Part 6

The Colonel, with his knee broken in a most dangerous manner, was, without loss of time, carried to the rear by four of his musicians, and placed on a straw bed in the town of Talavera: had there been surgeons to have amputated his limb on the instant, it is supposed he would have survived; but this not having been the case, mortification took place, and he died on the fourth day after the battle, surrounded by thousands of dying and dead.

Owing to Cuesta's illiberal opposition to Lord Wellington, he, as well as the rest of the wounded, were left in the hands of the French; as were also several English surgeons, who remained at the mercy of the enemy.[6] The Colonel, however, was treated with the greatest respect and kindness by the French officers. Some of them remembered seeing him at the head of his battalion, and warmly praised the veteran's gallantry.

His soldier-like appearance, too, commanded their regard, and they carried him in a cloak to the spot on which he had led his regiment so bravely, and there they buried “Old Charley” with the true honours of a soldier.

FOOTNOTE:

[6] These surgeons were sent, after their duty, not to a French prison, but to Paris, where Napoleon complimented all, and presented them with money and a free passage to England, for the service they had done his soldiers, and allowed for the nature of their duty, which placed them in his power.

MESS-TABLE CHAT.

No. I.

“But this is worshipful society.”

_Shakspeare._

SCENE—_The mess-room of a Hussar Regiment: principal speakers—Colonel Diamond_; _Major Flowers_; _Captains Tache_, _Bright_, _and Ploomer_; _Doctor Scott_; _Lieutenants Rose_, _Golding_, _Lavender_, _and Honeywood_; _Cornets Lilly_, _Fairfax_, _Canary_, _and Small_. _Table spread with dessert_, _decanters_, _glasses_, _and snuff-boxes_. _Time—half-past ten at night._

_Capt. Bright._ When Colonel Diamond has done _drilling_ the claret, I would thank him to put it into _marching order_, and give the decanter the _route_.

_Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, Bright, you are becoming _brilliant_. If you take any more of the light wine, you will absolutely _dazzle_ us.

_All the Mess._ Good!—good!—excellent!—bravo! Colonel—admirable hit.

[_A well directed volley is laughed at the Colonel's_ “HIT;” _particularly loud from the Subalterns._]

_Dr. Scott._ Positively, Colonel Diamond, the Ensign and Adjutant, wha writes in Blackwood's Magazine, couldna say a better bet o' wut. (_offers his gold snuff-box to the Colonel._)

_Capt. Bright._ By the by, Colonel, who is this new Cornet we are about to have?

_Col. Diamond._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know him; but, I believe, Major Flowers does.

_Major Flowers._ _Pardonnez moi_, Colonel, I don't _know_ him. His uncle's in _trade_: he is _known_ on _change_.

_All the Mess_ (_with a stare_). Indeed!!!

_Major Flowers._ Yes, I have _heard_ that he is a _dry-salter_?

_All the Mess._ A dry-salter?

_Lieut. Rose._ Horrible!

_Cornet Canary._ Shocking!

_Cornet Small._ Dreadful!

_Lieut. Golding._ Abominable!

_Dr. Scott._ Aweel, I dinna know but there's mare in dry-salters than you think, gentlemen: he's na' the worse for a' that, gin he's got the siller.

_Major Flowers._ Doctor, 'pon my honour, I am surprised that you should think that money could possibly purchase our permission to admit a _dry-salter's_ relation as a member of the _nonpareils_!

_All the Mess._ Oh, Doctor!—oh! oh! oh!

_Dr. Scott._ A dry-salter, Major, is na' worse than a _tailor_, and I have seen a tailor's son _cut_ a canny dash in the army afore noo.

_All the Mess._ Have _done_, Doctor, pray have done!

_Colonel Diamond._ The Doctor has _Dunn_, I assure you. (_Although the Colonel's pun was evidently a poser—all laughed a little; but the Colonel himself, although he could not refrain from the deliverance of it, was certainly sorry for having been so witty, and a short silence intervened._)

_Major Flowers._ Oh, by the by, Colonel, I have received a letter from Lady Fanny, and she tells me that it is rumoured—a—that we are to be sent to Ireland.

