THE BELL AT BRISTOL.

On the morning after my dinner at Carlton House, I found my breakfast-table covered with cards and invitations. The news of the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo was published in all the morning papers, and my own humble name, in letters of three feet long, was exhibited in placards throughout the city. Less to this circumstance, however, than to the kind and gracious notice of the Prince, was I indebted for the attentions which were shown me by every one; and indeed, so flattering was the reception I met with, and so overwhelming the civility showered on me from all sides, that it required no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero as they would make me. An eternal round of dinners, balls, breakfasts, and entertainments filled up the entire week. I was included in every invitation to Carlton House, and never appeared without receiving from his Royal Highness the most striking marks of attention. Captivating as all this undoubtedly was, and fascinated as I felt in being the lion of London, the courted and sought after by the high, the titled, and the talented of the great city of the universe, yet amidst all the splendor and seduction of that new world, my heart instinctively turned from the glare and brilliancy of gorgeous saloons, from the soft looks and softer voice of beauty, from the words of praise as they fell from the lips of those whose notice was fame itself,—to my humble home amidst the mountains of the west. Delighted and charmed as I felt by that tribute of flattery which associated my name with one of the most brilliant actions of my country, yet hitherto I had experienced no touch of home or fatherland. England was to me as the high and powerful head of my house, whose greatness and whose glory shed a halo far and near, from the proudest to the humblest of those that call themselves Britons; but Ireland was-the land of my birth,—the land of my earliest ties, my dearest associations,—the kind mother whose breath had fanned my brow in infancy, and for her in my manhood my heart beat with every throb of filial affection. Need I say, then, how ardently I longed to turn homeward; for independent of all else, I could not avoid some self-reproach on thinking what might be the condition of those I prized the most on earth, at that very moment I was engaging in all the voluptuous abandonment, and all the fascinating excesses of a life of pleasure. I wrote several letters home, but received no answer; nor did I, in the whole round of London society, meet with a single person who could give me information of my family or my friends. The Easter recess had sent the different members of Parliament to their homes; and thus, within a comparatively short distance of all I cared for, I could learn nothing of their fate.

The invitations of the Prince Regent, which were, of course, to be regarded as commands, still detained me in London; and I knew not in what manner to escape from the fresh engagements which each day heaped upon me. In my anxiety upon the subject, I communicated my wishes to a friend on the duke’s staff, and the following morning, as I presented myself at his levee, he called me towards him and addressed me:—

“What leave have you got, Captain O’Malley?”

“Three months, your Royal Highness.”

“Do you desire an unattached troop; for if so, an opportunity occurs just at this moment.”

“I thank you most sincerely, sir, for your condescension in thinking of me; but my wish is to join my regiment at the expiration of my leave.”

“Why, I thought they told me you wanted to spend some time in Ireland?”

“Only sufficient to see my friends, your Royal Highness. That done, I’d rather join my regiment immediately.”

“Ah, that alters the case! So then, probably, you’d like to leave us at once. I see how it is; you’ve been staying here against your will all this while. Then, don’t say a word. I’ll make your excuses at Carlton House; and the better to cover your retreat, I’ll employ you on service. Here, Gordon, let Captain O’Malley have the despatches for Sir Henry Howard, at Cork.” As he said this, he turned towards me with an air of affected sternness in his manner, and continued: “I expect, Captain O’Malley, that you will deliver the despatches intrusted to your care without a moment’s loss of time. You will leave London within an hour. The instructions for your journey will be sent to your hotel. And now,” said he, again changing his voice to its natural tone of kindliness and courtesy,—“and now, my boy, good-by, and a safe journey to you. These letters will pay your expenses, and the occasion save you all the worry of leave-taking.”

I stood confused and speechless, unable to utter a single word of gratitude for such unexpected kindness. The duke saw at once my difficulty, and as he shook me warmly by the hand, added, in a laughing tone,—

“Don’t wait, now; you mustn’t forget that your despatches are pressing.”

