“I HAVE got some very sad news to tell you,” wrote Lady Pelican to her friend, Mrs. Vermeil, a faded lady of fashion, who discontentedly occupied a suite of apartments at Hampton Court; “our Irish estates are in such a miserable condition—absolutely making us out to be in debt to them, instead of adding to our income, that poor George—you will be shocked to hear it—is actually obliged to go into the Infantry!”

The communication of this distressing fact may stand instead of the regular Gazette, announcing the appointment of the Hon. George Spoonbill to an Ensigncy, by purchase, in the 100th regiment of foot. His military aspirations had been “Cavalry,” and he had endeavored to qualify himself for that branch of the service by getting up an invisible moustache, when the Irish agent wrote to say that no money was to be had in that quarter, and all thoughts of the Household Brigade were, of necessity, abandoned. But, though the more expensive career was shut out, Lord Pelican’s interest at the Horse Guards remained as influential as before, and for the consideration of four hundred and fifty pounds which—embarrassed as he was—he contrived to muster, he had no difficulty in procuring a commission for his son George, in the distinguished regiment already named. There were, it is true, a few hundred prior claimants on the Duke’s list; “but,” as Lord Pelican justly observed, “if the Spoonbill family were not fit for the army, he should like to know who were!” An argument perfectly irresistible. Gazetted, therefore, the young gentleman was, as soon as the Queen’s sign-manual could be obtained, and the usual interval for preparation over, the Hon. George Spoonbill set out to join. But before he does so, we must say a word of what that “preparation” consisted in.

Some persons may imagine that he forthwith addressed himself to the study of Polybius, dabbled a little in Cormontaigne, got up Napier’s History of the Peninsular War, or read the Duke’s Despatches; others, that he went down to Birdcage-Walk, and placed himself under the tuition of Color-Sergeant Pike, of the Grenadier Guards, a warrior celebrated for his skill in training military aspirants, or that he endeavored by some other means to acquire a practical knowledge, however slight, of the profession for which he had always been intended. The Hon. George Spoonbill knew better. The preparation he made, was a visit, at least three times a day, to Messrs. Gorget and Plume, the military tailors in Jermyn Street, whose souls he sorely vexed by the persistance with which he adhered to the most accurate fit of his shell-jacket and coatee, the set of his epaulettes, the cut of his trowsers, and the shape of his chako. He passed his days in “trying on his things,” and his evenings—when not engaged in the Casino, the Cider Cellar, or the Adelphi—in dining with his military friends at St. James’s Palace, or at Knightsbridge Barracks. In their society he greatly improved himself, acquiring an accurate knowledge of lansquenet and ecartÉ, cultivating his taste for tobacco, and familiarizing his mind with that reverence for authority which is engendered by the anecdotes of great military commanders that freely circulate at the mess-table. His education and his uniform being finished at about the same time, George Spoonbill took a not uncheerful farewell of the agonized Lady Pelican, whose maternal bosom streamed with the sacrifice she made in thus consigning her offspring to the vulgar hardships of a marching regiment.

An express train conveyed the honorable Ensign in safety to the country town where the “Hundredth” were then quartered, and in conformity with the instructions which he received from the Assistant Military Secretary at the Horse Guards—the only instructions, by-the-bye, which were given him by that functionary—he “reported” himself at the Orderly-room on his arrival, was presented by the Adjutant to the senior Major, by the senior Major to the Lieutenant-Colonel, and by the Lieutenant-Colonel to the officers generally when they assembled for mess.

The “Hundredth,” being “Light Infantry,” called itself “a crack regiment:” the military adjective signifying, in this instance, not so much a higher reputation for discipline and warlike achievements, as an indefinite sort of superiority arising from the fact that no man was allowed to enter the corps who depended on his pay only for the figure he cut in it. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip, who commanded, was very strict in this particular, and, having the good of the service greatly at heart, set his face entirely against the admission of any young man who did not enjoy a handsome paternal allowance, or was not the possessor of a good income. He was himself the son of a celebrated army clothier, and in the course of ten years, had purchased the rank he now held, so that he had a right, as he thought, to see that his regiment was not contaminated by contact with poor men. His military creed was, that no man had any business in the army who could not afford to keep his horses or tilbury, and drink wine every day; that he called respectable, anything short of it the reverse. If he ever relaxed from the severity of this rule, it was only in favor of those who had high connections; “a handle to a name” being as reverently worshipped by him as money itself; indeed, in secret, he preferred a lord’s son, though poor, to a commoner, however rich; the poverty of a sprig of nobility not being taken exactly in a literal sense. Colonel Tulip had another theory also: during the aforesaid ten years, he had acquired some knowledge of drill, and possessing an hereditary taste for dress, considered himself, thus endowed, a first-rate officer, though what he would have done with his regiment in the field is quite another matter. In the meantime he was gratified by thinking that he did his best to make it a crack corps, according to his notion of the thing, and such minor points as the moral training of the officers, and their proficiency in something more than the forms of the parade ground, were not allowed to enter into his consideration. The “Hundredth” were acknowledged to be “a devilish well-dressed, gentlemanly set of fellows,” and were looked after with great interest at country-balls, races, and regattas; and if this were not what a regiment ought to be, Colonel Tulip was, he flattered himself, very much out in his calculations.

