HARPER’S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE

VOLUME III.

JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1851.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

NOS. 329 AND 331 PEARL STREET,

(FRANKLIN SQUARE.)

1852.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This Number closes the Third Volume of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. In closing
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proof that their promise has been abundantly fulfilled.

The Magazine has reached its present enormous circulation, simply because it gives a
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CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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HARPER’S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XIII.—JUNE, 1851.—Vol. III.

SUMMER.

BY JAMES THOMSON

[Pg 7]

[Pg 12]

[Pg 16]

[Pg 23]

[Pg 25]

THE SIGHT OF AN ANGEL.

The date of the year was—no matter what;
the day of the month was—no matter what;
when a great general undertook to perform a
great victory—a great statesman undertook to
pass a great political measure—a great diplomatist
undertook a most important mission—a
great admiral undertook the command of a great
fleet; all which great undertakings were commanded
by the very same great monarch of a very
great nation. At the same time did a great
nobleman give a great entertainment at a great
house, and a great beauty made a great many
great conquests. On the same day, in the same
year, in a very small room, in a very small
house, in a very small street, in a very small
town in Germany, did a very poor mason commence
a very rude carving on a very rough
stone. All the public journals of the day told
a thousand times over the names of the great
general, the great statesman, the great diplomatist,
the great admiral, and the great monarch;
all the fashionable papers of the day did the
same of the great nobleman, the great company,
and the great beauty: but none of them spoke
of poor Johan Schmit, of the little town of ——,
on the Rhine.

Many years had passed away, and the date
of the year was—no matter what; but history
was telling of a great general who, with consummate
wisdom, courage, and skill, and at the
cost of numberless nameless lives, gained a
great victory, which determined the fate and
fortune of a great monarch and a great nation;
consequently affecting the fate and fortunes of
the world. It entered into minute detail of
how his forces were disposed; where lay the
right wing, where lay the left; where the cavalry
advanced, and how the infantry sustained
the attack; how the guns of the artillery played
upon the enemy’s flank and rear; and how the
heavy dragoons rode down the routed forces, and
how, finally, the field was covered with the enemy’s
dead and wounded, while so few of “our
own troops” were left for the kite and the carrion
crow. Then did history speak of the honors
that awaited and rewarded the triumphant
hero, of the clamorous homage of his grateful
country, and the approving smiles of his grateful
monarch; of the fêtes, the banquets, the
triumphal processions, all in his honor; of the
new titles, the lands, estates, and riches poured
upon him; of the state and luxury in which he
lived: until the tolling of every bell throughout
the kingdom, the eight-horse hearse, the mile-long
procession, the Dead March in “Saul,” and
the volley over the grave, announced that a
public statue, on a column a hundred feet high,
in the largest square of the largest town, was
all that could now record the name of the
greatest general of the greatest nation in the
world.

History then spoke of a great statesman who
on a certain day in a certain year, passed a certain
most important measure, affecting the interest
of a great nation, and consequently of
the whole world. It spoke of his wisdom and
foresight, the result of great intellect, energy
and labor, giving a biographic sketch of his
career from cradle to coffin; dismissing him
with a long eulogium on his talents, integrity,
and activity, and lamenting the loss such great
men were to their country. Then came the
name of the great diplomatist whose services
had been equally important, and who was dismissed
with a similar memoir and eulogium.
Then the great admiral, who lived through a
whole chapter all to himself, and had his name
brought in throughout the whole history of the
great monarch whose reign had been rendered
so brilliant by the great deeds of so many great
men. Of the great feast given by the great
nobleman, and the conquests of the great beauty,
there remains to this day a record, of the former
in the adulatory poems of his flatterers, though
the giver was gone—no matter where; of the
latter many fair portraits and many fond sonnets,
though the object had gone—no matter
where. But no scribe told the history, no
poet made a sonnet, no artist drew the portrait
of poor Johan Schmit, the mason, who made the
rude carving on the rough stone in the little
town of ——, on the Rhine. This task remains
for an historian as obscure as himself, who now
begins a rude carving on the rough stone of a
human life.

