with his finger, as a dense cloud of mingled smoke and dust moved darkly across the plain. "Form into column once more!"

As he spoke, the dense mass before us seemed agitated by some mighty commotion; the flashing of blades, and the rattling of small-arms, mingled with shouts of triumph or defiance, burst forth, and the ominous cloud lowering more darkly, seemed peopled by those in deadly strife. An English cheer pealed high above all other sounds; a second followed; the mass was rent asunder, and like the forked lightning from a thunder-cloud, Ramsey rode forth at the head of his battery, the horses bounding madly, while the guns sprang behind them like things of no weight; the gunners leaped to their places, and fighting hand to hand with the French cavalry, they flew across the plain.

"Nobly done, gallant Ramsey!" said a voice behind me. I turned at the sound; it was Lord Wellington who spoke. My eye fixed upon his stern features, I forgot all else; when he suddenly recalled me to my recollection by saying,—

"Follow your brigade, sir. Charge!"

In an instant I was with my people, who, intervening betwixt Ramsey and his pursuers, repulsed the enemy with loss, and carried off several prisoners. The French, however, came up in greater strength; overwhelming masses of cavalry came sweeping upon us, and we were obliged to retire behind the light division, which rapidly formed into squares to resist the cavalry. The Seventh Division, which was more advanced, were, however, too late for this movement, and before they could effect their formation, the French were upon them. At this moment they owed their safety to the Chasseurs Britanniques, who poured in a flanking fire, so close, and with so deadly an aim, that their foes recoiled, beaten and bewildered.

Meanwhile the French had become masters of Pogo Velho; the formidable masses had nearly outflanked us on the right. The battle was lost if we could not fall back upon our original position, and concentrate our force upon Fuentes d'Onoro. To effect this was a work of great difficulty; but no time was to be lost. The Seventh Division were ordered to cross the Turones, while Crawfurd, forming the light division into squares, covered their retreat, and supported by the cavalry, sustained the whole force of the enemy's attack.

Then was the moment to witness the cool and steady bravery of British infantry; the squares dotted across the enormous plain seemed as nothing amidst that confused and flying multitude, composed of commissariat baggage, camp-followers, peasants, and finally, broken pickets and videttes arriving from the wood. A cloud of cavalry hovered and darkened around them; the Polish Lancers shook their long spears, impatient of delay, and the wild huzzas burst momentarily from their squadrons as they waited for the word to attack. But the British stood firm and undaunted; and although the enemy rode round their squares, Montbrun himself at their head, they never dared to charge them. Meanwhile the Seventh Division fell back, as if on a parade, and crossing the river, took up their ground at Frenada, pivoting upon the First Division; the remainder of the line also fell back, and assumed a position at right angles with their former one, the cavalry forming in front, and holding the French in check during the movement. This was a splendid manoeuvre, and when made in face of an overnumbering enemy, one unmatched during the whole war.

At sight of this new front, the French stopped short, and opened a fire from their heavy guns. The British batteries replied with vigor and silenced the enemy's cannon. The cavalry drew out of range, and the infantry gradually fell back to their former position. While this was going on, the attack upon Fuentes d'Onoro was continued with unabated vigor. The three British regiments in the lower town were pierced by the French tirailleurs, who poured upon them in overwhelming numbers; the Seventy-ninth were broken, ten companies taken, and Cameron, their colonel, mortally wounded. Thus the lower village was in the hands of the enemy, while from the upper town the incessant roll of musketry proclaimed the obstinate resistance of the British.

At this period the reserves were called up from the right, in time to resist the additional troops which Drouet continued to bring on. The French, reinforced by the whole Sixth Corps, now came forward at a quick-step. Dashing through the ruined streets of the lower town, they crossed the rivulet, fighting bravely, and charged against the height. Already their leading files had gained the crag beside the chapel. A French colonel holding his cap upon his sword-point waved on his men.

The grizzly features of the grenadiers soon appeared, and the dark column, half-climbing, half-running, were seen scaling the height. A rifle-bullet sent the French leader tumbling from the precipice; and a cheer—mad and reckless as the war-cry of an Indian—rent the sky, as the 71st and 79th Highlanders sprang upon the enemy.