The advent of the Hon. George Spoonbill was a very welcome one, as the vacancy to which he succeeded had been caused by the promotion of a young baronet into “Dragoons,” and the new comer being the second son of Lord Pelican, with a possibility of being graced one day by wearing that glittering title himself, the hiatus caused by Sir Henry Muff’s removal was happily filled up without any derogation to the corps. Having also ascertained, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, that Mr. Spoonbill’s “man” and two horses were to follow in a few days with the remainder of his baggage; and the young gentlemen having talked rather largely of what the Governor allowed him (two hundred a-year is no great sum, but he kept the actual amount in the back ground, speaking “promiscuously” of “a few hundreds”), and of his intimacy with “the fellows in the Life Guards;” Colonel Tulip at once set him down as a decided acquisition to the “Hundredth,” and intimated that he was to be made much of accordingly.

When we described the regiment as being composed of wealthy men, the statement must be received with a certain reservation. It was Colonel Tulip’s hope and intention to make it so in time, when he had sufficiently “weeded” it, but en attendant there were three or four officers who did not quite belong to his favorite category. There were the senior Major, and an old Captain, both of whom had seen a good deal of service, the Surgeon, who was a necessary evil, and the Quarter-master, who was never allowed to show with the rest of the officers except at “inspection,” or some other unusual demonstration. But the rank and “allowance” of the first, and something in the character of the second, which caused him to be looked upon as a military oracle, made Colonel Tulip tolerate their presence in the corps, if he did not enjoy it. Neither had the Adjutant quite as much money as the commanding officer could have desired, but as his position kept him close to his duties, doing that for which Colonel Tulip took credit, he also was suffered to pass muster; he was a brisk, precise, middle-aged personage, who hoped in the course of time to get his company, and whose military qualifications consisted chiefly in knowing “Torrens,” the “Articles of War,” the “Military Regulations,” and the “Army List,” by heart. The last-named work was, indeed, very generally studied in the regiment, and may be said to have exhausted almost all the literary resources of its readers, exceptions being made in favor of the weekly military newspaper, the monthly military magazine, and an occasional novel from the circulating library. The rest of the officers must speak for themselves, as they incidentally make their appearance. Of their character, generally, this may be said; none were wholly bad, but all of them might easily have been a great deal better.

Brief ceremony attends a young officer’s introduction to his regiment, and the honorable prefix to Ensign Spoonbill’s name was anything but a bar to his speedy initiation. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip took wine with him the first thing, and his example was so quickly followed by all present, that by the time the cloth was off the table, Lord Pelican’s second son had swallowed quite as much of Duff Gordon’s sherry as was good for him. Though drinking is no longer a prevalent military vice, there are occasions when the wine circulates rather more freely than is altogether safe for young heads, and this was one of them. Claret was not the habitual “tipple,” even of the crack “Hundredth;” but as Colonel Tulip had no objection to make a little display now and then, he had ordered a dozen in honor of the new arrival, and all felt disposed to do justice to it. The young Ensign had flattered himself that, amongst other accomplishments, he possessed “a hard head;” but, hard as it was, the free circulation of the bottle was not without its effect, and he soon began to speak rather thick, carefully avoiding such words as began with a difficult letter, which made his discourse somewhat periphrastic, or roundabout. But though his observations reached his hearers circuitously, their purpose was direct enough, and conveyed the assurance that he was one of those admirable Crichtons who are “wide awake” in every particular, and available for anything that may chance to turn up.

The conversation which reached his ears from the jovial companions who surrounded him, was of a similarly instructive and exhilarating kind, and tended greatly to his improvement. Captain Hackett, who came from “Dragoon Guards,” and had seen a great deal of hard service in Ireland, elaborately set forth every particular of “I’ll give you my honor, the most remarkable steeple-chase that ever took place in the three kingdoms,” of which he was, of course, the hero. Lieutenant Wadding, who prided himself on his small waist, broad shoulders, and bushy whiskers, and was esteemed “a lady-killer,” talked of every woman he knew, and damaged every reputation he talked about. Lieutenant Bray, who was addicted to sporting and played on the French horn, came out strong on the subject of hackles, May-flies, gray palmers, badgers, terriers, dew-claws, snap-shots and Eley’s cartridges. Captain Cushion, a great billiard-player, and famous—in every sense—for “the one-pocket game,” was eloquent on the superiority of his own cues, which were tipped with gutta percha instead of leather, and offered, as a treat, to indulge “any man in garrison with the best of twenty, one ‘up,’ for a hundred a-side.” Captain Huff, who had a crimson face, a stiff arm, and the voice of a Stentor, and whose soul, like his visage, was steeped in port and brandy, boasted of achievements in the drinking line, which, fortunately, are now only traditional, though he did his best to make them positive. From the upper end of the table, where sat the two veterans and the doctor, came, mellowed by distance, grim recollections of the Peninsula, with stories of Picton and Crawford, “the fighting brigade” and “the light division,” interspersed with endless Indian narratives, equally grim, of “how our fellows were carried off by the cholera at Cawnpore,” and how many tigers were shot, “when we lay in Cantonments at Dum-dum;” the running accompaniment to the whole being a constant reference to so-and-so “of ours” without allusion to which possessive pronoun, few military men are able to make much progress in conversation.