I bowed deeply, attempted a few words of acknowledgment, hesitated, blundered, broke down, and at last got out of the room, Heaven knows how, and found myself running towards Long’s at the top of my speed. Within that same hour I was rattling along towards Bristol as fast as four posters could burn the pavement, thinking with ecstasy over the pleasures of my reception in England; but far more than all, of the kindness evinced towards me by him who, in every feeling of his nature, and in every feature of his deportment was “every inch a prince.”

However astonished I had been at the warmth, by which I was treated in London, I was still less prepared for the enthusiasm which greeted me in every town through which I passed. There was not a village where we stopped to change horses whose inhabitants did not simultaneously pour forth to welcome me with every demonstration of delight. That the fact of four horses and a yellow chaise should have elicited such testimonies of satisfaction, was somewhat difficult to conceive; and even had the important news that I was the bearer of despatches been telegraphed from London by successive postboys, still the extraordinary excitement was unaccountable. It was only on reaching Bristol that I learned to what circumstance my popularity was owing. My friend Mike, in humble imitation of election practices, had posted a large placard on the back of the chaise, announcing, in letters of portentous length, something like the following:—

This veracious and satisfactory statement, aided by Mike’s personal exertions, and an unwearied performance on the trumpet he had taken from the French dragoon, had roused the population of every hamlet, and made our journey from London to Bristol one scene of uproar, noise, and confusion. All my attempts to suppress Mike’s oratory or music were perfectly unavailing. In fact, he had pledged my health so many times during the day; he had drunk so many toasts to the success of the British arms, so many to the English nation, so many in honor of Ireland, and so many in honor of Mickey Free himself,—that all respect for my authority was lost in his enthusiasm for my greatness, and his shouts became wilder, and the blasts from the trumpet more fearful and incoherent; and finally, on the last stage of our journey, having exhausted as it were every tribute of his lungs, he seemed (if I were to judge by the evidence of my ears) to be performing something very like a hornpipe on the roof of the chaise.

Happily for me there is a limit to all human efforts, and even his powers at length succumbed; so that, when we arrived at Bristol, I persuaded him to go to bed, and I once more was left to the enjoyment of some quiet. To fill up the few hours which intervened before bedtime, I strolled into the coffee room. The English look of every one, and everything around, had still its charm for me; and I contemplated, with no small admiration, that air of neatness and propriety so observant from the bright-faced clock that ticked unwearily upon the mantelpiece, to the trim waiter himself, with noiseless step and a mixed look of vigilance and vacancy. The perfect stillness struck me, save when a deep voice called for “another brandy-and-water,” and some more modestly-toned request would utter a desire for “more cream.” The attention of each man, absorbed in the folds of his voluminous newspaper, scarcely deigning a glance at the new-comer who entered, was in keeping with the general surroundings,—giving, in their solemnity and gravity, a character of almost religious seriousness, to what, in any other land, would be a scene of riotous and discordant tumult. I was watching all this with a more than common interest, when the door opened, and the waiter entered with a large placard. He was followed by another with a ladder, by whose assistance he succeeded in attaching the large square of paper to the wall above the fireplace. Every one about rose up, curious to ascertain what was going forward; and I myself joined in the crowd around the fire. The first glance of the announcement showed me what it meant; and it was with a strange mixture of shame and confusion I read:—

Leaving the many around me busied in conjecturing who the aforesaid Mr. Free might be, and what peculiar opportunities he might have enjoyed for his report, I hurried from the room and called the waiter.

“What’s the meaning of the announcement you’ve just put up in the coffee-room? Where did it come from?”

“Most important news, sir; exclusively in the columns of the ‘Bristol Telegraph,’—the gentleman has just arrived—”

“Who, pray? What gentleman?”

“Mr. Free, sir, No. 13—large bed-room—blue damask—supper for two—oysters—a devil—brandy-and-water-mulled port.”

“What the devil do you mean? Is the fellow at supper?”

Somewhat shocked by the tone I ventured to assume towards the illustrious narrator, the waiter merely bowed his reply.

“Show me to his room,” said I; “I should like to see him.”

“Follow me, if you please, sir,—this way. What name shall I say, sir?”

“You need not mind announcing me,—I’m an old acquaintance,—just show me the room.”

“I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Meekins, the editor of the ‘Telegraph,’ is engaged with him at present; and positive orders are given not to suffer any interruption.”