Our part was a short one; advancing in half squadrons, we were concealed from the observation of the enemy by the thick vineyards which skirted the lower town, waiting, with impatience, the moment when our gallant infantry should succeed in turning the tide of battle. We were ordered to dismount, and stood with our bridles on our arms, anxious and expectant. The charge of the French column was made close to where we were standing,—the inspiriting cheers of the officers, the loud vivas of the men, were plainly heard by us as they rushed to the assault; but the space between us was intersected by walls and brushwood, which totally prevented the movements of cavalry.

Fearlessly their dark column moved up the heights, fixing the bayonets as they went. No tirailleurs preceded them, but the tall shako of the Grenadier of the Guard was seen in the first rank. Long before the end of the column had passed us, the leading files were in action. A deafening peal of musketry—so loud, so dense, it seemed like artillery—burst forth. A volume of black smoke rolled heavily down from the heights and hid all from our view, except when the vivid lightning of the platoon firing rent the veil asunder, and showed us the troops almost in hand to hand conflict.

"It's Picton's Division, I'm certain," cried Merivale; "I hear the bagpipes of the Highlanders."

"You are right, sir," said Hampden, "the Seventy-first are in the same brigade, and I know their bugles well. There they go again!"

"Fourteenth! Fourteenth!" cried a voice from behind, and at the same moment, a staff officer, without his hat, and his horse bleeding from a recent sabre-cut, came up. "You must move to the rear, Colonel Merivale; the French have gained the heights! Move round by the causeway; bring up your squadrons as quickly as you can, and support the infantry!"

In a moment we were in our saddles; but scarcely was the word "to fall in" given, when a loud cheer rent the very air; the musketry seemed suddenly to cease, and the dark mass which continued to struggle up the heights wavered, broke, and turned.

"What can that be?" said Merivale. "What can it mean?"

"I can tell you, sir," said I, proudly, while I felt my heart throb as though it would bound from my bosom.

"And what is it, boy? Speak!"

"There it goes again! That was an Irish shout! The Eighty-eighth are at them!"

"By Jove, here they come!" said Hampden. "God help the Frenchmen now!"

The words were not well spoken, when the red coats of our gallant fellows were seen dashing through the vineyard.

"The steel, boys; nothing but the steel!" shouted a loud voice from the crag above our heads.

I looked up. It was the stern Picton himself who spoke. The Eighty-eighth now led the pursuit, and sprang from rock to rock in all the mad impetuosity of battle; and like some mighty billow rolling before the gale, the French went down the heights.

"Gallant Eighty-eighth! Gloriously done!" cried Picton, as he waved his hat.

"Aren't we Connaught robbers, now?" shouted a rich brogue, as its owner, breathless and bleeding, pressed forward in the charge.

A hearty burst of laughter mingled with the din of the battle.

"Now for it, boys! Now for our work!" said old Merivale, drawing his sabre as he spoke. "Forward! and charge!"

We waited not a second bidding, but bursting from our concealment, galloped down into the broken column. It was no regular charge, but an indiscriminate rush. Scarcely offering resistance, the enemy fell beneath our sabres, or the still more deadly bayonets of the infantry, who were inextricably mingled up in the conflict.

The chase was followed up for above half a mile, when we fell back, fortunately in good time; for the French had opened a heavy fire from their artillery, and regardless of their own retreating column, poured a shower of grape among our squadrons. As we retired, the struggling files of the Rangers joined us,—their faces and accoutrements blackened and begrimed with powder; many of them, themselves wounded, had captured prisoners; and one huge fellow of the grenadier company was seen driving before him a no less powerful Frenchman, and to whom, as he turned from time to time reluctantly, and scowled upon his jailer, the other vociferated some Irish imprecation, whose harsh intentions were made most palpably evident by a flourish of a drawn bayonet.

"Who is he?" said Mike; "who is he, ahagur?"

"Sorra one o' me knows," said the other; "but it's the chap that shot Lieutenant Mahony, and I never took my eye off him after; and if the lieutenant's not dead, sure it'll be a satisfaction to him that I cotch him."

The lower town was now evacuated by the French, who retired beyond the range of our artillery; the upper continued in the occupation of our troops; and worn out and exhausted, surrounded by dead and dying, both parties abandoned the contest, and the battle was over.

Both sides laid claim to the victory; the French, because, having taken the village of Poco Velho, they had pierced the British line, and compelled them to fall back and assume a new position; the British, because the attack upon Fuentes d'Onoro has been successfully resisted, and the blockade of Almeida—the real object of the battle—maintained. The loss to each was tremendous; fifteen hundred men and officers, of whom three hundred were prisoners, were lost by the allies, and a far greater number fell among the forces of the enemy.