Nor was Colonel Tulip silent, but his conversation was of a very lofty and, as it were, ethereal order,—quite transparent, in fact, if any one had been there to analyze it. It related chiefly to the magnates at the Horse Guards,—to what “the Duke” said to him on certain occasions specified,—to Prince Albert’s appearance at the last levee,—to a favorite bay charger of his own, to the probability that Lord Dawdle would get into the corps on the first exchange,—and to a partly-formed intention of applying to the Commander-in-Chief to change the regimental facings from buff to green.

The mess-table, after four hours’ enjoyment of it in this intellectual manner, was finally abandoned for Captain Cushion’s “quarters,” that gallant officer having taken “quite a fancy to the youngster,” not so much, perhaps, on account of the youngster being a Lord’s youngster, as because, in all probability, there was something squeezeable in him, which was slightly indicated in his countenance. But whatever of the kind there might indeed have been, did not come out that evening, the amiable Captain preferring rather to initiate by example and the show of good fellowship, than by directly urging the neophyte to play. The rubber, therefore, was made up without him, and the new Ensign, with two or three more of his rank, confined themselves to cigars and brandy and water, a liberal indulgence in which completed what the wine had begun, and before midnight chimed the Hon. George Spoonbill was—to use the mildest expression,—as unequivocally tipsy as the fondest parent or guardian could possibly have desired a young gentleman to be on the first night of his entering “the Service.”

Not yet established in barracks, Mr. Spoonbill slept at an hotel, and thither he was assisted by two of his boon companions, whom he insisted on regaling on devilled biscuits and more brandy and water, out of sheer gratitude for their kindness. Nor was this reward thrown away, for it raised the spirits of these youths to so genial a pitch that, on their way back—with a view, no doubt, to give encouragement to trade—they twisted off, as they phrased it, “no end to knockers and bell-handles,” broke half a dozen lamps, and narrowly escaping the police (with whom, however, they would gloriously have fought rather than have surrendered) succeeded at length in reaching their quarters,—a little excited it is true, but by no means under the impression that they had done anything—as the articles of war say—“unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.”

In the meantime, the jaded waiter at the hotel had conveyed their fellow-Ensign to bed, to dream—if he were capable of dreaming—of the brilliant future which his first day’s experience of actual military life held out.

II.—A SUBALTERN’S DAY.

However interesting it might prove to the noble relatives of Ensign Spoonbill to learn his progress, step by step, we must—for reasons of our own—pass over the first few weeks of his new career, with only a brief mention of the leading facts.

His brother-officers had instructed him in the art of tying on his sash, wearing his forage cap on one side, the secret of distinguishing his right hand from his left, and the mysteries of marching and counter-marching. The art of holding up his head and throwing out his chest, had been carefully imparted by the drill-serjeant of his company, and he had, accordingly, been pronounced “fit for duty.”

What this was may best be shown, by giving an outline of “a subaltern’s day,” as he and the majority of his military friends were in the habit of passing it. It may serve to explain how it happens that British officers are so far in advance of their continental brethren in arms in the science of their profession, and by what process they have arrived at that intellectual superiority, which renders it a matter of regret that more serious interests than the mere discipline and well-being of only a hundred and twenty thousand men have not been confided to their charge.

The scene opens in a square room of tolerable size which, if simply adorned with “barrack furniture,” (to wit, a deal table, two windsor-chairs, a coal scuttle, and a set of fire-irons,) would give an idea of a British subaltern’s “interior,” of rather more Spartan-like simplicity than is altogether true. But to these were added certain elegant “extras,” obtained not out of the surplus of five and three-pence a day—after mess and band subscriptions, cost of uniform, servant’s wages, &c., had been deducted—but on credit, which it was easier to get than to avoid incurring expense. A noble youth, like Ensign Spoonbill, had only to give the word of command to be obeyed by Messrs. Rosewood and Mildew, with the alacrity shown by the slaves of the lamp, and in an incredibly short space of time, the bare walls and floor of his apartment were covered with the gayest articles their establishment afforded. They included those indispensable adjuncts to a young officer’s toilette, a full length cheval, and a particularly lofty pier-glass. A green-baize screen converted the apartment into as many separate rooms as its occupant desired, cutting it up, perhaps, a little here and there, but adding, on the whole, a great deal to its comfort and privacy. What was out of the line of Messrs. Rosewood and Mildew—and that, as Othello says, was “not much”—the taste of Ensign Spoonbill himself supplied. To his high artistic taste were due the presence of a couple of dozen gilt-framed and highly-colored prints, representing the reigning favorites of the ballet, the winners of the Derby and Leger, and the costumes of the “dressiest,” and consequently the most distinguished corps in the service; the nice arrangement of cherry-stick tubes, amber mouth-pieces, meerschaum bowls, and embroidered bags of Latakia tobacco; pleasing devices of the well-crossed foils, riding whips, and single sticks evenly balanced by fencing masks and boxing gloves; and, on the chimney-piece, the brilliant array of nick-nacks, from the glittering shop of Messrs. Moses, Lazarus and Son, who called themselves “jewellers and dealers in curiosities,” and who dealt in a few trifles which were not alluded to above their door-posts.

The maxim of “Early to bed” was not known in the Hundredth; but the exigencies of the service required that Ensign Spoonbill should rise with the reveillÉe. He complained of it in more forcible language than Dr. Watts’ celebrated sluggard; but discipline is inexorable, and he was not permitted to “slumber again.” This early rising is a real military hardship. We once heard a lady of fashion counselling her friend never to marry a Guardsman. “You have no idea, love, what you’ll have to go through; every morning of his life—in the season—he has to be out with the horrid regiment at half-past six o’clock!”

