Love is never so happy—so gay—so delightful—so fascinating, as when he decorates himself in military trappings; and had his little godship been consulted upon how his portrait ought to have been set forth by the poets and the artists, I have no doubt but he would have directed them to have pictured him in the dress of a soldier. He always has delighted in camps and barracks; the clashing of arms sets his heart into a glow, and the sound of the drum makes him flutter his wings like a rising lark. Yet, with all this preference for the profession of the sword, his happiness is seldom long-lived, and he is often—very often, found weeping over his broken joys—or toys, as they may be—in bitterness, as proportionately poignant as his pleasures were vivid. For the truth of this, I appeal to the individuals of the British army who have served with the little deity, and to those who are still better judges—their sweethearts.

Amongst the many instances of romantic and unfortunate love which have fallen under my observation in the service, is the case of a friend of mine—a young officer of the **th regiment of infantry—to which are attached circumstances so interesting, that I feel I shall not be intruding on my readers in sketching a brief history of its light and shade.

Without giving the real names of the parties, in doing which I should not feel myself warranted, I will tell the story; and it will not, I hope, lose its title to credence, by romantic substitutes. Let us then call one Allemar, and the other Ellen.

Allemar was about four-and-twenty when he first saw Ellen: she was not then quite sixteen; and although not altogether the “angelic” and “etherial” beauty which he imagined her to be, and as which his passionate language was wont to speak of her, yet was she a sweet girl—such a girl as one, possessing her, would not be inclined to change for another, although a thousand beauties were given him for choice:—yellow-silky hair—fine expressive blue eyes—teeth like ivory—middle size—shape like Venus herself:—gentle, yet acute in thought; and as musical in her soul as the spheres are said to be in their bodies. He was a manly, open-hearted—and, what his companions called—a good-looking fellow; but the ladies of his acquaintance (and the ladies are the best judges in the world of such matters) all agreed that he was irresistible amongst them—whether from his manliness of person, his elegance of mind, or his suavity of manners; or whether from the happy combination of these three qualifications, I am not prepared to say—but certain it is that he was “the man for the ladies.”

When first he marched into the town of ***** in his light-infantry dress, on the flank of his company, the band merrily playing, and the sun brightly glistening on his accoutrements, I ween—as bards say—he disturbed many a quiet heart, and kept many bright eyes from sleeping so well as they before had been accustomed to do. The regiment was covered with white dust, and the summer’s sun gave the countenances of the men a fresh and ruddy appearance. When the officers retired to the inn, and were lounging at its parlour windows, out of the many beautiful females who passed and repassed, (for ladies have always a deal of out-door work to do—such as visiting, shopping, &c.—on the day a new regiment marches into a town,) few did not look kindly on my friend Allemar. I witnessed their glances, and, to do the dear angelic beings justice, they expressed their meaning in the most mistressly manner.

However, Ellen was not amongst them; nor did Allemar meet with her until two months after his arrival at ****. He was, however, not unknown to her, although she was completely so to him: she seldom passed a day without seeing him, and with each sight increased her disposition to see him again. At length, they were introduced to each other at the house of a mutual acquaintance; and from that hour they were never happy asunder. Their opportunities of meeting were, at first, not very frequent, owing to the prudent vigilance of her widowed mother and a dragon of an old maiden relation, who had little else to do but attend to Ellen’s morals: however, Allemar was fortunate enough to attract the kind notice of this antique virgin, and therefore found his opportunities of conversing with his beloved increase. I have often been present when they met during a rural walk, and from what I witnessed in the ancient lady’s manner towards my friend, I have no doubt that she regarded him with a tenderness wholly incompatible with their relative ages. And so changed, too, in her general demeanour!—From a stiff, cold, sour, puritanical Duenna, she, all on a sudden, was transformed into a giggling, foolish, taudry-dressed flirt. Instead of an umbrella she now carried a yellow parasol; and although seldom without clogs of a moist day before, now ambled in blue-satin shoes. Her conversation, too, was now on the beautiful tints of the clouds—the varieties and fragrance of the flowers—illustrating her opinions by quotations from Darwin’s “Loves of the Plants.” She would sigh as she spoke to Allemar of the happiness of true friendship, and the sweets of retirement with those “we esteemed!”—There is no doubt of it—she was in love with him, and this love was very nigh proving the means of depriving poor Allemar of his Ellen for ever; for when she found that her hints, and her sighs, and her languishes, were all thrown away upon him, and that he was not only the lover, but the beloved of her beautiful relation, she turned out the most terrible of all she dragons that ever opened a mouth. But enough of her, let her go to the—the place to which all superannuated maids must go at last:—she has nothing more to do with my story—so adieu!