After the action, a brigade of the light division released the troops in the village, and the armies bivouacked once more in sight of each other.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A RENCONTRE.

"LIEUTENANT O'MALLEY, 14th Light Dragoons, to serve as extra aide-de-camp to Major-General Crawfurd, until the pleasure of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent is known." Such was the first paragraph of a general order, dated Fuentes d'Onoro, the day after the battle, which met me as I woke from a sound and heavy slumber, the result of thirteen hours on horseback.

A staff appointment was not exactly what I desired at the moment; but I knew that with Crawfurd my duties were more likely to be at the pickets and advanced posts of the army, than in the mere details of note-writing or despatch-bearing; besides that, I felt, whenever anything of importance was to be done, I should always obtain his permission to do duty with my regiment.

Taking a hurried breakfast, therefore, I mounted my horse, and cantered over to Villa Formosa, where the general's quarters were, to return my thanks for the promotion, and take the necessary steps for assuming my new functions.

Although the sun had risen about two hours, the fatigue of the previous day had impressed itself upon all around. The cavalry, men and horses, were still stretched upon the sward, sunk in sleep; the videttes, weary and tired, seemed anxiously watching for the relief; and the disordered and confused appearance of everything bespoke that discipline had relaxed its stern features, in compassion for the bold exertions of the preceding day. The only contrast to this general air of exhaustion and weariness on every side was a corps of sappers, who were busily employed upon the high grounds above the village. Early as it was, they seemed to have been at work some hours,—at least so their labors bespoke; for already a rampart of considerable extent had been thrown up, stockades implanted, and a breastwork was in a state of active preparation. The officer of the party, wrapped up in a loose cloak, and mounted upon a sharp-looking hackney, rode hither and thither as the occasion warranted, and seemed, as well as from the distance I could guess, something of a tartar. At least I could not help remarking how, at his approach, the several inferior officers seemed suddenly so much more on the alert, and the men worked with an additional vigor and activity. I stopped for some minutes to watch him, and seeing an engineer captain of my acquaintance among the party, couldn't resist calling out:—

"I say, Hatchard, your friend on the chestnut mare must have had an easier day yesterday than some of us, or I'll be hanged if he'd be so active this morning." Hatchard hung his head in some confusion, and did not reply; and on my looking round, whom should I see before me but the identical individual I had so coolly been criticising, and who, to my utter horror and dismay, was no other than Lord Wellington himself. I did not wait for a second peep. Helter-skelter, through water, thickets, and brambles, away I went, clattering down the causeway like a madman. If a French squadron had been behind me, I should have had a stouter heart, although I did not fear pursuit. I felt his eye was upon me,—his sharp and piercing glance, that shot like an arrow into me; and his firm look stared at me in every object around.

Onward I pressed, feeling in the very recklessness of my course some relief to my sense of shame, and ardently hoping that some accident—some smashed arm or broken collar-bone—might befall me and rescue me from any notice my conduct might otherwise call for. I never drew rein till I reached the Villa Formosa, and pulled up short at a small cottage where a double sentry apprised me of the general's quarters. As I came up, the low lattice sprang quickly open, and a figure, half dressed, and more than half asleep, protruded his head.

"Well, what has happened? Anything wrong?" said he, whom I now recognized to be General Crawfurd.

"No, nothing wrong, sir," stammered I, with evident confusion. "I'm merely come to thank you for your kindness in my behalf."

"You seemed in a devil of a hurry to do it, if I'm to judge by the pace you came at. Come in and take your breakfast with us; I shall be dressed presently, and you'll meet some of your brother aides-de-camp."

Having given my horse to an orderly, I walked into a little room, whose humble accommodations and unpretending appearance seemed in perfect keeping with the simple and unostentatious character of the general. The preparations for a good and substantial breakfast were, however, before me, and an English newspaper of a late date spread its most ample pages to welcome me. I had not been long absorbed in my reading, when the door opened, and the general, whose toilet was not yet completed, made his appearance.

"Egad, O'Malley, you startled me this morning. I thought we were in for it again."

I took this as the most seasonable opportunity to recount my mishap of the morning, and accordingly, without more ado, detailed the unlucky meeting with the commander-in-chief. When I came to the end, Crawfurd threw himself into a chair and laughed till the very tears coursed down his bronzed features.

