where we were to receive our M. P., who was to arrive by the 10 o’clock train, and from thence we were to march to our various positions.
Crabtrees was to remain at the White Hart in the town until sent for, and was then to come up with his detachment to conduct the pursuit.
The ten o’clock train arrived, and with it the M.P., who shook hands with all the officers, and complimented individually every non-commissioned officer and private on his soldierlike appearance.
The M.P.’s daughter, who was to present the bugle, was lovely, and I burned to distinguish myself, and obtain, perhaps, an approving smile, or even a crown of laurels which she might—who knows?—have secreted in her pocket. The laurels, not the smile, I mean.
We marched off, our band playing one of our favourite airs. I regret not being able to state which it was; but, unfortunately, the first-cornet, who always played the melody, was ill with the toothache, and was unable to attend parade, so we were obliged to march with accompaniments only, but the big drum did his duty nobly, and we did not miss the first-cornet so much, after all.
At length we reached the parade-ground. I stole a glance at the M.P.’s fair daughter as I marched my men off to take up the position of the attacking French army, and my heart throbbed audibly through my uniform.
When we arrived, imagine my chagrin at being told by our drill-sergeant, who appeared quite to ignore me, that my position was to be a stationary one, and that, in imitation of Napoleon and his look-out tower, I must climb a tree and from thence watch the proceedings. I was never good at climbing; but, with a little assistance, and—I am sorry to say, for the credit of our discipline—an occasional reminder from some of my men’s bayonets, I reached the second bough.
Our fellows behaved splendidly. Hugomont—or the cow-shed—was taken and retaken, and at length the time arrived for the last grand charge. Human nature could stand it no longer. I had been doing patience on a monument for two hours, and was thoroughly sick of it, so I determined to depart from history and my tree and lead the charge myself.
I had some difficulty in getting down, and when I had succeeded my men were already charging, and just as I was running after them at my best pace whom should I see coming up between us but that confounded Crabtrees and his supposed Prussians?
They had evidently lunched at the White Hart, and appeared to have taken more to drink than was good for them. However that might be, they no sooner caught sight of me than they raised a shout of “There’s Bonaparte himself—let’s take him prisoner!”
I turned and fled.
It was in vain. My figure was not calculated for running, and they gained upon me at every step; but still I held on, I scrambled over hedges and through ditches, but still I felt that they could catch me at any moment. I unclasped my sword-belt in hopes that that trophy would be sufficient for them. But, no! one picked it up and the others still pursued; they evidently looked upon me as the representative of invasion, and were determined on revenge.
I ran till I could run no longer, and then sank exhausted. They seized me, and in spite of all my protestations and strugglings and explanations that I was only Codlings, and not Bonaparte, they dragged me to a duck-pond. I heard a “One two, three, and away!” and the next moment I was floundering in four feet of black mud.
I struggled out as I best might. The first man I saw was Crabtrees, who apologised for the behaviour of his men with a smile on his countenance for which I could have slain him then and there.
When I recovered myself a little, I crawled rather than walked up to the parade-ground, and arrived just after the bugle had been presented.
My appearance was the signal for a general shout of laughter. Even the M.P.’s pretty daughter—whose semi-official position should have kept her quiet—laughed. The more I stormed and swore, the more they all laughed; and well they might, for I presented the spectacle of a dripping nigger.
The next morning I went to the colonel, and lodged my complaint against Crabtrees; but it was of no use, he only laughed at me, and I then expressed myself in the words with which I began my sad tale.
I have, since writing the above, just seen the “Gazette,” in which I perceive the following:
Imagine my disgust.
W. H. S.
BY THE ROSANNA.
To F. M.
Stanzer Thal, Tyrol.
The old grey Alp has caught the cloud,
And the torrent river sings aloud;
The glacier-green Rosanna sings
An organ song of its upper springs.
Foaming under the tiers of pine,
I see it dash down the dark ravine,
And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,
With an earnest will to find its way.
Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder,
And, thundering ever of the mountain,
Slaps in sport some giant boulder,
And tops it in a silver fountain.
A chain of foam from end to end.
And a solitude so deep, my friend,
You may forget that man abides
Beyond the great mute mountain-sides.
Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude
Of river and rock and forest rude,
The roaring voice through the long white chain,
Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.
I find it where I sought it least;
I sought the mountain and the beast,
The young thin air that knits the nerves,
The chamois ledge, the snowy curves;
Earth in her whiteness looking bold
To Heaven for ever as of old.
And lo, if I translate the sound
Now thundering in my ears around,