Allemar and Ellen met, and met again;—they walked together by the moonlight, and parted often as the day peeped over them—they loved truly, passionately, virtuously:—they seemed made for each other; and to have divided such would have been the scathing of all that is divine in love—the destruction of all that such lovers value more than existence itself.

However, they were obliged to separate; but not without a hope of meeting again. Allemar’s regiment was ordered to march for Portugal; and as Ellen’s friends were not disposed to let her marry at that time—even had Allemar received the consent of his—it was agreed upon between the lovers, that they should wait a more favourable opportunity of uniting in matrimony: at the same time, pledging each other to eternal faith in love.

It was in May the regiment received the route; and Allemar passed the night previous to marching in sweet converse with his beloved Ellen. What a romantic night! Let the reasoner say what he will—let the philosopher prate with his cold tongue—there is nothing of more real worth to the heart than the sweets of early love;—and the hour of parting between two true and virtuous lovers is a melancholy pleasure, perhaps equalling in tender delight their happiest meeting. It was a beautiful night—there was not a breath of wind; and the moon, shining brightly down, threw a fairy light over the whole scene.

On this night, as the clock struck twelve, the enthusiastic and romantic Allemar stood under Ellen’s window, in the orchard which was beneath it, and with his enchanting voice, accompanied by an old harper—such as we read of in romance—and a “second” from me, serenaded his Beloved. The harp was a small one, but well-toned;—the harper was a fine bass singer—a man whose pupil in music Allemar was—and I, although but an indifferent vocalist, made up the trio. The scene—the time—the music—the circumstance of parting—all conspired to impress me with an idea of a romantic dream, the memory of which can never leave me. These are the words of the

SERENADE.

I.

LOVER.

(Two Voices.)

HARPER.

(Bass—One Voice.)

TRIO.

II.

LOVER.

(Two Voices.)

HARPER.

(Bass—One Voice.)

TRIO.

The regiment marched at sunrise; and my friend with it. He went to Portugal, but returned at the end of the year on sick leave (love-sick leave, no doubt), and was happily married to his Ellen. They lived together for six months; when Allemar was obliged to join his regiment, then stationed before Bayonne; and as every body expected an immediate peace, the friends of Ellen wished her to remain at home, hoping that when the war was at an end, her husband’s regiment would be ordered back to England. However, when Allemar had been but a month gone, the mother of Ellen died. As soon as her feelings for the loss of her beloved parent had subsided into calm, she determined to proceed to join her husband—the only being now in whose society she could be happy. For this purpose, she wrote to him, and having arranged every thing for her departure, she, and a female servant, were provided with a passage on board a commodious transport for St. Jean De Luz, and sailed with a fair wind for the Bay of Biscay.

The letter she wrote to apprize her husband of her intention, breathed for him the most passionate affection; and it was certainly not thrown away upon Allemar: his love for her was, if possible, greater than hers for him. He was like a moping hypochondriac at Bayonne, before he received this letter; but immediately on its receipt, became the most lively, spirited, and pleasant officer in the corps. He and I have often walked along the beach, looking out for the expected ship and the scenes of happiness which he anticipated formed the subject generally of our conversation—he talked of going on half-pay if peace should take place, and to live a rural life—then he would describe, in glowing terms, the happiness of contentment and retirement, in comparison with the ambition, toil, and peril, of a soldier’s life. These and such were the dreams of fancy, in which we used to indulge, when wandering by the sea-side.