The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill then rose with the lark, though much against his will, his connection with that fowl having by preference a midnight tendency. Erect at last, but with a strong taste of cigars in his mouth, and a slight touch of whiskey-headache, the Ensign arrayed himself in his blue frock coat and Oxford gray trowsers; wound himself into his sash; adjusted his sword and cap; and, with faltering step, made the best of his way into the barrack-square, where the squads were forming, which, with his eyes only half-open, he was called upon to inspect, prior to their being re-inspected by both lieutenant and captain. He then drew his sword, and “falling in” in the rear of his company, occupied that disposition till the regiment was formed and set in motion.

His duties on the parade-ground were—as a supernumerary—of a very arduous nature, and consisted chiefly in getting in the way of his captain as he continually “changed his flank,” in making the men “lock up,” and in avoiding the personal observation of the adjutant as much as possible; storing his mind, all the time, with a few of the epithets, more vigorous than courtly, which the commanding officer habitually made use of to quicken the movements of the battalion. He enjoyed this recreation for about a couple of hours, sometimes utterly bewildered by a “change of front,” which developed him in the most inopportune manner; sometimes inextricably entangled in the formation of “a hollow square,” when he became lost altogether; sometimes confounding himself with “the points,” and being confounded by the senior-major for his awkwardness; and sometimes following a “charge” at such a pace as to take away his voice for every purpose of utility, supposing he had desired to exercise it in the way of admonitory adjuration to the rear-rank. In this manner he learnt the noble science of strategy, and by this means acquired so much proficiency that, had he been suddenly called upon to manoeuvre the battalion, it is possible he might have gone on for five minutes without “clubbing” it.

The regiment was then marched home; and Ensign Spoonbill re-entered the garrison with all the honors of war, impressed with the conviction that he had already seen an immense deal of service; enough, certainly, to justify the ample breakfast which two or three other famished subs—his particular friends—assisted him in discussing, the more substantial part of which, involved a private account with the messman, who had a good many more of the younger officers of the regiment on his books. At these morning feasts—with the exception, perhaps, of a few remarks on drill as “a cussed bore”—no allusion was made to the military exercises of the morning, or to the prospective duties of the day. The conversation turned, on the contrary, on lighter and more agreeable topics;—the relative merits of bull and Scotch terriers; who made the best boots; whether “that gaerl at the pastrycook’s” was “as fine a woman” as “the barmaid of the Rose and Crown;” if Hudson’s cigars didn’t beat Pontet’s all to nothing; who married the sixth daughter of Jones of the Highlanders; interspersed with a few bets, a few oaths, and a few statements not strikingly remarkable for their veracity, the last having reference, principally, to the exploits for which Captain Smith made himself famous, to the detriment of Miss Bailey.

Breakfast over, and cigars lighted, Ensign Spoonbill and his friends, attired in shooting jackets of every pattern, and wearing felt hats of every color and form, made their appearance in front of the officers’ wing of the barracks; some semi-recumbent on the door-steps, others lounging with their hands in their coat pockets, others gracefully balancing themselves on the iron railings,—all smoking and talking on subjects of the most edifying kind. These pleasant occupations were, however, interrupted by the approach of an “orderly,” who, from a certain clasped book which he carried, read out the unwelcome intelligence that, at twelve o’clock that day, a regimental court-martial, under the presidency of Captain Huff, would assemble in the officers’ mess-room “for the trial of all such prisoners as might be brought before it,” and that two lieutenants and two ensigns—of whom the honorable Mr. Spoonbill was one—were to constitute the members. This was a most distressing and unexpected blow, for it had previously been arranged that a badger should be drawn by Lieutenant Wadding’s bull bitch Juno, at which interesting ceremony all the junior members of the court were to have “assisted.” It was the more provoking, because the proprietor of the animal to be baited,—a gentleman in a fustian suit, brown legging, high-lows, a white hat with a black crape round it, and a very red nose, indicative of a most decided love for “cordials and compounds”—had just “stepped up” to say that “the badger must be dror’d that mornin’,” as he was under a particular engagement to repeat the amusement in the evening for some gents at a distant town, and “couldn’t no how, not for no money, forfeit his sacred word.” The majority of the young gentlemen present understood perfectly what this corollary meant, but, with Ensign Spoonbill amongst them, were by no means in a hurry to “fork out” for so immoral a purpose as that of inducing a fellow-man to break a solemn pledge. That gallant officer, however, labored under so acute a feeling of disappointment, that regardless of the insult offered to the worthy man’s conscience, he at once volunteered to give him “a couple of sovs” if he would just “throw those snobs over,” and defer his departure till the following day; and it was settled that the badger should be “drawn” as soon as the patrons of Joe Baggs could get away from the court-martial,—for which in no very equable frame of mind they now got ready,—retiring to their several barrack-rooms, divesting themselves of their sporting costume and once more assuming military attire.

At the appointed hour, the court assembled. Captain Huff prepared for his judicial labors by calling for a glass of his favorite “swizzle,” which he dispatched at one draught, and then, having sworn in the members, and being sworn himself, the business began by the appointment of Lieutenant Hackett as secretary. There were two prisoners to be tried: one had “sold his necessaries” in order to get drunk; the second had made use of “mutinous language” when drunk; both of them high military crimes, to be severely visited by those who had no temptation to dispose of their wardrobes, and could not understand why a soldier’s beer money was not sufficient for his daily potations; but who omitted the consideration that they themselves, when in want of cash, occasionally sent a pair of epaulettes to “my uncle,” and had a champagne supper out of the proceeds, at which neither sobriety nor decorous language were rigidly observed.

