CÆsar was forty years of age before he fought his first battle; or, indeed, before he could be fairly said to have been a soldier: yet he became one of the most able and successful generals the Roman empire ever produced. This age in a general is by no means out of keeping with the wisdom and energy required to constitute a good commander: it may be rather considered as not sufficiently advanced, by at least from five to ten years. But an ensign of forty is a thing quite out of character—a monstrous absurdity, as the army is now constituted; and if CÆsar himself had had to enter the Roman army in that grade, judging by our British scale of promotion, he never would have arrived at a brevet-majority. An Ensign is the boy of the colours—the page to regimental victory, whose chin should never bear a beard while he holds the post—a youthful soldier,—a Mars of fifteen, with the staff of his country’s flag fixed firmly in the earth, supporting and supported by him, while the rough mustachioed band like rocks surround and shield him from the tempest of the fight. But a Volunteer of forty!—Is not that an odd production? I do not mean a “City Volunteer,” nor a “County Volunteer;” but an individual who joins a regiment of the line on service in the field, by permission of its Colonel—clothes himself—and, although avowedly for the purpose of becoming soon an Ensign—and although received as a gentleman by the officers of the corps he joins, is drilled in the ranks, and fights as a private soldier. Such a man, I say, “begins at the beginning” of his profession, and has a tolerably long road to travel ere he obtain his first commission—that of Ensign. A Volunteer of forty, then, is a ridiculous anomaly, a rara avis in exercitu, and (thank Minerva!) was even more scarce during the Peninsular war, than is a French Eagle in “this piping time of peace.” However, we had one of those odd birds, nigroque simillima cygno, who flew out from his native hills in Cambria to the more classic mountains of the Pyrenees, at the very latter end of the very last campaign which the Anglo-Lusitanian army accomplished. Considering, then, this hero’s age, and the time at which he joined the standard of war, every one must allow that he did not “begin at the beginning;” and it must appear equally evident that he never could have become a CÆsar, even though he had lived to the age of old Parr.

This military aspirant arrived at Passages a little after the siege of San Sebastian, and I happened to be on the verge of the quay, as the vessel which contained him brought up:—it was a wretched-looking schooner, and not at all engaged in the service; but contained, in addition to the Volunteer, a cargo of butter, cheese, and ready-made slops.

When her anchor was dropped, and the master of the vessel, with his passenger, jumped on shore beside me, I thought the latter was the former, and the former a mate. Without hesitation I asked them had they come from England, and what news. The hero immediately furnished me with an abridgement of the preceding month’s “Times” and “Chronicle,” in such a peculiar way, and with such familiarity, that I immediately concluded I had caught hold of as odd a fish as ever came from the ocean; and I should have had no objection to examine him further, but the time which I had to spare was expired; and as he had concluded his report, I wished him good morning, stepped into the ferry-boat, and passed to the other side of the gut which divides the town.

When I had made the purchases of various articles of provision for which I had come to Passages, I went back to Renteria, the town in which I was quartered, and which is situated about a league from the former.

I had dined at home—(home! where is the soldier’s home?) I had dined at my quarters at Renteria, and had strolled along the beach, listening to the boat-women singing as they crossed the lake of Leso, when I saw the “new arrival” approaching the shore in a ferry-boat.

“Captain, Captain!” roared he out, “how are you again, Sir? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Thus was I saddled with his company, rather against my will; but as I had nothing either to amuse or employ me at that moment, I submitted quietly, and we walked together towards the market-place. It was during this walk I learned that my companion was not the master of the butter-schooner, but a “Gentleman Volunteer,” absolutely on his way to the head-quarters of the army. So sincerely did he assure me of this, ridiculous as it appeared, that I hesitated not to offer the hospitality of my quarters, which he very readily accepted, and we lost not a moment in proceeding to crack a bottle; or, rather, broach a pig-skin, for in such vessels was the wine of Renteria usually contained.