_All the Mess._ To Ireland!

_Capt. Tache._ I'll exchange, upon my honour.

_Lieut. Golding._ I'll resign.

_Lieut. Lavender._ We shall be starved, as I live.

_Capt. Bright._ We shall be murdered.

_Cornet Small_ (_in a piping voice_). Really, if I had the slightest anticipation that the regiment should have been ordered on _foreign_ service _at all_, I would have joined the _Blues_. A man of _fortune_ has no business in Ireland.

_Col. Diamond._ If this news of Lady Fanny's should turn out to be true, I must go to town immediately, and insist upon a change in the arrangement; the Duke must _not_ be allowed to have his way in this: so, gentlemen, make yourselves easy on the subject. _I am determined we shall not go._

[_All the Mess are delighted, and a burst of applause follows the concluding word of the Colonel's assurance._]

_Dr. Scott._ Dinna fash aboot ganging to Ireland, gentlemen; it's no sae bad a spot as you think.

_Capt. Ploomer._ Really, Doctor, you Scotchmen have strange notions of comfort,—totally at variance with the _esprit de corps_ which distinguishes the _nonpareils_. Those _boundary_ countries, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, may do very well for the infantry and the heavy dragoons, and perhaps as an occasional quarter for the _lights_; but we, who are the _influential_ portion of the military ton, should never leave England, except, indeed, for such an affair as Waterloo.

_Dr. Scott._ My conscience! but I think, Captain, such “_affairs_” as Waterloo are more suitable to the _heavy dragoons_ than to the _Hussars_: an' I have na doubt but the gallant Marquis o' Anglesea wud tell ye the same thing.

_Capt. Ploomer._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know; we did very well, too; vastly well—a—but let us confine ourselves to Ireland, Doctor.

_Col. Diamond._ Yes, Doctor, to Ireland, if you please.

_Dr. Scott._ Weel, what objection have ye to that quarter?

_Capt. Ploomer._ Objection! my dear Sir! they shake hands with their friends, and absolutely eat breakfasts.

_Cornet Canary._ Oh, shocking!

_Cornet Fairfax._ Abominable!

_Capt. Tache._ The Doctor is not to blame, considering the view he takes of the matter. Ireland may be a very good quarter; but the Commander-in-Chief ought to draw a line between the _mere_ army and the _cream_ of the cavalry.

_All the Mess._ Certainly—undoubtedly—decidedly.

_Dr. Scott._ I dinna ken that—I dinna ken that; the _cream_ of the cavalry, as ye call it, did na mair under Pompey at the battle o' Pharsalia, than they did under Wellington at Waterloo.

[_A silence prevails during the application of three full pinches of snuff._]

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Pray, Doctor, may I ask you when _that_ action was fought? Was it before the affair of Talavera?

_Cornet Lilly._ Yes, considerably previous.

_Dr. Scott._ Which action?—Waterloo?

_Lieut. Honeywood._ No, no; the other you mention.

_Dr. Scott._ What! the Battle of Pharsalia?

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Yes.

_Dr. Scott_ (_having first taken snuff_). A wee bit afore that.

_Cornet Lilly._ Yes, yes, my dear Honeywood, considerably before that. I have heard my father speak of it.

_Lieut. Honeywood._ Pray, Mr. Lilly, how long ago may it have occurred?

_Cornet Lilly._ Oh, long before the American war. The Doctor, I dare say, can tell. How many years ago, Doctor?

_Dr. Scott._ As near as I can guess it is about forty-eight years—

_Lieut. Honeywood._ } (_interrupting_) Yes, about _Cornet Lilly._ } forty-eight years ago—perfectly right.

_Dr. Scott._ No sae fast—

_Cornet Lilly._ It can't be much less, for my father—

_Dr. Scott._ Stay, stay, no sae fast, young gentleman. I say, as near as I can recollect, it occurred about forty-eight years _before Christ_.