After the example of the great historian already
alluded to, I shall touch but lightly on
the early history of my hero; merely stating
that thirty years before the present date, Johan
Schmit was born to Johan Schmit the elder, by
his wife Gretchen, after a similar presentation
of five others; that he got through the usual
maladies childhood is heir to, and was at the
age of fifteen apprenticed to Herman Schwartz,
a master-builder in the town of Bonn. There,
after some years of hod-carrying, mortar-spreading,
and stone-cutting—ascending steadily, both
literally and metaphorically, the ladder of his
profession—honest Johan took a prudent, diligent
woman to wife, who lost no time in making
him the father of three thriving heirs to his
house and his hod. Johan was in tolerably
good work, lived in the small house in the small
street already mentioned, and kept his family,
without much pinching on the part of the thrifty
Gertrude, in their beer, thick bread, and sauerkraut.
His work, his wife, his children, and his
two companions, Karl Vratz, and Caspar Katzheim,
with whom he drank very hoppy beer at
the “Gold Apfel,” just round the corner of the
street, comprised the whole interests which
occupied the heart and brain of Johan Schmit,
of the little town of ——, on the Rhine. Johan
had no other idea in his head when he rose in
the morning than the day’s work, the same as
it was yesterday, and would be to-morrow; no
other thought when he returned from it in the[Pg 26]
evening than that Frudchen had his supper
ready for him, that little Wilhelm and Johan
would run to meet him, and that little Rosechen,
the baby, would crow out of her cradle at him,
if awake, and that after his supper he would
just walk down to the “Gold Apfel,” and
smoke a pipe with Karl and Caspar as usual.
But Johan went to church occasionally with his
wife, going through his routine of crossings,
genuflexions, and sprinklings with holy water as
orderly as any man. He heard the priest speak
of doing his duty and obeying the church.
Johan believed he did both; his duty—hard
work—lay plainly before him; he was honest,
sober, and kind to his family, and had certainly
no idea or intention of disobeying the church.
Thus, in a monotonous task of hard labor for
daily bread and the support of an increasing
family, plodded contentedly away the life of
Johan Schmit of the little town of ——, on the
Rhine.

But there is an era in the life of every one,
even the most plodding and homely; and so it
was with Johan Schmit. It happened one day
that he was sent for to repair a broken wall in
the château of the Count von Rosenheim, situated
not far from the town where Johan lived, on
the Rhine; and having completed his job, the
housekeeper (the count being absent) took the
poor mason through the splendid rooms as a
treat. Here he beheld what he had never seen
in his life before; velvet curtains, silken sofas,
crystal mirrors, gilded frames, paintings, and
sculpture; until his eyes were more dazzled
than they had been since the first time he
entered the cathedral of Bonn. But after gazing
his fill upon all this gorgeous spectacle, his
eyes happened to fall upon a small bronze
statuette of an angel, which the housekeeper
informed him was a copy of the Archangel
Michael, from some church, she knew not
where.

Here was Johan arrested, and here would he
have stood forever; for, after looking upon this
angel, he saw nothing more: every thing vanished
from before him, and nothing remained
but the small bronze statuette. Johan had
seen plenty of angels before in the churches,
fresh-colored, chubby children, and he often
thought his own little Rosechen would look
just like them if she had wings; but this was
something far different. A youth under twenty,
and yet it gave no more idea of either age or
sex than of any other earthly condition. Clad
in what Johan supposed would represent luminous
scale-armor, something dazzling and transparent,
like what he had heard the priests call
the “armor of God”—the hands crossed upon
the bosom, the head slightly bowed, the attitude
so full of awe, obedience, and humility; and
yet what attitude of human pride or defiance
was half so lofty, so noble, so dignified? The
sword hung sheathed by the side, the long wings
folded; but the face—oh, how could he describe
that face, so full of high earnestness and holy
calm? so bright, so serious, so serene! He felt
awed, calmed, and elevated as he looked at
it.

“You must go now,” exclaimed Madame
Grossenberg; and Johan started from his reverie,
made his bow, replaced his paper cap, and went
home, with his head full of the angel instead of
his work. He saw it there instead of stout
Frudchen and the children, who climbed about,
and wondered at his abstraction. He went to
bed, and dreamed of the angel—glorified it
seemed to be—and, perhaps for the first time in
his life, recalled his dream, and saw the beautiful
vision before his waking eyes all the next
day at his work—even in the “Gold Apfel,”
the most unlikely place for an angel; and again
when he closed his eyes to sleep. In short, the
angel became to him what his gold is to the
miser, his power is to the ambitious man, and
his mistress to the lover: he saw nothing else
in the whole world but the angel; and this now
filled the heart and brain of poor Johan Schmit,
of the little town of ——, on the Rhine.