“No matter; do as I bid you. Is that it? Oh, I hear his voice. There, that will do. You may go down-stairs, I’ll introduce myself.”

So saying, and slipping a crown into the waiter’s hand, I proceeded cautiously towards the door, and opened it stealthily. My caution was, however, needless; for a large screen was drawn across this part of the room, completely concealing the door, closing which behind me, I took my place beneath the shelter of this ambuscade, determined on no account to be perceived by the parties.

Seated in a large arm-chair, a smoking tumbler of mulled port before him, sat my friend Mike, dressed in my full regimentals, even to the helmet, which, unfortunately however for the effect, he had put on back foremost; a short “dudeen” graced his lip, and the trumpet so frequently alluded to lay near him.

Opposite him sat a short, puny, round-faced little gentleman with rolling eyes and a turned up nose. Numerous sheets of paper, pens, etc., lay scattered about; and he evinced, by his air and gesture, the most marked and eager attention to Mr. Free’s narrative, whose frequent interruptions, caused by the drink and the oysters, were viewed with no small impatience by the anxious editor.

“You must remember, Captain, time’s passing; the placards are all out. Must be at press before one o’clock to-night,—the morning edition is everything with us. You were at the first parallel, I think.”

“Devil a one o’ me knows. Just ring that bell near you. Them’s elegant oysters; and you’re not taking your drop of liquor. Here’s a toast for you: ‘May—’ Whoop! raal Carlingford’s, upon my conscience! See now, if I won’t hit the little black chap up there the first shot.”

Scarcely were the words spoken, when a little painted bust of Shakespeare fell in fragments on the floor, as an oyster-shell laid him low.

A faint effort at a laugh at the eccentricities of his friend was all the poor editor could accomplish, while Mike’s triumph knew no bounds.

“Didn’t I tell you? But come now, are you ready? Give the pen a drink, if you won’t take one yourself.”

“I am ready, quite ready,” responded the editor.

“Faith, and it’s more nor I am. See now, here it is: The night was murthering dark; you could not see a stim.”

“Not see a—a what?”

“A stim, bad luck to you; don’t you know English? Hand me the hot water. Have you that down yet?”

“Yes. Pray proceed.”

“The Fifth Division was orthered up, bekase they were fighting chaps; the Eighty-eighth was among them; the Rangers—Oh, upon my soul, we must drink the Rangers! Here, devil a one o’ me will go on till we give them all the honors—Hip!—begin.”

“Hip!” sighed the luckless editor, as he rose from his chair, obedient to the command.

“Hurra! hurra! hurra! Well done! There’s stuff in you yet, ould foolscap! The little bottle’s empty; ring again, if ye plaze.

“Arrah, don’t be looking miserable and dissolute that way. Sure, I’m only screwing myself up for you; besides, you can print the song av you like. It’s a sweet tune, ‘Teddy, you Gander,’”

“Really, Mr. Free, I see no prospect of our ever getting done.”

“The saints in Heaven forbid!” interrupted Mike, piously; “the evening’s young, and drink plenty. Here now, make ready!”

The editor once more made a gesture of preparation.

“Well, as I was saying,” resumed Mike, “it was pitch dark when the columns moved up, and a cold, raw night, with a little thin rain falling. Have you that down?”

“Yes. Pray go on.”

“Well, just as it might be here, at the corner of the trench, I met Dr. Quill. ‘They’re waiting for you, Mr. Free,’ says he, ‘down there. Picton’s asking for you.’ ‘Faith, and he must wait,’ says I, ‘for I’m terrible dry.’ With that, he pulled out his canteen and mixed me a little brandy-and-water. ‘Are you taking it without a toast?’ says Doctor Maurice. ‘Never fear,’ says I; ‘here’s Mary Brady—‘”

“But, my dear sir,” interposed Mr. Meekins, “pray do remember this is somewhat irrelevant. In fifteen minutes it will be twelve o’clock.”

“I know it, ould boy, I know it. I see what you’re at. You were going to observe how much better we’d be for a broiled bone.”

“Nothing of the kind, I assure you. For Heaven’s sake, no more eating and drinking!”