_Lieut. Honeywood._ } _Before_ Christ! _Cornet Lilly._ }

_Dr. Scott_ (_snuffing_). Ay, nae far fra' twa thoosand years ago.

[_There was now a general laugh, and all became suddenly learned on this point; even Lieut. Honeywood and Cornet Lilly, who now affected to say that they meant to quiz the Doctor; but most betraying blushes, and unlucky countenances belied the insinuation._]

_Col. Diamond._ John!

[_Colonel's servant advances two paces towards the Colonel._]

_Servant._ Sir!

_Col. Diamond._ Why don't the band play?

_All the Mess._ Ay, ay, the band—where's the band?

[_This question restored the countenances of the blushers to their ordinary hue; for the little discord was drowned in the harmonious call for one band._]

_Servant._ They have been in the hall since eight o'clock, Sir, waiting for orders to play.

_Col. Diamond._ Oh! ah! I ordered them not to play until after dinner. Tell them to proceed now.

[_Exit Servant at a gallop._]

_Major Flowers._ That's a good idea, Colonel. We should be two hours later, certainly, than the heavy dragoons in this parti-cu-lar.

_All the Mess._ Certainly!—decidedly!—of course.

[_Band without begin to play Von Weber's favourite overture._]

_Col. Diamond._ Mess-waiter!

_Waiter_ (_advancing three paces towards the Colonel_). Sir!

_Col. Diamond._ Tell the band-master to stop that, and to play “Lady Fanny's Hussar piece.”

[_Exit Waiter in a trot._]

_All the Mess._ Bravo! Colonel, a good move.

_Col. Diamond._ Von Weber's music is very well, and the King patronizes it; but, 'pon my honour, Lady Fanny's Hussar is more elegant.

[_Band play a noise, in which several screams of the clarionet and groans of the trombone are prominent, during which the Mess beat time, or rather move their heads and fingers, occasionally commenting on the piece. At length the instruments cease to play, after a violent struggle of the bassoons._]

_Col. Diamond._ Isn't it very good?

_All._ Excellent! Superb!

_Cornet Small._ Don't his Majesty like that piece, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ No: 'pon my honour.

_Major Flowers._ You see, Colonel, his Majesty requires a little improvement; he is certainly a very good musician, and prefers the Rossinis and Von Webers; but really, I think Lady Fanny's piece _ought_ to please _him_. It has a delightful mixture of movement.

_Col. Diamond._ Lady Fanny's is fine; and certainly, her ladyship has got a good _major-key_ in you.

_All the Mess._ Bravo!—Hit again!—Bravo!—Bravo!

_Dr. Scott_ (_taking snuff_). Ecod I dinna like the thing at a'; it's sic a mixture, that I canna mak heed or tail o't.

_Cornet Small._ 'Pon my honour, Doctor, you are a perfect Goth in taste.

_Lieut. Rose._ A Vandal, Sir.

_Capt. Ploomer._ Nothing but a Hun.

_Dr. Scott._ Weel, if I am a Goth, Hun, or Vandal, you ha' placed me in gude company; for you say his Majesty doesna like the piece. Noo I would ask what partic'lar merit Lady Fanny shows?

_Col. Diamond._ Merit, Sir!—a—the fact is, Lady Fanny is the best-dress'd woman in town.

_All the Mess._ Decidedly!

_Major Flowers._ Her ladyship's taste is undisputed: the Austrian knot on the fore part of our full dress pantaloons is from her design.

_Col. Diamond._ She discovered an error in the Astrachan fur collar of our pelisse,—suggested an improvement in the side-seams, welts, and hips: Besides, her Russian patterns of neck lines, sliders, and olivets, are lasting monuments of her refinement. Indeed she is a very superior sort of woman, and I'll give you her health in a bumper.

[_Lady Fanny is drunk standing._]

_Dr. Scott._ But what music has she composed, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ Some excellent things, indeed: there's her song “_Come Charles to-night_,” which she dedicated to _me_; and there's her Bravura on the burning of Moscow; and her grand Hussar piece, which she has dedicated to _us_.—In short she is a woman of fine parts.