There are some things we desire to possess,
and other things we desire to produce; the
former is the feeling of the connoisseur and
collector: the latter, of the artist. The first
requires taste and money; the latter—we won’t
say what it requires, or what it evinces, for
enough has been said on the subject already.
Johan Schmit had no money; taste he must
have had, or he could not have admired the
angel; he was no artist, certainly; he had
never drawn a line, or cut any thing but a
stone in his life; and yet he felt he must do
something about that angel. He saw it so
plainly and so constantly before him, that he
felt he could copy it, if he only knew how.
Now, as he could not draw, he could not copy
it in that manner; but as he could cut stone,
no matter how hard, he did not see why he
might not attempt to cut the angel upon a
large stone, which he procured, and brought
quietly up to a small garret at the top of his
house for that purpose.

It was at this time that the general, the
statesman, the diplomatist, and the admiral,
all severally planned their great undertakings;
and it was at this time that a strange thought
passed through the brain of Johan Schmit, as
he sate looking at the great rough stone before
him. Johan was, as we have seen, quite an
uneducated man; he hardly knew enough of
writing to spell his own name; and as to reading,
he had never looked into a book since he
left school, at the age of twelve; he therefore
hardly knew the nature of his own ideas. His
thoughts, never arranged, were but like vague
sensations passing through his mind, which he
could not define; but if he could have defined
them they would have taken something like the
following expression:

The angel seemed to have awakened a new
world within him; not that he thought of the
legend of the Archangel Michael, which he had
heard long ago, and forgotten; but of the first
idea of the artist who designed that particular[Pg 27]
angel: what must have been his thoughts!
what image must he have had before him as he
made that form grow from the marble block
into living beauty! Whence could such an
idea have come? It must surely have been a
visitation from God—a spark of his own creative
power. And how must the artist have felt as,
day by day and hour by hour, he saw his work
developing and perfecting before him, until at
last it stood up, a sight to make men wonder
and almost worship—an embodiment of all that
was pure, lofty, and holy. Then came the contrast
of his own sordid work, so low, so slave-like,
so brute-like. What human idea could be
put into hod-carrying, mortar-spreading, and
stone-cutting? Could not an animal or a
machine do as much? For the first time, perhaps,
in his life, Johan felt that he had a soul
not to be bounded by the limits of his work or
the daily necessities of existence; and in his
rough way he asked himself: How can the
higher aspirations of that soul be reflected in
man’s every-day life? and whether a human
mind should be bounded by the narrow routine
of plodding toil, for the supplying of common
wants? And all these thoughts, vague, unformed,
a dim and undefined sense of something,
passed through Johan’s brain as he sate cutting
away at the stone, and trying to form the angel
in his little garret, in the little town of ——,
on the Rhine. Patiently he labored at it after
his day’s work was over; patiently he bore all
his failures, when he saw in the indistinct outline
that the angel’s arm was too short, its right
leg crooked, its wings shapeless, and its head,
instead of bending gracefully, stuck upon its
breast like an excrescence; patiently he bore
the scoldings of his wife for his dullness and
abstraction, and the tricks of his children to
arouse him; patiently he listened to the remonstrances
of Karl and Caspar, for his bad companionship
at the “Gold Apfel;” and patiently
he bore the still more serious remonstrances of
his master, at the careless and negligent manner
in which he often performed his work, when a
vision of the angel chanced to flit with more
than usual vividness before him. Time wore
on; and if Johan did not progress rapidly with
his angel, Gertrude was far more active and
diligent in presenting him with images in
another material, and urging loudly at the same
time the necessity of working hard for an increasing
family. Poor Gertrude: she was a
good woman, and loved her husband without
understanding him; but she had a quick temper,
and was what is commonly called a shrew.
She thought Johan wanted rousing; and to
rouse him she rated him: he bore it all patiently,
and thought of the angel—it was
strange how that angel soothed and consoled
him! Caspar, his fellow-workman, fell from a
scaffold, and broke his leg. Caspar, too, had a
wife and children: Johan undertook his work—he
worked double hours, and divided his wages
with Caspar.