We sat together for a few hours, and I found that, in his new profession, my guest was an enthusiast of the most capacious calibre; yet upon other subjects rational, and sometimes acute. To carry the matter by comparison, I will say that his intellect could have hit a thought, as a screw-barrelled pocket pistol might the ace of hearts, at ten paces, when aimed and discharged by a tolerably good shot—he would never fly a mile from it, but seldom if ever pop right through the centre. A short extract from the conversation of the evening will outline my man, far better than comment. This I will attempt from memory. In the dialogue, I will call him I. and myself II.—not that there were two to one against the Volunteer in any sense; but for the sake of brevity.

I. Yes, Captain, I have determined to join my gallant countrymen in their glorious cause, and lend a hand to pull down the tyrant Buonaparte.

II. That is laudable, Sir; but I fear it will not be very profitable to you.

I. Profitable! I don’t much care for profit, so as I obtain well-earned promotion.

II. The war is now drawing to a close, and it will be difficult to succeed in your hopes.

I. The war, Sir, will never end. Excuse me, Sir—when I say never, I say only with the everlasting Scriptures, “We shall have wars and wars and rumours of wars.” Besides, Sir, the Russians, and Prussians, and Austrians, and even British, I fear, cannot effectually overcome that scourge of civil liberty, Napoleon.

II. Pardon me, Sir, I think his day is drawing to a close.

I. Impossible! the hordes of the North must vanish before him, even like the chaff before the wind. England is the only hope.

II. Be that as it may: your Ensigncy will not be very long coming, if you get it at the fall of Buonaparte.

I. I would give up all my hopes to see him fall; for in taking the crown, he betrayed the cause that raised him to glory.

II. Then I suppose you say, he sold liberty for a crown?

I. Precisely. Look at Cromwell, Sir; the man, like David, after God’s own heart—he reigned without a crown. Look at the Roman republic, Sir—that was sold for a crown. Look to America—no crowns there.

II. If you have such objections to crowns, why wish to fight for them?

I. Indeed, Sir, I am now only—a—talking as it were—a—on public matters. I am as loyal as any man.

II. ’Pon my honour, if opinions upon such subjects were often canvassed in the army, even by men of half your age, they would stand but a poor chance of promotion.

I. Half my age:—how old do you think I am?

II. About fifty-two.

I. What!—Oh, you joke.

II. Well, how old are you?

I. I’m not yet forty.

II. Forty! that’s pretty well, I think, for a Volunteer.

I. It is, in my mind, the proper age for every thing which requires the full energy of the mind; and what calls for that more than the art of war? I always had a taste for the noble profession—I have taught military tactics.

II. Taught!

I. Yes, Sir, taught—and some of my pupils are now Captains in the local militia.

II. Indeed!

I. Yes, Sir; I led the business of one of the first schools in England.

II. God bless me!

I. Forty! Have you read CÆsar, Sir?—Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres, &c.—He was beyond that age, when his talents came into the field. Look at Washington, Sir, that “patriÆ Columen”—he was also beyond that age when he took up arms. Cromwell, too—see what a soldier he became. Pichegru, also, was at my age before he was made an officer. And let me tell you, Sir, that boys are not fit to command—give me the man, whose sense and judgment are matured. I don’t mind two years as Ensign;—I get my Lieutenancy before I am forty-two: there are now many Lieutenants older than that, Sir.—Well—I know the use of tactics, and as to fighting—give me an opportunity. I wish I had been out time enough for the storming of San Sebastian! Let me have but an opportunity—I’ll die in the breach, or I’ll be promoted. I have entered the temple of Mars, Sir,—I have shaken the Ancilia—I have waved his sacred spear, and I have cried “Mars, Vigilia!” But, Sir, this is my motto:—

Do you understand that?

II. I see you are very enthusiastic.

I. And is there any thing to be done without it?

II. You are right. Come fill your glass again, Sir.

I. Oh, by George! I have filled too often: I have taken two glasses for your one; but pleasant company, and good wine, are persuasive arguments. Your very good health, Sir; and although you are not three-and-twenty, and I am forty, we shall see who will run up the hill fastest. Excuse me—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.” Your health, Sir.