_All the Mess._ Oh, delightful!

_Dr. Scott._ Wud you sing ane o' her songs, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ Doctor, you _ought_ to know that the _Nonpareils_ never sing.

_Dr. Scott._ Vara weel—ha' it your ain way.

_Capt. Bright._ By the by, Lady Mary, her sister, gives a ball to-night.—Don't we go, Colonel?

_Col. Diamond._ I should like it, because the Lancers are to be there.—We _must_ cut _them_ out.

_Major Flowers._ Oh, certainly!—Decidedly!

_Capt. Golding._ The Lancers look very well: they have got a fair dress; but still they are mere light-dragoons. They are too new, and have not yet acquired the polish of the Hussars.

_All the Mess._ Certainly not!—mere light-dragoons!

_Col. Diamond._ Besides, they have lately lost ground.—It has gone abroad upon them. They can never hope to succeed.

_Several of the Mess._ How, pray Colonel?—What has happened?

_Col. Diamond._ They absolutely _dance_.

_Major Flowers._ I have heard the rumour.

_Capt. Tache._ Indeed!

_Lieut. Lavender._ Shocking!

_Cornet Small._ Horrible!

_Col. Diamond._ They dine so early as six, too.

_All the Mess._ Oh! Oh! that will never do.

_Major Flowers._ Besides, their scarlet trowsers are not wide enough; and I have seen positively a grey hair on one of their whiskers. In short, we must go to Lady Mary's ball, to cut them out at _once_.

_All the Mess._ Certainly, at once!

_Colonel_ (_to his servant_). John! I'll dress at twelve; and d' y' hear, I'll wear my long ball spurs.

_Dr. Scott_ (_to his servant_). Sandy!

_Sandy._ Ser.

_Dr. Scott._ Is there a fire in my room?

_Sandy._ Yes, Ser.

_Dr. Scott._ Gang then an' mak' a bason o' gruel, an'—d'ye hear?—take my snuff-box, an' fill it; an' put my slippers afore the fire.

[_Exit Sandy at a walk._]

_Col. Diamond._ What, off! Doctor.

_Dr. Scott._ Yes, I'm gauin' to bed; an' if you a' consulted yer health an' yer pockets, ye wad do sae likwise.

_All the Mess._ Ha! ha! ha! Good night! Good night!

_Dr. Scott._ I tell ye what lads,—yer a' gude sodgers in spite o' yir claethes, an' yir gimcrackery, an' yir nonsense; for I've seen some o' ye faight afore noo. Lord Wellington said that his dandy officers were the best o' a'; an' maybe they are as gude as others; but I tell ye what, it's na' by turning naight into day, an' whisking aboot amangst a crood o' gigling lassies, that ye'll improve yoursels in the art o' war, or the strength that is as useful an' necessary for it. Good naight to ye a'!

_All the Mess._ Good night, Doctor, good night.

[_Exit Dr. Scott._]

_Col. Diamond_ (_after a short pause_). “There's another star gone out.”

_Capt. Bright._ Bravo! Colonel, a good quotation.

_Cornet Lilly._ Very good indeed!—(_in a whisper_) Pray from whom is it, Captain Bright?

_Capt. Bright._ From a very particular friend of mine—Lord Byron.

_Major Flowers._ I hope you have cut him. He is decidedly hostile to us.

_Capt. Bright._ I have never seen him since he left England. But I meant to cut him ever since he published his scurrility in the “Liberal.” He first abused the army, and then became a soldier himself.

_Col. Diamond._ But, Major, what does Lady Mary's card say? Have you got one here?

_Major Flowers._ I have not.

_Cornet Small._ I have, Colonel, and here it is.

[_Gives a card._]

_Col. Diamond_—(_reads_). “_Lady-a-um-compliments to the Officers of the Nonpareil Hussars._” Why, what's all this? The _Officers_ of the Nonpareil Hussars! I'll not go.