The case against him who had sold his necessaries,—to wit, “a new pair of boots, a shirt, and a pair of stockings,” for which a Jew in the town had given him two shillings—was sufficiently clear. The captain and the pay-serjeant of the man’s company swore to the articles, and the Jew who bought them (an acquaintance of Lieutenant Hackett, to whom he nodded with pleasing familiarity), stimulated by the fear of a civil prosecution, gave them up, and appeared as evidence against the prisoner. He was found “guilty,” and sentenced to three months’ solitary confinement, and “to be put under stoppages,” according to the prescribed formulÆ.

But the trial of the man accused of drunkenness and mutinous language was not so readily disposed of; though the delay occasioned by his calling witnesses to character served only to add to the irritation of his virtuous and impartial judges. He was a fine-looking fellow, six feet high, and had as soldier-like a bearing as any man in the Grenadier company to which he belonged. The specific acts which constituted his crime consisted in having refused to leave the canteen when somewhat vexatiously ordered to do so by the orderly serjeant, who forthwith sent for a file of the guard to compel him; thus urging him, when in an excited state, to an act of insubordination, the gist of which was a threat to knock the serjeant down, a show of resistance, and certain maledictions on the head of that functionary. In this, as in the former instance, there could be no doubt that the breach of discipline complained of had been committed, though several circumstances were pleaded in extenuation of the offence. The man’s previous character, too, was very good; he was ordinarily a steady, well-conducted soldier, never shirked his hour of duty, was not given to drink, and, therefore, as the principal witness in his favor said, “the more aisily overcome when he tuck a dhrop, but as harrumless as a lamb, unless put upon.”

These things averred and shown, the Court was cleared, and the members proceeded to deliberate. It was a question only of the nature and extent of the punishment to be awarded. The general instructions, no less than the favorable condition of the case, suggested leniency. But Captain Huff was a severe disciplinarian of the old school, an advocate for red-handed practice—the drum head and the halberds—and his opinion, if it might be called one, had only too much weight with the other members of the Court, all of whom were prejudiced against the prisoner, whom they internally—if not openly—condemned for interfering with their day’s amusements. “Corporal punishment, of course,” said Captain Huff, angrily; and his words were echoed by the Court, though the majority of them little knew the fearful import of the sentence, or they might have paused before they delivered over a fine resolute young man, whose chief crime was an ebullition of temper, to the castigation of the lash, which destroys the soldier’s self-respect; degrades him in the eyes of his fellows; mutilates his body, and leaves an indelible scar upon his mind. But the fiat went forth, and was recorded in “hundreds” against the unfortunate fellow; and Captain Huff having managed to sign the proceedings, carried them off to the commanding officer’s quarters, to be “approved and confirmed;” a ratification which the Colonel was not slow to give; for he was one of that class who are in the habit of reconciling themselves to an act of cruelty, by always asserting in their defence that “an example is necessary.” He forgot in doing so, that this was not the way to preserve for the “Hundredth” the name of a crack corps, and that the best example for those in authority is Mercy.

With minds buoyant and refreshed by the discharge of the judicial functions, for which they were in every respect so admirably qualified, Ensign Spoonbill and his companions, giving themselves leave of absence from the afternoon parade, and having resumed their favorite “mufty,” repaired to an obscure den in a stable-yard at the back of the Blue Boar—a low public house in the filthiest quarter of the town—which Mr. Joseph Baggs made his head-quarters, and there, for a couple of hours, solaced themselves with the agreeable exhibition of the contest between the badger and the dog Juno, which terminated by the latter being bitten through both her fore-paws, and nearly losing one of her eyes; though, as Lieutenant Wadding exultingly observed, “she was a deuced deal too game to give over for such trifles as those.” The unhappy badger, that only fought in self-defence, was accordingly “dror’d,” as Mr. Baggs reluctantly admitted, adding, however, that she was “nuffin much the wuss,” which was more than could be said of the officers of the “Hundredth” who had enjoyed the spectacle.

This amusement ended, which had so far a military character that it familiarized the spectator with violence and bloodshed, though in an unworthy and contemptible degree, badgers and dogs, not men, being their subject, the young gentlemen adjourned to the High Street, to loiter away half an hour at the shop of Messrs. Moses, Lazarus and Son, whose religious observances and daily occupations were made their jest, while they ran in debt to the people from whom they afterwards expected consideration and forbearance. But not wholly did they kill their time there. The pretty pastry-cook, an innocent, retiring girl, but compelled to serve in the shop, came in for her share of their half-admiring and all insolent persecutions, and when their slang and sentiment were alike exhausted, they dawdled back again to the barracks, to dress for the fifth time for mess.