II. I hope you will not be like Tantalus, in the waters of promotion.

I. What!—

Give me your hand, Sir; you are a classical scholar,—Horace,—I can see that:—I respect you, Sir;—I re-spect you, Sir.

II. What do you think of an ensign, who passed from the age of seventeen to forty-seven without promotion?

I. He must have had no education,—knew nothing,—nothing of tactics,—nothing of the art of war. I have made it my study; I am well acquainted with the best schools of warfare—the Grecian, the Roman, and the modern. Granicus, Marathon, and Pharsalia, are familiar to me. I have made myself acquainted with the characters of every great conqueror, from Charles the Twelfth, who was my favourite, down to Lord Wellington. The Duke of Marlborough’s campaigns I have deeply studied, and know every move in the battles of Fredlingen, Scardigen, Schwemmingen, Spinbach, Shellenberg, Blenheim, and Ramillies. In short, Sir, if I do not succeed, it will be my own fault.

II. With those qualifications for the military profession, it is to be lamented that you did not embrace it earlier in life.

I. If I had taken up the profession earlier, I should not have been so well qualified. A series of years devoted to the instruction of young gentlemen, in—not only military science—but of general learning, afforded me the very qualification by which I hope to rise in the army.

II. Come, fill again; you are not doing any thing at all.

I. Doing! Ecod, I am doing away with my brains, and I’m half done over; but a pleasant companion and good wine, I say again, are not to be resisted—

Isn’t that right, eh?

II. Tunc dolor et curÆ RUGAque frontis abit.

I. Excellent! good! fine! give me your hand.—Ovid, Sir—good! I respect you, Sir; I reverence you, Sir. You’ll be a general; you’ll be a great commander, depend upon it. I’ll fill a bumper; there, there, there! and now—here is wishing you every success—may you be a field-marshal!

II. Thank you; thank you:—when I am, I’ll recommend you for promotion, and do for all your sons.

I. Sons! I have no sons. I may say with the great North American Chief,—“There runs not one drop of my blood in any living creature.”

II. But this may not be so hereafter.

I. That’s all over, Sir. I once approached the steps of Hymen’s altar; but the torch of the god was quenched: it never shall be lighted for me again.

II. Ah! I suppose you were jilted?

I. Jilted! Sir, I was shamefully treated. I, for three years, courted a young lady; she was every thing to me; she personified the woman I all my life pictured in my imagination. She was two-and-twenty—tall—fine countenance—bold outline of features;—danced—played;—a perfect scholar, Sir.

II. Take care you don’t make such a beautiful form now, that, like Pygmalion, you will break your rash vow, and pray for the animated reality.

I. Oh, Sir; you delight me. Your classic conversation—I am glad,—glad,—very glad of your acquaintance.

II. Well, about the lady.

I. Ah, Sir! (a deep sigh.) I courted her for nearly three years; she approved—I approved—father and mother approved; and I had absolutely engaged to take a house, Sir—fine, spacious premises, fit for an extensive sch—seminary,—ladies’ seminary; for she was the daughter of the gentleman whose business I had conducted. Well, Sir, we were to be married; and what do you think?—Damn me! if she didn’t run away with a Sergeant of the Lancers, two days previous to our intended wedding!—Ah, Sir! (deep sigh) that broke down my habits of business. I gave up every thing connected with seminaries, or schools, or private tuition, and applied to General Dizzyman, for whom my father always votes: he gave me a letter to Colonel Pepperton, and I am now on my way to that gentleman. It produced a shock, Sir; but the life of a soldier will, I hope, make all things right again.

II. Hang all the sex!

I. Hang them all, I say, three times over—the jilts—the runaway wretches!

My guest now grew melancholy: he helped himself to more wine, and gradually fell into an unintelligible grumble. The poor fellow had no quarter; and as it was late, I could not think of turning him out, so applied to the Patron of my Caza for assistance. He was a good man, and offered a bed; so I directed my servant to lead my guest to his repose.