_All the Mess._ Why not, Colonel? Why not?

_Col._ I'm not invited.

_All the Mess._ Not invited!

_Col. Diamond._ No, I'm not invited, and of course will not go. “_Officers_,” indeed! the card should run thus—“_To_ COLONEL DIAMOND, _and the Officers of the &c._” Really it is a breach of etiquette that I cannot submit to.

_Major Flowers._ 'Pon my honour, Colonel, I do not think there can be any offence meant: pray let me entreat you to come.

_Col. Diamond._ No, Major, I feel—a—the—a—in short, it should have been to “the _Colonel_ and the Officers.” Don't you think so?

_Major._ Perhaps it would have been more particular; but I do not think it is of so much consequence, as to make you forego the delightful society of Lady Fanny; for her ladyship will be there to a certainty.

[_Colonel hums a tune._]

Do pray come, Colonel.

_All the Mess._ Yes, you must come, Colonel—come—come—come—Colonel! Do Colonel—do come!

[_All stand up, except the Colonel._]

_Col. Diamond._ Well, as you all so _particularly_ request it, I—a—will go; but, 'pon my honour! I am determined to notice the neglect in a proper manner to Lady Mary.

_All the Mess._ Bravo! Colonel! Bravo!

_Capt. Golding._ Pass the Madeira this way, Major; but first help yourself.

[_Each now takes a glass of Madeira—a Babel call for the servants immediately follows—“Tom! John! Jack! James!” and exeunt omnes, whistling and staggering._]

A DAUGHTER OF OSSIAN.

“Il y a encore une autre espèce de larmes qui n'ont que de petites sources, qui coulent et se tarissent facilement: on pleure pour avoir la réputation d'être tendre; on pleure pour être plaint; on pleure pour être pleuré; enfin, on pleure pour éviter la honte de ne pleurer pas.”—_De la Rochefoucauld._

Who treads upon the field of death? Who sighs upon the winds of the night, like the mourning ghost of the warrior, mingling its melancholy tones with the shrieks of the passing owl, that lonely flaps his pinions in the moonlight? Who walks amongst the slain? See, where the figure glides with heedless step, its white robe streaming like a mist of morning when the sun first glances on the mountain; now gazing on the pale moon, now turning to the paler faces of the dead. Who walks upon the bed of sleeping carnage? Who wakes the frighted night from her horrid trance, and thus tempts her terrors? Is it the restless spirit of a departed hero, or the ghost of the love-lorn maid? Is it light, or is it air? Ah no! it is not light, it is not air; it is not the ghost of the love-lorn maid; it is not the spirit of the departed hero. No, no, no, no!—'tis Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th!!!

And it _was_ Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th. She, poor soul! was the victim of early impressions. She was cradled in romance, and nursed in air-built castles; she read of Ossian, and she became his adopted daughter; she read of Sir Walter, and she became his adopted niece; she was Lady Morgan's “sylph-like form,” and her voice was one of Tom Moore's “Irish Melodies;” she could delight the eyes of the rude with tambour-work and velvet-painting; she could ravish their ears with a tune on the piano; she could finish a landscape in Indian ink, and play the “Battle of Prague” without a stop. The admiration of her doating parents, the envy of her female acquaintances, angelic, charming Charlotte Clarke (now Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th) was all you could desire.

Charlotte was bred at Portarlington boarding-school; there did she form her mind—there did she learn that she had “a soul above buttons,” and that love and glory were the “_be all and the end all_” of existence. Trade! fie,—contaminate not the ethereal soul—dim not the halo that surrounds such excellence, by the approach of such coarse and vulgar matter! Charlotte despised it, even as her father loved it and gave to it all his days.