The events of the day, that is, the events on which their thoughts had been centered, again furnished the theme of the general conversation. Enough wine was drunk, as Captain Huff said, with the wit peculiar to him, “to restore the equilibrium;” the most abstinent person being Captain Cushion, who that evening gave convincing proof of the advantages of abstinence, by engaging Ensign Spoonbill in a match at billiards, the result of which was, that Lord Pelican’s son found himself, at midnight, minus a full half of the allowance for which his noble father had given him liberty to draw. But that he had fairly lost the money there could be no doubt, for the officer on the main-guard, who had preferred watching the game to going his rounds, declared to the party, when they afterwards adjourned to take a glass of grog with him before he turned in, that, “except Jonathan, he had never seen any man make so good a bridge as his friend Spoonbill,” and this fact Captain Cushion himself confirmed, adding, that he thought, perhaps, he could afford next time to give points. With the reputation of making a good bridge—a Pons asinorum over which his money had travelled—Ensign Spoonbill was fain to be content, and in this satisfactory manner he closed one Subaltern’s day, there being many like it in reserve.

III.—THE CATASTROPHE.

What the Psalmist said in sorrow, those who witnessed the career of the Honorable Ensign Spoonbill and his companions might have said, not in sorrow only but in anger: “One day told another, and one night certified another.”

When duty was to be performed—(for even under the command of such an officer as Colonel Tulip the routine of duty existed)—it was slurred over as hastily as possible, or got through as it best might be. When, on the other hand, pleasure was the order of the day,—and this was sought hourly,—no resource was left untried, no expedient unattempted; and strange things, in the shape of pleasure, were often the result.

The nominal duties were multifarious, and, had they been properly observed, would have left but a comparatively narrow margin for recreation,—for there was much in the old forms which took up time, without conveying any great amount of military instruction.

The orderly officer for the day—we speak of the subaltern—was supposed to go through a great deal. His duty it was to assist at inspections, superintend drills, examine the soldiers’ provisions, see their breakfasts and dinners served, and attend to any complaints, visit the regimental guards by day and night, be present at all parades and musters, and, finally, deliver in a written report of the proceedings of the four-and-twenty hours.

To go through this routine, required—as it received in some regiments—a few days’ training; but in the Hundredth there was none at all. Every officer in that distinguished corps was supposed to be “a Heaven-born genius,” and acquired his military education as pigeons pick up peas. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill looked at his men after a fashion; could swear at them if they were excessively dirty, and perhaps awe them into silence by a portentous scowl, or an exaggerated loudness of voice; but with regard to the real purpose of inspection, he knew as little, and cared as much, as the valet who aired his noble father’s morning newspaper. His eye wandered over the men’s kits as they were exposed to his view; but to his mind they only conveyed the idea of a kaleidoscopic rag-fair, not that of an assortment of necessaries for the comfort and well-being of the soldier. He saw large masses of beef, exhibited in a raw state by the quartermaster, as the daily allowance for the men; but if any one had asked him if the meat was good, and of proper weight, how could he have answered, whose head was turned away in disgust, with his face buried in a scented cambric handkerchief, and his delicate nature loathing the whole scene? In the same spirit he saw the men’s breakfasts and dinners served; fortifying his opinion, at the first, that coffee could only be made in France, and wondering, at the second, what sort of potage it could be that contrived to smell so disagreeably. These things might be special affectations in the Hon. Ensign, and depended, probably, on his own peculiar organization; but if the rest of the officers of the Hundredth did not manifest as intense a dislike to this part of their duties, they were members of much too “crack” a regiment to give themselves any trouble about the matter. The drums beat, the messes were served, there was a hasty gallop through the barrack-rooms, scarcely looking right or left, and the orderly officer was only too happy to make his escape without being stopped by any impertinent complaint.

The “turning out” of the barrack guard was a thing to make an impression on a bystander. A loud shout, a sharp clatter of arms, a scurry of figures, a hasty formation, a brief inquiry if all was right, and a terse rejoinder that all was remarkably so, constituted the details of a visit to the body of men on whom devolved the task of extreme watchfulness, and the preservation of order. If the serjeant had replied “All wrong,” it would have equally enlightened Ensign Spoonbill, who went towards the guardhouse because his instructions told him to do so; but why he went there, and for what purpose he turned out the guard, never entered into his comprehension. Not even did a sense of responsibility awaken in him when, with much difficulty, he penned the report which gave, in a narrative form, the summary of the duties he had performed in so exemplary a manner. Performed, do we say? Yes, once or twice wholly, but for the most part with many gaps in the schedule. Sometimes the dinners were forgotten, now and then the tattoo, generally the afternoon parade, and not unfrequently the whole affair. For the latter omission, there was occasionally a nominal “wigging” administered, not by the commanding officer himself, but through the adjutant; and as that functionary was only looked upon by the youngsters in the light of a bore, without the slightest reverence for his office, his words—like those of Cassius—passed like the idle wind which none regarded. When Ensign Spoonbill “mounted guard” himself, his vigilance on his new post equalled the assiduity we have seen him exhibit in barracks. After the formality of trooping, marching down, and relieving, was over, the Honorable Ensign generally amused himself by a lounge in the vicinity of the guardhouse, until the field-officer’s “rounds” had been made; and that visitation at an end for the day, a neighboring billiard-room, with Captain Cushion for his antagonist or “a jolly pool” occupied him until dinner-time. It was the custom in the garrison where the Hundredth were quartered, as it was, indeed, in many others, for the officers on guard to dine with their mess, a couple of hours or so being granted for this indulgence. This relaxation was made up for, by their keeping close for the rest of the evening; but as there were generally two or three off duty sufficiently at leisure to find cigars and brandy-and-water attractive, even when consumed in a guard-room, the hardship of Ensign Spoonbill’s official imprisonment was not very great. With these friends, and these creature-comforts to solace, the time wore easily away till night fell, when the field-officer, if he was “a good-fellow,” came early, and Ensign Spoonbill, having given his friends their congÉ, was at liberty to “turn in” for the night, the onerous duty of visiting sentries and inspecting the reliefs every two hours, devolving upon the serjeant.