Next morning he was gone; but at about nine o’clock, as I was about to breakfast, he returned, came into my room and requested me to look out of the window at a purchase which he had made for twenty dollars. I looked out: it was a miserable donkey which he had that moment bought from a Portuguese. On its back was strapped an old saddle, with a still more veteran valise attached to it, while a pair of boots, balanced by a striped blue handkerchief full of sundry articles of provision, hung across the animal’s neck. With perfect good humour the adventurer philosophized on the poverty of his stud and baggage, giving me several appropriate quotations. We then sat down, and after eating a hearty breakfast of chocolate, eggs, and cold beef, he took his leave of me, mounted the ass, and proceeded slowly on the road to Irun, where the regiment to which he had his introduction was stationed.

I heard no more of the Volunteer until the day on which our troops crossed the Bidassoa—about three weeks after his departure from Renteria. It was in the evening, and about a mile from Irun, on the high road. He was walking in custody of the Provost Marshal—had on a red coatee, torn and bemudded—his head without its proper covering, and his whole aspect that of a madman. He recognized me in a moment, and my presence seemed to calm the rage which burnt within him,—to the no small delight of the Provost, who evidently had been very much troubled in the management of his charge. A part of the dialogue which passed between us I will try to recollect:—

Myself. What have you been doing?

Volunteer. Doing? I have been doing thankless work. I am disgusted with the service, Sir. A man of mind or genius has no business in it.

Myself. Bless me! what can all this mean?

Provost. The gentleman has been playing the very devil in front, Sir, and the General has ordered me to see that he goes to the rear.

Volunteer. Ay, playing the devil, Captain Provost. I wanted to prevent them from playing the devil; that stupid Colonel of mine knows no more of military tactics than a horse. Now mark you, Sir—the column of subdivisions was ordered to change its direction on a moveable pivot: “Left shoulders forward” was given instead of “right shoulders forward,” and I of course—thinking for the best—cried out to the Captain of the company I belonged to, that he was wrong; when he ordered me out of the ranks. I wouldn’t be treated so; therefore went up to the Colonel to speak with him on the subject, when the French began to fire grape shot in amongst us. The regiment halted before crossing the river, while the shot was coming thicker and thicker; so I was determined to tell my mind—for a good commanding officer would have moved his men a little under cover,—and I called out to the Colonel to advance, or to move by an oblique echelon to the left, in order to get the men under a high bank. What d’ye think, Sir?—he said he’d order me to be flogged if I did not immediately go to the rear! The column at this moment received a shower of shot which knocked some down; so, in the confusion of eight or ten of the men near the river, I was thrown off the bank—souse in the water, and was carried down luckily to the ford, or I should have been lost. I scrambled out—look how wet I am—and went back to the regiment, when the Colonel sent me to be flogged by the Provost: and if the General, God bless him! had not fortunately been riding by, I should have been disgracefully punished; but he asked what the matter was, and then sent me to the rear in charge of this gentleman.

Myself. Really, I think you acted very imprudently by interfering with the command.

Provost. Lord bless you, Sir; he threw the men into the greatest ferment and confusion.

Volunteer. I’ll tell you, Sir, that they are all ignorant fellows—all, Sir. I did every thing for the best, and this is the way I was treated: the fact of the matter is, the service is disgusting, and I will immediately return to England.

Myself. Where is your cap?

Volunteer. It was shot off my head a little before I was thrown into the Bidassoa.

I now prepared to part from my quondam acquaintance, for the day was advancing, and I had yet two leagues to go; so I recommended him to call at my late quarters at Renteria, where he would be hospitably received by the owner of the house: he thanked me, and relaxing into a smile as he nearly squeezed my hand off, he emphatically exclaimed, “I have this, at least, to consolate me:—I have stood the fire of the foe, and swam in the stream that waters Fontarabia: with the poet I may exclaim.

Thus we parted, and resumed our opposite marches—I for the front, and the volunteer, with his escort, for Renteria.