Karl revealed to him in confidence over his
pipe at the “Gold Apfel,” that he was in debt,
and had been threatened with a jail: Johan
lent him the money unknown to Gertrude, and
worked hard to make it up; as he knew Karl
could never pay him.

He had now no time to work at the angel;
and time was going on with him. By his little
broken looking-glass he could see his beard
growing gray; but strange to say, the angel,
though less distinct in form than when he saw
it, was still firmly fixed in his memory; and
though it seemed to be etherialized, he could
always call up its image before him; and still,
every moment he could spare, did he hasten to
his garret, and cut away at the rough stone.
But these hours were stolen from his natural
rest, and nature punished the theft; his strength
visibly declined. Yet he could not abandon his
work—and this not from any ambitious ideas
of its success, for he never dreamed of succeeding—he
felt his own inability too much to hope
for it;—but there was something in the exercise
of will, mind, and heart—something which
seemed to elevate him in spite of himself, while
at his employment, that balanced all other feelings
of disappointment and weariness, making
him a happier—no, that is not the word, but a
nobler—man. And now Johan Schmit had
contrived to apprentice his eldest son, send his
second to school, pay the doctor’s long bill for
two children, and bury another; besides having
helped Caspar during his illness, and paid
Karl’s debt. Thrifty Gertrude managed to
keep things together; and in her cleaning and
bustling had no time to observe the wan face
and wasted frame of her husband. The stone
had been gradually cut into a form which was
nearly as shapeless as before Johan touched it;
and yet, to his eyes, it did bear some rude resemblance
to the angel of his inspiration—which
appeared before his eyes so vividly as he
returned from an unusually-long and hard day’s
work to his home, that he thought he could just
put one or two finishing strokes before going to
bed which would recall his dimly-remembered
model. Without touching supper or pipe, he
embraced his wife and children, and went to his
garret. He looked long on the rude block before
him, and then took up his hammer and
chisel to complete his work. After two or three
attempts, an unwonted languor stole over him;
the tools dropped from his hands, and he worked
no more; but the vision of the angel before his
eyes grew stronger and stronger, and of something
brighter and more glorious than the angel,
but he did not attempt to carve it.

In the early morning Gertrude awoke, and
was surprised not to see her husband. Thinking
he might have risen to his work earlier than
usual, she arose and went down stairs; the
door was bolted, and there were no signs of
Johan. She called; no answer: then, becoming
alarmed, she roused the children to look for
him. The small house was soon searched, but
no Johan discovered; when Wilhelm, remembering
the garret he had seen his father steal away[Pg 28]
into, ascended the ladder leading to it—and
there, on his knees, his head resting on the rude
block of stone, lay the lifeless body of Johan
Schmit. The last thing his eyes beheld on
earth was that angel;—but who can say on
what vision they opened.

His wife and children removed to Bonn, to
her father; who had saved money, and promised
to take care of them. His body was laid in
the little cemetery of the little town: his widow
placed a wooden cross at the head of his grave,
which in time, rotted and fell down; so that the
place is now left unmarked by any thing. That
stone, on which a human heart had carved
itself out, was broken up to mend the town
wall. And thus, while a large marble slab,
with a long inscription, covers the remains of
the great general, the great statesman, the
great diplomatist, the great admiral, the great
nobleman, and the great beauty—not even a
piece of wood or a block of stone tells of the
mere existence of poor Johan Schmit, of the
little town of ——, on the Rhine.

They could work out their idea of life, and
the objects for which it was given, by their successful
dedication of it to pride, ambition, vanity,
and coquetry. He could not; but who can
tell what effect that futile effort, that unknown
and profitless toil, may have had upon the fate
of his soul where it now is?

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[1]

CHAPTER XXIX.

“THE BREAKFAST AT LETTERKENNY.”