It may be inferred from these two examples of Ensign Spoonbill’s ideas of discipline and the service, what was the course he generally adopted on duty, without our being under the necessity of going into further details. What he did when off duty helped him on still more effectually.

Lord Pelican’s outfit having “mounted” the young gentleman, and the credit he obtained on the strength of being Lord Pelican’s son, keeping his stud in order, he was enabled to vie with the crackest of the crack Hundredth; subject, however, to all the accidents which horseflesh is heir to—especially when allied to a judgment of which green was the prevailing color. A “swap” to a disadvantage; an indiscreet purchase; a mistake as to the soundness of an animal; and such other errors of opinion, entailed certain losses, which might, after all, have been borne, without rendering the applications for money at home more frequent than agreeable; but when under the influence of a natural obstinacy, or the advice of some very “knowing ones,” Ensign Spoonbill proceeded to back his opinion in private matches, handicaps, and steeple-chases, the privy purse of Lady Pelican collapsed in a most unmistakable manner. Nor was this description of amusement the only rock-a-head in the course of the Honorable Ensign. The art or science of betting embraces the widest field, and the odds, given or taken, are equally fatal, whether the subject that elicits them be a match at billiards or a horse-race. Nor are the stakes at blind-hookey or unlimited loo less harmless, when you hav’n’t got luck and have such opponents as Captain Cushion.

In spite of the belief in his own powers, which Ensign Spoonbill encouraged, he could not shut his eyes to the fact that he was every day a loser; but wiser gamblers than he—if any there be—place reliance on a “turn of luck,” and all he wanted to enable him to take advantage of it, was a command of cash; for even one’s best friends prefer the coin of the realm to the most unimpeachable I. O. U.

The want of money is a common dilemma,—not the less disagreeable, however, because it is common—but in certain situations this want is more apparent than real. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill was in the predicament of impecuniosity; but there were—as a celebrated statesman is in the habit of saying—three courses open to him. He might leave off play, and do without the money; he might “throw himself” on Lord Pelican’s paternal feelings; or he might somehow contrive to raise a supply on his own account. To leave off just at the moment when he was sure to win back all he had lost, would have been ridiculous; besides, every man of spirit in the regiment would have cut him. To throw himself upon the generosity of his sire was a good poetical idea; but, practically, it would have been of no value: for, in the first place, Lord Pelican had no money to give—in the next, there was an elder brother, whose wants were more imperative than his own; and lastly, he had already tried the experiment, and failed in the most signal manner. There remained, therefore, only the last expedient; and being advised, moreover, to have recourse to it, he went into the project tÊte baissÉe. The “advice” was tendered in this form.

“Well, Spooney, my boy, how are you, this morning?” kindly inquired Captain Cushion, one day on his return from parade, from which the Honorable Ensign had been absent on the plea of indisposition.

“Deuced queer,” was the reply; “that Roman punch always gives me the splittingest headaches!”

“Ah! you’re not used to it. I’m as fresh as a four-year-old. Well, what did you do last night, Spooney?”

“Do! why, I lost, of course; you ought to know that.”

“I—my dear fellow! Give you my honor I got up a loser!”

“Not to me, though,” grumbled the Ensign.

“Can’t say as to that,” replied the Captain; “all I know is, that I’m devilishly minus.”

“Who won, then?” inquired Spoonbill.

“Oh!” returned the Captain, after a slight pause, “I suspect—Chowser—he has somebody’s luck and his own too!”

“I think he must have mine,” said the Ensign, with a faint smile, as the alternations of the last night’s Blind Hookey came more vividly to his remembrance. “What did I lose to you, Cushion?” he continued, in the hope that his memory had deceived him.

The Captain’s pocket-book was out in an instant.

“Sixty-five, my dear fellow; that was all. By-the-bye, Spooney, I’m regularly hard up; can you let me have the tin? I wouldn’t trouble you, upon my soul, if I could possibly do without it, but I’ve got a heavy bill coming due to-morrow, and I can’t renew.”

The Honorable Ensign sank back on his pillow, and groaned impotently. Rallying, however, from this momentary weakness, he raised his head, and, after apostrophising the spirit of darkness as his best friend, exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what it is, Cushion, I’m thoroughly cleaned out. I haven’t got a dump!”

“Then you must fly a kite,” observed the Captain, coolly. “No difficulty about that.”

This was merely the repetition of counsel of the same friendly nature previously urged. The shock was not greater, therefore, than the young man’s nerves could bear.

“How is it to be done?” asked the neophyte.

“Oh, I think I can manage that for you. Yes,” pursued the Captain, musing, “Lazarus would let you have as much as you want, I dare say. His terms are rather high, to be sure; but then the cash is the thing. He’ll take your acceptance at once. Who will you get to draw the bill?”

“Draw!” said the Ensign, in a state of some bewilderment. “I don’t understand these things—couldn’t you do it?”

