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CHAPTER XVI.

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WARS AND JUBILEES.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero was buried, * * * * Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory:! We carved not a line—we raised not a stone— But left him alone in his glory.—Charles Wolfe.

Miserable was the failure of this mighty host; and, to compare ludicrously small things with nationally great, unfortunate was my condition when left alone on the desolate strand! On returning to the inn where I had left my luggage, I discovered that, in the hurry of embarking, not only had my convenient large cloak been taken away, but also, that by the same accident, all my wearing apparel had disappeared. As the fleet was, by this time, nearly out of sight, it was of no use trying to signalise it for the restoration of the lost clothing, and so I was obliged, will-i-nill-i, to take a sailor’s advice on the occasion (which I have found very applicable on many a turn of fortune since), videlicet, to “grin and bear it.” But still there were inconveniences attached to the circumstance, which cast the grinning towards the wrong side of the mouth, and

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made the bearing about as annoying as it was ludicrous. In a pair of nankeen trousers, which did not look the cleaner from contact with boats and ships, and a shirt to match, I perambulated the coast to Edmonds’s hotel, then the prime resort of Margate, into which, in spite of Silvester Daggerwood looks, I was admitted, as I had been once before, on my walking tour, into the hotel at Newark-on-Trent, on account of my “gentlemanly appearance,” which struck the waiter and the landlady, when they found there was no chaise at the gateway, and that I was only a pedestrian. In the latter case I could and did transform myself from dust and travel, by means of soap and clean linen out of my knapsack; but at Margate I had no resource—not any. I had not money enough left to purchase slops, if such things were, and what to do I knew not. Yet why should man despair when there is woman in the world;

Oh woman, in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please: * * * * But when misfortune wrings the brow A ministering angel thou!

And a ministering angel did Miss Edmonds become to me when I communicated to her the secret of my distressed situation. She consigned me to a private chamber and a cosy bed, and so arranged that, trousers and shirt being left on the outside of the door, I could take a nap of a couple of hours till a gentle tapping apprized me that I might poke out my naked arm, and re-invest myself in the spotless habiliments of civilized society.

How trivial, I hear a brother critic exclaim. Siste, Viator—stop, my friend. For years I “patronised” Edmonds’s hotel, and introduced many excellent customers to its comfortable accommodations. Among the rest was

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one who laughed at my washing adventure, and somehow took a fancy to the blooming and kind-hearted creature who was so apt at getting a man out of difficulties—and so he married her; and, as the old tales have it, they lived happy together all the days of their life. Thus we may conclude, as the moral of the lesson, that—

“Good deeds are never ill bestowed!”

Another of the episodes of the year, was a visit to Windsor to participate in the Jubilee rejoicings, commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the reign of King George the Third. I was accompanied by Turnerelli, the sculptor, to whom his Majesty sat for his bust; touching which I may relate an anecdote, characteristic enough of the manner and astuteness of the sovereign. Sitting one morning, he abruptly asked, “What’s your name?” “Turnerelli, Sir!” replied the artist, with a proper inclination of his head. “Oh, aye, aye, so it is,” rejoined the monarch; “Turnerelli, Turnerelli—elli, elli, that is Turner, and the elli, elli, elli, to make the geese follow you!” Such was George the Third’s accurate opinion of adding foreign terminations to native names.

We were, however, well received and well treated at Windsor. I had written and published a Complimentary Poem (forgive the phrase) on the occasion. It was as loyal and patriotic as if John Reeves himself, who was the Magnus Apollo in this line, had composed it; and being presented to the Queen through the ever kind, considerate, and pre-eminently accomplished Princess Elizabeth, had the good fortune to be favourably viewed by her Majesty. The compliment was agreeable to royalty, and the return very agreeable to the subjects concerned. In short, we were noticed, and handsomely provided for at all the fêtes—

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might, I dare say, have ate as much as we liked of the finest steaks cut from the ox roasted whole (a revolting spectacle, and almost enough to make the spectator renounce roast beef for ever); and, in short, were laden with condescending attentions, and an ample share of all the good things and pleasures of the festive time.