Early the next morning, a messenger arrived
from the Cranagh, with a small packet
of my clothes and effects, and a farewell letter
from the two brothers. I had but time to
glance over its contents, when the tramp of
feet and the buzz of voices in the street attracted
me to the window, and on looking out
I saw a long line of men, two abreast, who
were marching along as prisoners, a party of
dismounted dragoons, keeping guard over them
on either side, followed by a strong detachment
of marines. The poor fellows looked sad and
crest-fallen enough. Many of them wore bandages
on their heads and limbs, the tokens of
the late struggle. Immediately in front of the
inn door stood a group of about thirty persons;
they were the staff of the English force and the
officers of our fleet, all mingled together, and
talking away with the greatest air of unconcern.
I was struck by remarking that all our
seamen, though prisoners, saluted the officers
as they passed, and in the glances interchanged
I thought I could read a world of sympathy and
encouragement. As for the officers, like true
Frenchmen, they bore themselves as though it
were one of the inevitable chances of war, and,
however vexatious for the moment, not to be
thought of as an event of much importance.
The greater number of them belonged to the
army, and I could see the uniforms of the staff,
artillery, and dragoons, as well as the less distinguished
costume of the line.

Perhaps they carried the affectation of indifference
a little too far, and in the lounging ease
of their attitude, and the cool unconcern with
which they puffed their cigars, displayed an
over-anxiety to seem unconcerned. That the
English were piqued at their bearing was still
more plain to see; and indeed in the sullen
looks of the one and the careless gayety of the
other party, a stranger might readily have mistaken
the captor for the captive.

My two friends of the evening before were in
the midst of the group. He who had questioned
me so sharply now wore a general officer’s
uniform, and seemed to be the chief in command.
As I watched him, I heard him addressed
by an officer, and now saw that he was
no other than Lord Cavan himself, while the
other was a well-known magistrate and country
gentleman, Sir George Hill.

The sad procession took almost half an hour
to defile; and then came a long string of country
cars and carts, with sea chests and other
stores belonging to our officers, and, last of all,
some eight or ten ammunition wagons and gun
carriages, over which an English union-jack
now floated in token of conquest.

There was nothing like exultation or triumph
exhibited by the peasantry as this pageant
passed by. They gazed in silent wonderment
at the scene, looked like men that scarcely knew
whether the result boded more of good or evil
to their own fortunes. While keenly scrutinizing
the looks and bearing of the bystanders I
received a summons to meet the general and
his party at breakfast.

Although the occurrence was one of the most
pleasurable incidents of my life, which brought
me once more into intercourse with my comrades
and my countrymen, I should perhaps
pass it over with slight mention, were it not
that it made me witness to a scene which has
since been recorded in various different ways,
but of whose exact details I profess to be an
accurate narrator.

After making a tour of the room, saluting
my comrades, answering questions here, putting
others there, I took my place at the long table,
which, running the whole length of the apartment,
was indiscriminately occupied by French
and English, and found myself with my back
to the fire-place, and having directly in front of
me a man of about thirty-three or four years of
age, dressed in the uniform of a chef de brigade;
light-haired and blue-eyed, he bore no resemblance
whatever to those around him, whose
dark faces and black beards, proclaimed them of
a foreign origin. There was an air of mildness
in his manner, mingled with a certain impetuosity
that betrayed itself in the rapid glances of
his eye, and I could plainly mark that while the
rest were perfectly at their ease, he was constrained,
restless, watching eagerly every thing
that went forward about him, and showing
unmistakably a certain anxiety and distrust[Pg 29]
widely differing from the gay and careless indifference
of his comrades. I was curious to
hear his name, and on asking, learned that he
was the Chef de Brigade Smith, an Irishman
by birth, but holding a command in the French
service.

I had but asked the question, when pushing
back his chair from the table, he arose suddenly,
and stood stiff and erect, like a soldier
on the parade.

“Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied with your
inspection of me,” cried he, and sternly addressing
himself to some one behind my back. I
turned and perceived it was Sir George Hill,
who stood in front of the fire, leaning on his
stick. Whether he replied or not to this rude
speech I am unable to say, but the other walked
leisurely round the table, and came directly in
front of him. “You know me now, sir, I presume,”
said he, in the same imperious voice,
“or else this uniform has made a greater
change in my appearance than I knew of.”

“Mr. Tone!” said Sir George, in a voice
scarcely above a whisper.

“Ay, sir, Wolfe Tone; there is no need of
secrecy here; Wolfe Tone, your old college acquaintance
in former times, but now chef de
brigade in the service of France.”