"You don't say so, boy? You don't really tell me you said that? By Jove! I had rather have faced a platoon of musketry than have stood in your shoes! You did not wait for a reply, I think?"

"No, faith, sir, that I did not!"

"Do you suspect he knows you?"

"I trust not, sir; the whole thing passed so rapidly!"

"Well, it's most unlucky in more ways than one!" He paused for a few moments as he said this, and then added, "Have you seen the general order?" pushing towards me a written paper as he spoke. It ran thus:—

G.O. ADJUTANT-GENERAL'S OFFICE, VILLA FORMOSA,

May 6, 1811.

Memorandum.—Commanding officers are requested to send in to the military secretary, as soon as possible, the names of officers they may wish to have promoted in succession to those who have fallen in action."

"Now look at this list. The Honorable Harvey Howard, Grenadier Guards, to be first lieutenant, vice—No, not that. Henry Beauchamp—George Villiers—ay, here it is! Captain Lyttleton, Fourteenth Light Dragoons, to be major in the Third Dragoon Guards, vice Godwin, killed in action; Lieutenant O'Malley to be captain, vice Lyttleton, promoted. You see, boy, I did not forget you; you were to have had the vacant troop in your own regiment. Now I almost doubt the prudence of bringing your name under Lord Wellington's notice. He may have recognized you; and if he did so, why, I rather think—that is, I suspect—I mean, the quieter you keep the better."

While I poured forth my gratitude as warmly as I was able for the general's great kindness to me, I expressed my perfect concurrence in his views.

"Believe me, sir," said I, "I should much rather wait any number of years for my promotion, than incur the risk of a reprimand; the more so, as it is not the first time I have blundered with his lordship." I here narrated my former meeting with Sir Arthur, at which Crawfurd's mirth again burst forth, and he paced the room, holding his sides in an ecstasy of merriment.

"Come, come, lad, we'll hope for the best; we'll give you the chance that he has not seen your face, and send the list forward as it is. But here come our fellows."

As he spoke, the door opened, and three officers of his staff entered, to whom, being severally introduced, we chatted away about the news of the morning until breakfast.

"I've frequently heard of you from my friend Hammersley," said Captain Fitzroy, addressing me. "You were intimately acquainted, I believe?"

"Oh, yes! Pray, where is he now? We have not met for a long time."

"The poor fellow's invalided; that sabre-cut upon his head has turned out a sad affair, and he's gone back to England on a sick leave. Old Dashwood took him back with him as private secretary, or something of that sort."

"Ah!" said another, "Dashwood has daughters, hasn't he? No bad notion of his; for Hammersley will be a baronet some of these days, with a rent-roll of eight or nine thousand per annum."

"Sir George Dashwood," said I, "has but one daughter, and I am quite sure that in his kindness to Hammersley no intentions of the kind you mention were mixed up."

"Well, I don't know," said the third, a pale, sickly youth, with handsome but delicate features. "I was on Dashwood's staff until a few weeks ago, and certainly I thought there was something going on between Hammersley and Miss Lucy, who, be it spoken, is a devilish fine girl, though rather disposed to give herself airs."

I felt my cheek and my temples boiling like a furnace; my hand trembled as I lifted my coffee to my lips; and I would have given my expected promotion twice over to have had any reasonable ground of quarrel with the speaker.

"Egad, lads," said Crawfurd, "that's the very best thing I know about a command. As a bishop is always sure to portion off his daughters with deaneries and rectories, so your knowing old general always marries his among his staff."

This sally was met with the ready laughter of the subordinates, in which, however little disposed. I was obliged to join.

"You are quite right, sir," rejoined the pale youth; "and Sir George has no fortune to give his daughter."

"How came it, Horace, that you got off safe?" said Fitzroy, with a certain air of affected seriousness in his voice and manner. "I wonder they let such a prize escape them."

"Well, it was not exactly their fault, I do confess. Old Dashwood did the civil towards me, and la belle Lucie herself was condescending enough to be less cruel than to the rest of the staff. Her father threw us a good deal together; and in fact, I believe—I fear—that is—that I didn't behave quite well."

"You may rest perfectly assured of it, sir," said I; "whatever your previous conduct may have been, you have completely relieved your mind on this occasion, and behaved most shamefully."