I have not been a careful preserver of my productions, and have not (I now wish I had) a copy of my “Eclogue,” which, if I remember rightly, appeared as the writing of W. J. André, an anagram of my name, which, like the signature of “Teutha” (the ancient name of Tweed), used by me from the period of my earliest to my latest contributions to the press, may guide the curious (if such there may be) to many of the anonymous essays, in prose and verse, of William Jerdan.

Having, in the preceding chapter, alluded to the famed and unfortunate Walcheren expedition, and subsequent Spanish campaign, under Sir John Moore, which terminated in the disastrous masterly retreat and fatal glorious victory of Corunna, I will take the opportunity of adding two or three military reminiscences connected with the friends I have spoken of, and two or three later years of Wellington’s splendid career in the Peninsula, which, alas! still more reduced their number, and augmented my unavailing regrets.

From the very commencement of the retreat to its termination at Corunna, a splendid Spanish pointer devoted himself to one of my friends, an officer in the 95th, and never quitted him by night or day, on march, in bivouac,

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or in action. This extraordinary fidelity attracted much attention, and often amused and interested the sorely harassed companions of the invulnerable and invincible Carlo. The rations were not always so plentiful as to yield a glut of provisions to account for this predilection, nor was the actual service of the corps to which he belonged of a nature to keep him from desertion; for the Rifle Brigade covered the retreat, and was hardly out of fire from the first to the last. In the heat of this incessant skirmishing did the faithful creature appear absolutely to take delight; and, as my friend remarked, if one could imagine the soul of Hannibal, in a state of transmigration, to occupy the physical fabric of a spaniel, it was assuredly present here as the latest metamorphosis. But Carlo was not left in Spain; not even the confusion of the embarkation of the army at Corunna could separate him from his chosen master; he was given to me, and I respected and loved him, till he died of old age; and, if it were so, released the immortal soul of the immortal Carthaginian hero, to inhabit another tenement.

A singular adventure befel Captain, afterwards Colonel Miller, distinguished for his improvements in the important arm of artillery (now so earnestly sought, but in his time only beginning to be fully estimated), who was taken prisoner in the unsuccessful descent of an English force, by way of diversion, near Cadiz. Here the dark jacket and unobtrusive facings of the rifle uniform stood him in good stead; for while his red-coated companions in captivity were safely escorted to prisons, he availed himself of the advantage of his invisible green, and seizing a propitious moment of the night, escaped from the French guards, and sought freedom by flight. How he fared across the whole southern width of Spain need not be told; but one day the commander of an English picket

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on the frontiers of Portugal caught sight, with his glass, of a very ragged, suspicious-looking, and apparently disguised individual, uncertainly dodging about, as if desirous, yet afraid to approach nearer the British lines. A file of men were immediately dispatched to bring the stranger in—to be shot if a spy, and dismissed if he could render a credible account of himself. But neither happened. The tattered and torn man, who had paused to ascertain whether he was in the neighbourhood of friend or foe, turned out to be the worthy Captain Miller; and the lieutenant who apprehended him, in the midst of his gladness, might be a leetle disappointed, when he found that he was not within a step so near a company as fleeting fancies had suggested for the last two months, during which there had been no tidings of his wandering superior officer.

These are the jests, and sports, and singular incidents of war, which may, to a certain extent, lighten its horrors. But it is a grim-visaged and ugly monster, and cannot endure one moment’s humane or Christian examination. Too hideous to look upon, and too horrible to comprehend, in its massive features, with thousands of men lying dead or dying on the battle-field; it is no less atrocious and detestable when considered in its details, and the vast amount of suffering and mourning which it inflicts upon every class of society, is added to the fearful hecatombs of absolute destruction and slaughter. As Sterne took a single captive bird to illustrate his touching text against the deprivation of liberty by man of his fellow-man, so will I copy a simple individual letter of the date belonging to this episodiacal period, to show how the calamities of war pervade the whole community, and afflict thousands upon thousands whose injuries and griefs are never whispered to the public, or known to the country. It is, to be sure, a

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private letter, but it touches feelingly on the evils of war, and may have an effect where more general arguments would fail:—