“This is a very unexpected, a very unhappy
meeting, Mr. Tone,” said Hill, feelingly; “I
sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory
of our past acquaintance. My duty gives me
no alternative.”

“Your duty, or I mistake much, can have no
concern with me, sir,” cried Tone, in a more
excited voice.

“I ask for nothing better than to be sure of
this, Mr. Tone,” said Sir George, moving slowly
toward the door.

“You would treat me like an emigré rentré,”
cried Tone, passionately; “but I am a French
subject and a French officer.”

“I shall be well satisfied if others take the
same view of your case, I assure you,” said Hill,
as he gained the door.

“You’ll not find me unprepared for either
event, sir,” rejoined Tone, following him out of
the room, and banging the door angrily behind
him.

For a moment or two the noise of voices was
heard from without, and several of the guests,
English and French, rose from the table, eagerly
inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an
explanation of the scene, when suddenly the
door was flung wide open, and Tone appeared
between two policemen, his coat off, and his
wrists inclosed in handcuffs.

“Look here, comrades,” he cried in French;
“this is another specimen of English politeness
and hospitality. After all,” added he, with a
bitter laugh, “they have no designation in all
their heraldry as honorable as these fetters,
when worn for the cause of freedom! Good-by,
comrades; we may never meet again, but
don’t forget how we parted!”

These were the last words he uttered, when
the door was closed, and he was led forward
under charge of a strong force of police and
military. A post-chaise was soon seen to pass
the windows at speed, escorted by dragoons, and
we saw no more of our comrade.

The incident passed even more rapidly than
I write it. The few words spoken, the hurried
gestures, the passionate exclamations, are yet
all deeply graven on my memory; and I can
recall every little incident of the scene, and
every feature of the locality wherein it occurred.
With true French levity many reseated themselves
at the breakfast-table; while others, with
perhaps as little feeling, but more of curiosity,
discussed the event, and sought for an explanation
of its meaning.

“Then what’s to become of Tiernay,” cried
one, “if it be so hard to throw off this ‘coil of
Englishman?’ His position may be just as
precarious.”

“That is exactly what has occurred,” said
Lord Cavan; “a warrant for his apprehension
has just been put into my hands, and I deeply
regret that the duty should violate that of hospitality,
and make my guest my prisoner.”

“May I see this warrant, my lord?” asked I.

“Certainly, sir. Here it is; and here is the
information on oath through which it was
issued, sworn to before three justices of the
peace by a certain Joseph Dowall, late an
officer in the rebel forces, but now a pardoned
approver of the Crown; do you remember such
a man, sir?”

I bowed, and he went on.

“He would seem a precious rascal; but such
characters become indispensable in times like
these. After all, M. Tiernay, my orders are
only to transmit you to Dublin under safe escort,
and there is nothing either in my duty or in your
position to occasion any feeling, of unpleasantness
between us. Let us have a glass of wine
together.”

I responded to this civil proposition with
politeness, and after a slight interchange of
leave-takings with some of my newly-found
comrades, I set out for Derry on a jaunting-car,
accompanied by an officer and two policemen,
affecting to think very little of a circumstance
which, in reality, the more I reflected over the
more serious I deemed it.

CHAPTER XXX.

A SCENE IN THE ROYAL BARRACKS.

It would afford me little pleasure to write,
and doubtless my readers less to read my lucubrations,
as I journeyed along toward Dublin.
My thoughts seldom turned from myself and
my own fortunes, nor were they cheered by the
scenes through which I traveled. The season
was a backward and wet one, and the fields,
partly from this cause, and partly from the
people being engaged in the late struggle, lay
untilled and neglected. Groups of idle, lounging
peasants stood in the villages, or loitered on
the high roads, as we passed, sad, ragged-looking,[Pg 30]
and wretched. They seemed as if they had
no heart to resume their wonted life of labor,
but were waiting for some calamity to close their
miserable existence. Strongly in contrast with
this were the air and bearing of the yeomanry
and militia detachments, with whom we occasionally
came up. Quite forgetting how little
creditable to some of them, at least, were the
events of the late campaign, they gave themselves
the most intolerable airs of heroism, and
in their drunken jollity, and reckless abandonment,
threatened, I know not what—utter ruin
to France and all Frenchmen. Bonaparte was
the great mark of all their sarcasms, and, from
some cause or other, seemed to enjoy a most disproportioned
share of their dislike and derision.