“Why,” replied the Captain, with an air of intense sincerity, “I’d do it for you with pleasure—nothing would delight me more; but I promised my grandmother when first I entered the service, that I never would draw a bill as long as I lived; and as a man of honor, you know, and a soldier, I can’t break my word.”

“But I thought you said you had a bill of your own coming due to-morrow,” observed the astute Spoonbill.

“So I did,” said the Captain, taken rather aback in the midst of his protestations, “but then it isn’t—exactly—a thing of this sort; it’s a kind of a bond—as it were—old family matters—the estate down in Lincolnshire—that I’m clearing off. Besides,” he added hurriedly, “there are plenty of fellows who’ll do it for you. There’s young Brittles—the Manchester man, who joined just after you. I never saw anybody screw into baulk better than he does, except yourself—he’s the one. Lazarus, I know, always prefers a young customer to an old one; knowing chaps, these Jews, arn’t they?”

Captain Cushion’s last remark was, no doubt, a just one—but he might have applied the term to himself with little dread of disparagement; and the end of the conversation was, that it was agreed a bill should be drawn as proposed, “say for three hundred pounds,” the Captain undertaking to get the affair arranged, and relieving Spoonbill of all trouble, save that of “merely” writing his name across a bit of stamped paper. These points being settled, the Captain left him, and the unprotected subaltern called for brandy and soda-water, by the aid of which stimulus he was enabled to rise and perform his toilette.

Messrs. Lazarus and Sons were merchants who perfectly understood their business, and, though they started difficulties, were only too happy to get fresh birds into their net. They knew to a certainty that the sum they were asked to advance would not be repaid at the end of the prescribed three months: it would scarcely have been worth their while to enter into the matter if it had; the profit on the hundred pounds’ worth of jewelry, which Ensign Spoonbill was required to take as part of the amount, would not have remunerated them sufficiently. Guessing pretty accurately which way the money would go, they foresaw renewed applications, and a long perspective of accumulating acceptances. Lord Pelican might be a needy nobleman; but he was Lord Pelican, and the Honorable George Spoonbill was his son; and if the latter did not succeed to the title and family estates, which was by no means improbable, there was Lady Pelican’s settlement for division amongst the younger children. So they advanced the money; that is to say, they produced a hundred and eighty pounds in cash, twenty they took for the accommodation (half of which found its way into the pocket of—never mind, we won’t say anything about Captain Cushion’s private affairs), and the value of the remaining hundred was made up with a series of pins and rings of the most stunning magnificence.

This was the Honorable Ensign Spoonbill’s first bill-transaction, but, the ice once broken, the second and third soon followed. He found it the pleasantest way in the world of raising money, and in a short time his affairs took a turn so decidedly commercial, that he applied the system to all his mercantile transactions. He paid his tailors after this fashion, satisfied Messrs. Mildew and his upholsterers with negotiable paper, and did “bits of stiff” with Galloper, the horse-dealer, to a very considerable figure. He even became facetious, not to say inspired, by this great discovery; for, amongst his papers, when they were afterwards overhauled by the official assignee—or some such fiscal dignitary,—a bacchanalian song in manuscript was found, supposed to have been written about this period, the refrain of which ran as follows:—

It needs no ghost to rise from the grave to prophesy the sequel to this mode of “raising the wind.” It is recorded twenty times a month in the daily papers—now in the Bankruptcy Court, now in that for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors. Ensign Spoonbill’s career lasted about eighteen months, at the end of which period—not having prospered by the means of gaming to the extent he anticipated—he found himself under the necessity of selling out and retiring to a continental residence, leaving behind him debts, which were eventually paid, to the tune of seven thousand, two hundred and fourteen pounds, seventeen shillings, and tenpence three farthings, the vulgar fractions having their origin in the hair-splitting occasioned by reduplication of interest. He chose for his abode the pleasant town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, where he cultivated his moustaches, acquired a smattering of French, and an insight into the mystery of pigeon-shooting. For one or other of these qualifications—we cannot exactly say which—he was subsequently appointed attachÉ to a foreign embassy, and at the present moment, we believe, is considered one of those promising young men whose diplomatic skill will probably declare itself one of these days, by some stroke of finesse, which shall set all Europe by the ears.

With respect to Colonel Tulip’s “crack” regiment, it went, as the saying is, “to the Devil.” The exposure caused by the affair of Ensign Spoonbill—the smash of Ensign Brittles, which shortly followed—the duel between Lieutenant Wadding and Captain Cushion, the result of which was a ball (neither “spot” nor “plain,” but a bullet) through the head of the last-named gentleman, and a few other trifles of a similar description, at length attracted the “serious notice” of his Grace the Commander-in-Chief. It was significantly hinted to Colonel Tulip that it would be for the benefit of the service in general, and that of the Hundredth in particular, if he exchanged to half-pay, as the regiment required re-modelling. A smart Lieutenant-Colonel who had learnt something, not only of drill, but of discipline, under the hero of “Young Egypt,” in which country he had shared that general’s laurels, was sent down from the Horse Guards. “Weeding” to a considerable extent took place; the Majors and the Adjutant were replaced by more efficient men, and, to sum up all, the Duke’s “Circular” came out, laying down a principle of practical military education, while on service, which, if acted up to,—and there seems every reason to hope it will now be,—bids fair to make good officers of those who heretofore were merely idlers. It will also diminish the opportunities for gambling, drinking, and bill discounting, and substitute, for the written words on the Queen’s Commission, the real character of a soldier and a gentleman.