Had a shell fallen in the midst of us, the faces around me could not have been more horror-struck than when, in a cool, determined tone, I spoke these few words. Fitzroy pushed his chair slightly back from the table, and fixed his eyes full upon me. Crawfurd grew dark-purple over his whole face and forehead, and looked from one to the other of us without speaking; while the Honorable Horace Delawar, the individual addressed, never changed a muscle of his wan and sickly features, but lifting his eyes slowly from his muffin, lisped softly out,—

"You think so? How very good!"

"General Crawfurd," said I, the moment I could collect myself sufficiently to speak, "I am deeply grieved that I should so far have forgotten myself as to disturb the harmony of your table; but when I tell you that Sir George Dashwood is one of my warmest friends on earth; that from my intimate knowledge of him, I am certain that gentleman's statements are either the mere outpourings of folly or worse—"

"By Jove, O'Malley! you have a very singular mode of explaining away the matter. Delawar, sit down again. Gentlemen, I have only one word to say about this transaction; I'll have no squabbles nor broils here; from this room to the guard-house is a five minutes' walk. Promise me, upon your honors, this altercation ends here, or as sure as my name's Crawfurd, you shall both be placed under arrest, and the man who refuses to obey me shall be sent back to England."

Before I well knew in what way to proceed, Mr. Delawar rose and bowed formally to the general, while I imitated his example; silently we resumed our places, and after a pause of a few moments, the current of conversation was renewed, and other topics discussed, but with such evident awkwardness and constraint that all parties felt relieved when the general rose from table.

"I say, O'Malley, have you forwarded the returns to the adjutant-general's office?"

"Yes, sir; I despatched them this morning before leaving my quarters."

"I am glad of it; the irregularities on this score have called forth a heavy reprimand at headquarters."

I was also glad of it, and it chanced that by mere accident I remembered to charge Mike with the papers, which, had they not been lying unsealed upon the table before me, would, in all likelihood, have escaped my attention. The post started to Lisbon that same morning, to take advantage of which I had sat up writing for half the night. Little was I aware at the moment what a mass of trouble and annoyance was in store for me from the circumstance.



CHAPTER XXV.

ALMEIDA.

On the morning of the 7th we perceived, from a movement in the French camp, that the wounded were being sent to the rear, and shortly afterwards the main body of their army commenced its retreat. They moved with slow, and as it were, reluctant steps; and Bessieres, who commanded the Imperial Guard, turned his eyes more than once to that position which all the bravery of his troops was unavailing to capture. Although our cavalry lay in force to the front of our line, no attempt was made to molest the retreating French; and Massena, having retired beyond the Aguada, left a strong force to watch the ford, while the remainder of the army fell back upon Cuidad Rodrigo.

During this time we had succeeded in fortifying our position at Fuentes d'Onoro so strongly as to resist any new attack, and Lord Wellington now turned his whole attention to the blockade of Almeida, which, by Massena's retreat, was abandoned to its fate.

On the morning of the 10th I accompanied General Crawfurd in a reconnoissance of the fortress, which, from the intelligence we had lately received, could not much longer hold out against our blockade. The fire from the enemy's artillery was, however, hotly maintained; and as night fell, some squadrons of the Fourteenth, who were picketed near, were unable to light their watch-fires, being within reach of their shot. As the darkness increased so did the cannonade, and the bright flashes from the walls and the deep booming of the artillery became incessant.

A hundred conjectures were afloat to account for the circumstance; some asserting that what we heard were mere signals to Massena's army; and others, that Brennier was destroying and mutilating the fortress before he evacuated it to the allies.

It was little past midnight when, tired from the fatigues of the day, I had fallen asleep beneath a tree, an explosion, louder than any which preceded it, burst suddenly forth, and as I awoke and looked about me, I perceived the whole heavens illuminated by one bright glare, while the crashing noise of falling stones and crumbling masonry told me that a mine had been sprung; the moment after, all was calm and still and motionless; a thick black smoke increasing the sombre darkness of the night shut out every star from view, and some drops of heavy rain began to fall.

The silence, ten times more appalling than the din which preceded it, weighed heavily upon my senses, and a dread of some unknown danger crept over me; the exhaustion, however, was greater than my fear, and again I sank into slumber.