At first it required some effort of constraint
on my part to listen to this ribaldry in silence;
but prudence, and a little sense, taught me the
safer lesson of “never minding,” and so I
affected to understand nothing that was said
in a spirit of insult or offense.

On the night of the 7th of November we
drew nigh to Dublin; but instead of entering
the capital, we halted at a small village outside
of it called Chapelizod. Here a house
had been fitted up for the reception of French
prisoners, and I found myself, if not in company,
at least under the same roof with my
countrymen.

Nearer intercourse than this, however, I was
not destined to enjoy, for early on the following
morning I was ordered to set out for the Royal
Barracks, to be tried before a court-martial. It
was on a cold, raw morning, with a thin, drizzly
rain falling, that we drove into the barrack-yard,
and drew up at the mess-room, then used
for the purposes of a court. As yet none of
the members had assembled, and two or three
mess-waiters were engaged in removing the
signs of last night’s debauch, and restoring a
semblance of decorum to a very rackety-looking
apartment. The walls were scrawled over
with absurd caricatures, in charcoal or ink,
of notorious characters of the capital, and a
very striking “battle-piece” commemorated the
“Races of Castlebar,” as that memorable action
was called, in a spirit, I am bound to say,
of little flattery to the British arms. There
were to be sure little compensatory illustrations
here and there of French cavalry in Egypt,
mounted on donkeys, or revolutionary troops on
parade, ragged as scarecrows, and ill-looking as
highwaymen; but a most liberal justice characterized
all these frescoes, and they treated
both Trojan and Tyrian alike.

I had abundant time given me to admire
them, for although summoned for seven o’clock,
it was nine before the first officer of the court-martial
made his appearance, and he having
popped in his head, and perceiving the room
empty; sauntered out again, and disappeared.
At last a very noisy jaunting-car rattled into
the square, and a short, red-faced man was assisted
down from it, and entered the mess-room.
This was Mr. Peters, the Deputy Judge Advocate,
whose presence was the immediate signal
for the others, who now came dropping in from
every side, the President, a Colonel Daly, arriving
the last.

A few tradespeople, loungers, it seemed to me,
of the barrack, and some half-dozen non-commissioned
officers off duty, made up the public;
and I could not but feel a sense of my insignificance
in the utter absence of interest my fate
excited. The listless indolence and informality,
too, offended and insulted me; and when the
President politely told me to be seated, for they
were obliged to wait for some books or papers
left behind at his quarters, I actually was indignant
at his coolness.

As we thus waited, the officers gathered
around the fire-place, chatting and laughing
pleasantly together, discussing the social events
of the capital, and the gossip of the day; every
thing, in fact, but the case of the individual on
whose future fate they were about to decide.

At length the long-expected books made their
appearance, and a few well-thumbed volumes
were spread over the table, behind which the
Court took their places, Colonel Daly in the centre,
with the Judge upon his left.

The members being sworn, the Judge Advocate
arose, and in a hurried, humdrum kind of
voice, read out what purported to be the commission
under which I was to be tried; the
charge being, whether I had or had not acted
treacherously and hostilely to his Majesty, whose
natural born subject I was, being born in that
kingdom, and, consequently, owing to him all
allegiance and fidelity. “Guilty or not guilty,
sir?”

“The charge is a falsehood; I am a Frenchman,”
was my answer.

“Have respect for the Court, sir,” said
Peters; “you mean that you are a French
officer, but by birth an Irishman.”

“I mean no such thing;—that I am French
by birth, as I am in feeling—that I never saw
Ireland till within a few months back, and
heartily wish I had never seen it.”

“So would General Humbert, too, perhaps,”
said Daly, laughing; and the Court seemed to
relish the jest.

“Where were you born, then, Tiernay?”

“In Paris, I believe.”

“And your mother’s name, what was it?”

“I never knew; I was left an orphan when
a mere infant, and can tell little of my family.”

“Your father was Irish, then?”

“Only by descent. I have heard that we
came from a family who bore the title of ‘Timmahoo’—Lord
Tiernay of Timmahoo.”

