MAURICE.

It seemed a conceded matter between Power and myself that we should never recur to the conversation we held in the garden; and so, although we dined tÊte-À-tÊte that day, neither of us ventured, by any allusion the most distant, to advert to what it was equally evident was uppermost in the minds of both.

All our endeavors, therefore, to seem easy and unconcerned were in vain; a restless anxiety to seem interested about things and persons we were totally indifferent to, pervaded all our essays at conversation. By degrees, we grew weary of the parts we were acting, and each relapsed into a moody silence, thinking over his plans and projects, and totally forgetting the existence of the other.

The decanter was passed across the table without speaking, a half nod intimated the bottle was standing; and except an occasional malediction upon an intractable cigar, nothing was heard.

Such was the agreeable occupation we were engaged in, when, towards nine o’clock, the door opened, and the great Maurice himself stood before us.

“Pleasant fellows, upon my conscience, and jovial over their liquor! Confound your smoking! That may do very well in a bivouac. Let us have something warm!”

Quill’s interruption was a most welcome one to both parties, and we rejoiced with a sincere pleasure at his coming.

“What shall it be, Maurice? Port or sherry mulled, and an anchovy?”

“Or what say you to a bowl of bishop?” said I.

“Hurrah for the Church, Charley! Let us have the bishop; and not to disparage Fred’s taste, we’ll be eating the anchovy while the liquor’s concocting.”

“Well, Maurice, and now for the news. How are matters at Torres Vedras? Anything like movement in that quarter?”

“Nothing very remarkable. Massena made a reconnoissance some days since, and one of our batteries threw a shower of grape among the staff, which spoiled the procession, and sent them back in very disorderly time. Then we’ve had a few skirmishes to the front with no great results,—a few courts-martial, bad grub, and plenty of grumbling.”

“Why, what would they have? It’s a great thing to hold the French army in check within a few marches of Lisbon.”

“Charley, my man, who cares twopence for the French army or Lisbon or the Portuguese or the Junta or anything about it?—every man is pondering over his own affairs. One fellow wants to get home again, and be sent upon some recruiting station. Another wishes to get a step or two in promotion, to come to Torres Vedras, where even the grande armÉe can’t. Then some of us are in love, and some of us are in debt. Their is neither glory nor profit to be had. But here’s the bishop, smoking and steaming with an odor of nectar!”

“And our fellows, have you seen them lately?”

“I dined with yours on Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Yes. I dined with them. By-the-bye, Sparks was taken prisoner that morning.”

“Sparks taken prisoner! Poor fellow. I am sincerely sorry. How did it happen, Maurice?”

“Very simply. Sparks had a forage patrol towards Vieda, and set out early in the morning with his party. It seemed that they succeeded perfectly, and were returning to the lines, when poor Sparks, always susceptible where the sex are concerned, saw, or thought he saw, a lattice gently open as he rode from the village, and a very taper finger make a signal to him. Dropping a little behind the rest, he waited till his men had debouched upon the road, when riding quietly up, he coughed a couple of times to attract the fair unknown; a handkerchief waved from the lattice in reply, which was speedily closed, and our valiant cornet accordingly dismounted and entered the house.

“The remainder of the adventure is soon told; for in a few seconds after, two men mounted on one horse were seen galloping at top speed towards the French lines,—the foremost being a French officer of the 4th Cuirassiers, the gentleman with his face to the tail, our friend Sparks; the lovely unknown being a vieille moustache of Loison’s corps, who had been wounded in a skirmish some days before, and lay waiting an opportunity of rejoining his party. One of our prisoners knew this fellow well; he had been promoted from the ranks, and was a Hercules for feats of strength; so that, after all, Sparks could not help himself.”

“Well, I’m really sorry; but as you say, Sparks’s tender nature is always the ruin of him.”

“Of him! ay, and of you; and of Power; and of myself; of all of us. Isn’t it the sweet creatures that make fools of us from Father Adam down to Maurice Quill, neither sparing age nor rank in the service, half-pay nor the veteran battalion—it’s all one? Pass the jug, there. O’Shaughnessy—”

“Ah, by-the-bye, how’s the major?”

“Charmingly; only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir Arthur—Lord Wellington, I mean—had him up for his fellows being caught pillaging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few days ago.

“‘Very disorderly corps yours, Major O’Shaughnessy,’ said the general; ‘more men up for punishment than any regiment in the service.’

“Shaugh muttered something; but his voice was lost in a loud cock-a-doo-do-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the moment.

“‘If the officers do their duty, Major O’Shaughnessy, these acts of insubordination do not occur.’