Dublin is a martial city; the view of the royal barracks is a royal sight. There did she love to go and gaze, and listen to the band, until the tears stole down her lovely cheeks. She would then walk home, and weep, and sleep, and dream of epaulettes both gold and silver, of scarlet coats, of feathers and long swords. Her days (until after tea-time) were passed in reading Newman's novels, and practising the “_run_” of Braham. “HE _was famed for deeds of arms_; SHE _a maid of envied charms_.” “_Young Henry was as brave a youth._” “_Hark where martial music sounding far._” These were her songs; she practised them in the morning with her hair in papers, and she sung them after supper, (whenever she was at a “_party_”) with her interesting curls upon her forehead, shading her blushes and the soft light of her languid eyes. She loved the Rotunda-gardens in the summer evenings, and she gloried in the ball, when winter hung upon the night; for both in gardens of Rotunda, and in light of ball-room, the red coats ever in her hopes, cut a figure in her eye, and a deeper in her heart. She went to the Dargle and the Waterfall, to _Pool Avoca_,[7] and Killyny (when ever she was invited), and among the Summer Sunday beauties of the scene, full well she did enact her part. Her life was one bright dream, beaming with sun-bright smiles and brighter tears. Her heart was tender, and her will was strong. Need it be said, that such a maid fell deeply in love? Alas! she did. The gentle Charlotte loved;—ah! deeply loved—but who she could not tell! It was a form and yet it was not matter, (no matter, indeed, whether it was or not); it was a hero, all epaulettes and scarlet, white feathers, and still whiter pantaloons, set out with sword and belt and sash and gorget; a hero at all points, whose name, nevertheless, was not to be found in the army list: in short the being was a lovely paradox—a thing and yet a nothing, she saw it in her dreams, as well as in her wakeful hours; it never left her side waking or asleep; _there_ was the form of her darling lover, like Moore's “Knight of Killarney,” O'Donohue and his white horse on a May-day morning,

“That youth who beneath the blue lake lies

· · · · · ·

While white as the sails some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd thy long mane curls, Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free,”

dancing and prancing on the winds; there he was in a splendid uniform, (some say with _buff_ facings, some say green,) and she woo'd it, and she woo'd it, till her cheek grew pale, and her eye lost half its brightness. Every officer she met on the Mall was likened to her lover in her “mind's eye;” but they were not her lovers. Captains Thompson, Jones, and Pentilton; Lieutenants Jacobs, Raulins, and Flagherty; Ensigns Gibbs, Mullins, and Mortimer; all resembled the object of her love, but she refused to acknowledge their identity with it. At length young Jenkins, an Ensign of Militia, realized the aerial form she so long had loved. Yes, he did actually embody it; and at the holy altar, even in spite of crusty fathers

“Who make a jest of sweet affection,”

the amiable and adorable Charlotte Clarke became the gentle Mrs. Jenkins.

“War's clarion blew!” Napoleon and Wellington struggled like two giants for ascendancy. Ensign Jenkins volunteered into the line, and proceeded to the fields of Lusitania. Could Charlotte stay behind? No! the briny waters soon bore her, with her husband and seven other officers (all members of the mess), to Portugal. Ensign Jenkins was ordered to the front. Could Mrs. Jenkins stay behind? No! she braved the fatigues of the march and the horrors of the battle, like a true heroine: she loved the 48th, and she would go along with it, through thick and thin. The parching sun, the drenching storm, the unmoistened biscuit, and the chill damp bivouac alike she would endure.—“_Love and Glory_” carried her through all. It was a sight worth all the jewels of romance to see—a thought worth all heaven to contemplate—the sight of Mrs. Charlotte Jenkins, like a “ministering angel,” standing amidst the terrors of the field!

The battle raged; the slain were many; the regiment covered themselves with glory—but poor Jenkins fell! The moon arose upon the field of battle, and shone upon the dead—the fight was over. Could Mrs. Jenkins rest without her husband? Oh, no! Forth she hied to search out the body of her Jenkins, dead as he was, at the dead hour of night. She gazed at the moon—she gazed upon the slain—and she thought upon the days of her teens, of Newman's novels, and Portarlington.

A tender-hearted sympathetic soul, by name Captain Rogers of the Grenadiers, watched the fair Charlotte's steps (for she had told him she would go and seek her Jenkins) and gently led her from the sickening scene.