“No more eating nor drinking! Why not? You’ve a nice notion of a convivial evening. Faith, we’ll have the broiled bone sure enough, and, what’s more, a half gallon of the strongest punch they can make us; an’ I hope that, grave as you are, you’ll favor the company with a song.”

“Really, Mr. Free—”

“Arrah, none of your blarney! Don’t be misthering me! Call me Mickey, or Mickey Free, if you like better.”

“I protest,” said the editor, with dismay, “that here we are two hours at work, and we haven’t got to the foot of the great breach.”

“And wasn’t the army three months and a half in just getting that far, with a battering train and mortars and the finest troops ever were seen? And there you sit, a little fat creature, with your pen in your hand, grumbling that you can’t do more than the whole British army. Take care you don’t provoke me to beat you; for I am quiet till I’m roused. But, by the Rock o’ Cashel—”

Here he grasped the brass trumpet with an energy that made the editor spring from his chair.

“For mercy’s sake, Mr. Free—”

“Well, I won’t; but sit down there, and don’t be bothering me about sieges and battles and things you know nothing about.”

“I protest,” rejoined Mr. Meekins, “that, had you not sent to my office intimating your wish to communicate an account of the siege, I never should have thought of intruding myself upon you. And now, since you appear indisposed to afford the information in question, if you will permit me, I’ll wish you a very good-night.”

“Faith, and so you shall, and help me to pass one too; for not a step out o’ that chair shall you take till morning. Do ye think I am going to be left here by myself all alone?”

“I must observe—” said Mr. Meekins.

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Mickey; “I see what you mean. You’re not the best of company, it’s true; but at a pinch like this—There now, take, your liquor.”

“Once for all, sir,” said the editor, “I would beg you to recollect that, on the faith of your message to me, I have announced an account of the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo for our morning edition. Are you prepared, may I ask, for the consequences of my disappointing ten thousand readers?”

“It’s little I care for one of them. I never knew much of reading myself.”

“If you think to make a jest of me—” interposed Mr. Meekins, reddening with passion.

“A jest of you! Troth, it’s little fun I can get out of you; you’re as tiresome a creature as ever I spent an evening with. See now, I told you before not to provoke me; we’ll have a little more drink; ring the bell. Who knows but you’ll turn out better by-and-by?”

As Mike rose at these words to summon the waiter, Mr. Meekins seized the opportunity to make his escape. Scarcely had he reached the door, however, when he was perceived by Mickey, who hurled the trumpet at him with all his force, while he uttered a shout that nearly left the poor editor lifeless with terror. This time, happily, Mr. Free’s aim failed him, and before he could arrest the progress of his victim, he had gained the corridor, and with one bound, cleared the first flight of the staircase, his pace increasing every moment as Mike’s denunciations grew louder and louder, till at last, as he reached the street, Mr. Free’s delight overcame his indignation, and he threw himself upon a chair and laughed immoderately.

“Oh, may I never! if I didn’t frighten the editor. The little spalpeen couldn’t eat his oysters and take his punch like a man. But sure if he didn’t, there’s more left for his betters.” So saying, he filled himself a goblet and drank it off. “Mr. Free, we won’t say much for your inclinations, for maybe they are not the best; but here’s bad luck to the fellow that doesn’t think you good company; and here,” added he, again filling his glass,—“and here’s may the devil take editors and authors and compositors, that won’t let us alone, but must be taking our lives and our songs and our little devilments, that belongs to one’s own family, and tell them all over the world. A lazy set of thieves you are, every one of you; spending your time inventing lies, devil a more nor less; and here,” this time he filled again,—“and here’s a hot corner and Kilkenny coals, that’s half sulphur, to the villain—”

For what particular class of offenders Mike’s penal code was now devised, I was not destined to learn; for overcome by punch and indignation, he gave one loud whoop, and measured his length upon the floor. Having committed him to the care of the waiters, from whom I learned more fully the particulars of his acquaintance with Mr. Meekins, I enjoined them, strictly, not to mention that I knew anything of the matter; and betook myself to my bed sincerely rejoicing that in a few hours more Mike would be again in that laud where even his eccentricities and excesses would be viewed with a favorable and forgiving eye.