Scarcely had I been half an hour asleep, when the blast of a trumpet again awoke me, and I found, amidst the confusion and excitement about, that something of importance had occurred. Questions were eagerly asked on all sides, but no one could explain what had happened. Towards the town all was as still as death, but a dropping, irregular fire of musketry issued from the valley beside the Aguada. "What can this mean; what can it be?" we asked of each other. "A sortie from the garrison," said one; "A night attack by Massena's troops," cried another; and while thus we disputed and argued, a horseman was heard advancing along the road at the top of his speed.

"Where are the cavalry?" cried a voice I recognized as one of my brother aides-de-camp. "Where are the Fourteenth?"

A cheer from our party answered this question, and the next moment, breathless and agitated, he rode in among us.

"What is it? Are we attacked?"

"Would to Heaven that were all! But come along, lads, follow me."

"What can it be, then?" said I again; while my anxiety knew no bounds.

"Brennier has escaped; burst his way through Pack's Division, and has already reached Valde Mula."

"The French have escaped!" was repeated from mouth to mouth; while, pressing spurs to our horses, we broke into a gallop, and dashed forward in the direction of the musketry. We soon came up with the 36th Infantry, who, having thrown away their knapsacks, were rapidly pressing the pursuit. The maledictions which burst from every side proved how severely the misfortune was felt by all, while the eager advance of the men bespoke how ardently they longed to repair the mishap.

Dark as was the night, we passed them in a gallop, when suddenly the officer who commanded the leading squadron called out to halt.

"Take care there, lads!" cried he; "I hear the infantry before us; we shall be down upon our own people."

The words were hardly spoken, when a bright flash blazed out before us, and a smashing volley was poured into the squadron.

"The French! the French, by Jove!" said Hampden. "Forward, boys! charge them!"

Breaking into open order, to avoid our wounded comrades, several of whom had fallen by the fire, we rode down among them. In a moment their order was broken, their ranks pierced, and fresh squadrons coming up at the instant, they were sabred to a man.

After this the French pursued their march in silence, and even when assembling in force we rode down upon their squares, they never halted nor fired a shot. At Barba del Puerco, the ground being unfit for cavalry, the Thirty-sixth took our place, and pressed them hotly home. Several of the French were killed, and above three hundred made prisoners, but our fellows, following up the pursuit too rashly, came upon an advanced body of Massena's force, drawn up to await and cover Brennier's retreat; the result was the loss of above thirty men in killed and wounded.

Thus were the great efforts of the three preceding days rendered fruitless and nugatory. To maintain this blockade, Lord Wellington, with an inferior force, and a position by no means strong, had ventured to give the enemy battle; and now by the unskilfulness of some, and the negligence of others, were all his combinations thwarted, and the French general enabled to march his force through the midst of the blockading columns almost unmolested and uninjured.

Lord Wellington's indignation was great, as well it might be; the prize for which he had contested was torn from his grasp at the very moment he had won it, and although the gallantry of the troops in the pursuit might, under other circumstances, have called forth eulogium, his only observation on the matter was a half-sarcastic allusion to the inconclusive effects of undisciplined bravery. "Notwithstanding," says the general order of the day, "what has been printed in gazettes and newspapers, we have never seen small bodies, unsupported, successfully opposed to large; nor has the experience of any officer realized the stories which all have read, of whole armies being driven by a handful of light infantry and dragoons."



CHAPTER XXVI.

A NIGHT ON THE AZAVA.

Massena was now recalled, and Marmont, having assumed the command of the French, army, retired towards Salamanca, while our troops went into cantonments upon the Aguada. A period of inaction succeeded to our previous life of bustle and excitement, and the whole interest of the campaign was now centred in Beresford's army, exposed to Soult in Estramadura.

On the 15th Lord Wellington set out for that province, having already directed a strong force to march upon Badajos.

"Well, O'Malley," said Crawfurd, as he returned from bidding Lord Wellington good-by, "your business is all right; the commander-in-chief has signed my recommendation, and you will get your troop."

While I continued to express my grateful acknowledgments for his kindness, the general, apparently inattentive to all I was saying, paced the room with hurried steps, stopping every now and then to glance at a large map of Spain which covered one wall of the apartment, while he muttered to himself some broken and disjointed sentences.

"Eight leagues—too weak in cavalry—with the left upon Fuenta Grenaldo—a strong position. O'Malley, you'll take a troop of dragoons and patrol the country towards Castro; you'll reconnoitre the position the Sixth Corps occupies, but avoid any collision with the enemy's pickets, keeping the Azava between you and them. Take rations for three days."