“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo,’ was the reply. Some of the staff found it hard not to laugh; but the general went on,—

“‘If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I’ll draft the men into West India regiments.’

“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo.’

“‘And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected in the quarters, or about the person of the troops—’

“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo,’ screamed louder here than ever.

“‘Damn that cock! Where is it?’

“There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in vain; when a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from O’Shaughnessy’s coat pocket,—thus detecting the valiant major himself in the very practice of his corps. There was no standing this: every one burst out into a peal of laughing; and Lord Wellington himself could not resist, but turned away, muttering to himself as he went, ‘Damned robbers—every man of them!’ while a final war-note from the major’s pocket closed the interview.”

“Confound you, Maurice, you’ve always some villanous narrative or other. You never crossed a street for shelter without making something out of it.”

“True this time, as sure as my name’s Maurice; but the bowl is empty.”

“Never mind, here comes its successor. How long can you stay among us?”

“A few days at most. Just took a run off to see the sights. I was all over Lisbon this morning; saw the Inquisition and the cells and the place where they tried the fellows,—the kind of grand jury room with the great picture of Adam and Eve at the end of it. What a beautiful creature she is; hair down to her waist, and such eyes! ‘Ah, ye darling!’ said I to myself, ‘small blame to him for what he did. Wouldn’t I ate every crab in the garden, if ye asked me!’”

“I must certainly go to see her, Maurice. Is she very Portuguese in her style?”

“Devil a bit of it! She might be a Limerick-woman with elegant brown hair and blue eyes and a skin like snow.”

“Come, come, they’ve pretty girls in Lisbon too, Doctor.”

“Yes, faith,” said Power, “that they have.”

“Nothing like Ireland, boys; not a bit of it; they’re the girls for my money; and where’s the man can resist them? From Saint Patrick, that had to go and live in the Wicklow mountains—”

“Saint Kevin, you mean, Doctor.”

“Sure it’s all the same, they were twins. I made a little song about them one evening last week,—the women I mean.”

“Let us have it, Maurice; let us have it, old fellow. What’s the measure?”

“Short measure; four little verses, devil a more!”

“But the time, I mean?”

“Whenever you like to sing it; here it is,”—

“Now that really is a sweet little thing. Moore’s isn’t it?”

“Not a bit of it; my own muse, every word of it.”

“And the music?” said I.

“My own, too. Too much spice in that bowl; that’s an invariable error in your devisers of drink, to suppose that the tipple you start with can please your palate to the last; they forget that as we advance, either in years or lush, our tastes simplify.”

“Nous revenons À nos premiÈres amours. Isn’t that it?”

“No, not exactly, for we go even further; for if you mark the progression of a sensible man’s fluids, you’ll find what an emblem of life it presents to you. What is his initiatory glass of ‘Chablis’ that he throws down with his oysters but the budding expectancy of boyhood,—the appetizing sense of pleasure to come; then follows the sherry with his soup, that warming glow which strength and vigor in all their consciousness impart, as a glimpse of life is opening before him. Then youth succeeds—buoyant, wild, tempestuous youth—foaming and sparkling like the bright champagne whose stormy surface subsides into a myriad of bright stars.”

“Oeil de perdrix.”

“Not a bit of it; woman’s own eye, brilliant, sparkling, life-giving—”

“Devil take the fellow, he’s getting poetical!”

“Ah, Fred! if that could only last; but one must come to the burgundies with his maturer years. Your first glass of hermitage is the algebraic sign for five-and-thirty,—the glorious burst is over; the pace is still good, to be sure, but the great enthusiasm is past. You can afford to look forward, but confound it, you’ve along way to look back also.”

“I say, Charley, our friend has contrived to finish the bishop during his disquisition; the bowl’s quite empty.”

“You don’t say so, Fred. To be sure, how a man does forget himself in abstract speculations; but let us have a little more, I’ve not concluded my homily.”

“Not a glass, Maurice; it’s already past nine. We are all pledged to the masquerade, and before we’ve dressed and got there, ‘t will be late enough.”

“But I’m not disguised yet, my boy, nor half.”

“Well, they must take you au naturel, as our countrymen do their potatoes.”

“Yes, Doctor, Fred’s right; we had better start.”

“Well, I can’t help it; I’ve recorded my opposition to the motion, but I must submit; and now that I’m on my legs, explain to me what’s that very dull-looking old lamp up there?”

“That’s the moon, man; the full moon.”

“Well, I’ve no objection; I’m full too: so come along, lads.”