About a fortnight after he had received the letter announcing his wife’s resolution to join him, the weather became very stormy; and one morning, after breakfast, Allemar came to me with an expression of anxiety in his face, which he could not disguise: he seemed cold, and was endeavouring to check, by internal efforts, a certain trembling which was evident all over his frame. I asked him what was the matter. He replied, that a fleet of transports were in sight, and as it blew so violently, great fear was entertained by the pilots, with whom he had spoken, that many of them would be driven on shore; for in such weather, to make the port was impossible. I saw how things were, but I consoled my friend as much as I possibly could, by seeming to laugh at the idea of such danger.

We hastened down to the beach, and there joined a group of navy officers, French pilots, fishermen, &c., whose remarks upon the vessels in the offing were such as to give rise to the most serious apprehensions in me for the safety of my friend’s wife, should she be so unfortunate as to have come on board one of the ships then struggling with an increasing tempest on a lee-shore. I pitied my friend from my heart, when I looked at his face and saw the workings of his feelings there so strongly depicted.

He would not move from the beach the whole day, except occasionally to make inquiries in the town of St. Jean de Luz, as to the means of assistance to be rendered the vessels in case of necessity. By his field-glass he often fancied he saw the letters which marked the transport in which his Ellen sailed, and was as often set right by me. The vessel in which she took her passage, was marked A. Z. T., in letters of two feet in length; and the glass nearly dropped from my hand, when I perceived the identical letters on the quarter of a brig which had been all the morning nearly out of sight, but now approached the land. I could not tell my friend of what I saw; but he too soon confirmed my discovery, and clasping his hands in the most intense agony of mind, cried out, “It is the ship—O God, protect her!”

We hastened to the port, where my friend, half distracted, called on the boatmen to go out; but the answer was, that they did not think any of the ships would go aground; and also that the sea was too rough for boats. However, by the means of gold, he persuaded a couple of hardy and brave French fishermen to attempt the assistance of the ship, in which he believed his wife then to be. The boat in which they were to put off for the transport was as large as the Deal boats, and with Deal smugglers on board, might “live” through any sea: great hopes, therefore, were entertained that the fisherman would be successful.

My friend insisted on going along with them, and when he was about to step into the boat he handed me his keys; then shaking me heartily by the hand, gave me to understand what he dared not speak—nor, indeed, could I have heard—without exhibiting a woman’s weakness. As it was, we were not far from it—a word would have unmanned us.

The boat bounded away from the harbour over the high surges, shaping her course well for her object; and considering that she had to beat to windward, she made wonderful progress: however, it was four o’clock ere she got within half a mile of the vessel. The tempest was now increasing frightfully—the worn out transports seemed as if they were giving up the ghost to the overwhelming storm—none carried more canvass than topsails close reefed, and the opinion of every one on the beach was, that all would be wrecked if the weather did not change. It was getting dark: I saw the boat labouring amidst the hills of foaming water, and the ship was within hail of her. It darkened:—we could see no more of either boat or ships; and could only ascertain what direction they were in by the flashes of the occasional guns of distress which some of them fired. It was a sickening sight. I knew not what to do:—I could do nothing—except, indeed, offer up my prayers for the safety of the poor souls that were hurling over the frightful abyss of horrors.14

Guns were repeated and repeated; but no assistance could those on shore render the ships. I was bewildered;—I wandered home—back again—lay down—arose restless—watched the daylight; and then was the horrid reality:—the ship had gone to pieces; so had the boat—my dear friend, and all his dream of happiness, gone! Not a being either in the ship or boat was saved, and the bodies of Allemar and Ellen were washed on shore about a mile below St. Jean de Luz.

This catastrophe has since caused me many painful reflections. The manner in which the lovers met and died in the tempest, was before my eyes night and day for a long time after it happened: indulging in these melancholy thoughts, I drew the following imaginative picture of their fate:—

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