"When shall I set out, sir?"

"Now!" was the reply.

Knowing with what pleasure the hardy veteran recognized anything like alacrity and despatch, I resolved to gratify him; and before half an hour had elapsed, was ready with my troop to receive his final orders.

"Well done, boy!" said he, as he came to the door of the hut, "you've lost no time. I don't believe I have any further instructions to give you; to ascertain as far as possible the probable movement of the enemy is my object, that's all." As he spoke this, he waved his hand, and wishing me "Good-by," walked leisurely back into the house. I saw that his mind was occupied by other thoughts; and although I desired to obtain some more accurate information for my guidance, knowing his dislike to questions, I merely returned his salute, and set forth upon my journey.

The morning was beautiful; the sun had risen about an hour, and the earth, refreshed by the heavy dew of the night, was breathing forth all its luxuriant fragrance. The river which flowed beside us was clear as crystal, showing beneath its eddying current the shining, pebbly bed, while upon the surface, the water-lilies floated or sank as the motion of the stream inclined. The tall cork-trees spread their shadows about us, and the richly plumed birds hopped from branch to branch awaking the echoes with their notes.

It is but seldom that the heart of man is thoroughly attuned to the circumstances of the scenery around him. How often do we need a struggle with ourselves to enjoy the rich and beautiful landscape which lies smiling in its freshness before us! How frequently do the blue sky and the calm air look down upon the heart darkened and shadowed with affliction! And how often have we felt the discrepancy between the lowering look of winter and the glad sunshine of our hearts! The harmony of the world without with our thoughts within is one of the purest, as it is one of the greatest, sources of happiness. Our hopes and our ambitions lose their selfish character when we feel that fortune smiles upon us from all around, and the flattery which speaks to our hearts from the bright stars and the blue sky, the peaked mountain or the humble flower, is greater in its mute eloquence than all the tongue of man can tell us.

This feeling did I experience in all its fulness as I ruminated upon my bettered fortunes, and felt within myself that secret instinct that tells of happiness to come. In such moods of mind my thoughts strayed ever homewards, and I could not help confessing how little were all my successes in my eyes, did I not-hope for the day when I should pour forth my tale of war and battle-field to the ears of those who loved me.

I resolved to write home at once to my uncle. I longed to tell him each incident of my career, and my heart glowed as I thought over the broken and disjointed sentences which every cotter around would whisper of my fortunes, far prouder as they would be in the humble deeds of one they knew, than in the proudest triumphs of a nation's glory.

Indeed, Mike himself gave the current to my thoughts. After riding beside me for some time in silence, he remarked,—

"And isn't it Father Rush will be proud when he sees your honor's a captain; to think of the little boy that he used to take before him on the ould gray mare for a ride down the avenue,—to think of him being a real captain, six feet two without his boots, and galloping over the French as if they were lurchers! Peggy Mahon, that nursed you, will be the proud woman the day she hears it; and there won't be a soldier sober in his quarters that night in Portumna barracks! 'Pon my soul, there's not a thing with a red coat on it, if it was even a scarecrow to frighten the birds from the barley, that won't be treated with respect when they hear of the news."

The country through which we travelled was marked at every step by the traces of a retreating army: the fields of rich corn lay flattened beneath the tramp of cavalry, or the wheels of the baggage-wagons; the roads, cut up and nearly impassable, were studded here and there with marks which indicated a bivouac. At the same time, everything around bore a very different aspect from what we had observed in Portugal; there, the vindictive cruelty of the French soldiery had been seen in full sway: the ruined chateau, the burned villages, the desecrated altars, the murdered peasantry,—all attested the revengeful spirit of a beaten and baffled enemy. No sooner, however, had they crossed the frontiers, than, as if by magic, their character became totally changed. Discipline and obedience succeeded to recklessness and pillage; and instead of treating the natives with, inhumanity and cruelty, in all their intercourse with the Spaniards the French behaved with moderation and even kindness. Paying for everything, obtaining their billets peaceably and quietly, marching with order and regularity, they advanced into the heart of the country, showing, by the most irrefragable proof, the astonishing evidences of a discipline which, by a word, could convert the lawless irregularities of a ruffian soldiery into the orderly habits and obedient conduct of a highly-organized army.