“There was such a title,” interposed Peters;
“it was one of King James’s last creations after
his flight from the Boyne. Some, indeed, assert
that it was conferred before the battle. What
a strange coincidence, to find the descendant, if
he be such, laboring in something like the same
cause as his ancestor.”

“What’s your rank, sir?” asked a sharp,
severe-looking man, called Major Flood.[Pg 31]

“First Lieutenant of Hussars.”

“And is it usual for a boy of your years to
hold that rank; or was there any thing peculiar
in your case that obtained the promotion?”

“I served in two campaigns, and gained my
grade regularly.”

“Your Irish blood, then, had no share in your
advancement?” asked he again.

“I am a Frenchman, as I said before,” was
my answer.

“A Frenchman, who lays claim to an Irish
estate and an Irish title,” replied Flood. “Let
us hear Dowall’s statement.”

And now, to my utter confusion, a man made
his way to the table, and, taking the book from
the Judge Advocate, kissed it in token of an
oath.

“Inform the Court of any thing you know in
connection with the prisoner,” said the Judge.

And the fellow, not daring even to look
toward me, began a long, rambling, unconnected
narrative of his first meeting with me at Killala,
affecting that a close intimacy had subsisted
between us, and that in the faith of a confidence,
I had told him how, being an Irishman by birth,
I had joined the expedition in the hope that
with the expulsion of the English I should be
able to re-establish my claim to my family rank
and fortune. There was little coherence in his
story, and more than one discrepant statement
occurred in it; but the fellow’s natural stupidity
imparted a wonderful air of truth to the narrative,
and I was surprised how naturally it sounded
even to my own ears, little circumstances of
truth being interspersed through the recital, as
though to season the falsehood into a semblance
of fact.

“What have you to reply to this, Tiernay?”
asked the Colonel.

“Simply, sir, that such a witness, were his
assertions even more consistent and probable, is
utterly unworthy of credit. This fellow was
one of the greatest marauders of the rebel army:
and the last exercise of authority I ever witnessed
by General Humbert was an order to drive him
out of the town of Castlebar.”

“Is this the notorious Town-Major Dowall?”
asked an officer of artillery.

“The same, sir.”

“I can answer, then, for his being one of the
greatest rascals unhanged,” rejoined he.

“This is all very irregular, gentlemen,” interposed
the Judge Advocate; “the character of a
witness can not be impugned by what is mere
desultory conversation. Let Dowall withdraw.”

The man retired, and now a whispered conversation
was kept up at the table for about a
quarter of an hour, in which I could distinctly
separate those who befriended from those who
opposed me, the Major being the chief of the
latter party. One speech of his which I overheard
made a slight impression on me, and for
the first time suggested uneasiness regarding
the event.

“Whatever you do with this lad must have
an immense influence on Tone’s trial. Don’t
forget that if you acquit him you’ll be sorely
puzzled to convict the other.”

The Colonel promptly overruled this unjust
suggestion, and maintained that in my accent,
manner, and appearance, there was every evidence
of my French origin.

“Let Wolfe Tone stand upon his own merits,”
said he, “but let us not mix this case with his.”

“I’d have treated every man who landed to
a rope,” exclaimed the Major, “Humbert himself
among the rest. It was pure ‘brigandage,’
and nothing less.”

“I hope if I escape, sir, that it will never be
my fortune to see you a prisoner of France,”
said I, forgetting all in my indignation.

“If my voice have any influence, young man,
that opportunity is not likely to occur to you,”
was the reply.

This ungenerous speech found no sympathy
with the rest, and I soon saw that the Major
represented a small minority in the Court.

The want of my commission, or of any document
suitable to my rank or position in the service,
was a great drawback; for I had given all
my papers to Humbert, and had nothing to substantiate
my account of myself. I saw how unfavorably
this acknowledgement was taken by
the Court; and when I was ordered to withdraw
that they might deliberate, I own that I felt
great misgivings as to the result.

The deliberation was a long, and as I could
overhear, a strongly disputed one. Dowall was
twice called in for examination, and when he
retired on the last occasion, the discussion grew
almost stormy.

As I stood thus awaiting my fate, the public,
now removed from the Court, pressed eagerly to
look at me; and while some thronged the door-way,
and even pressed against the sentry, others
crowded at the window to peep in. Among
these faces, over which my eye ranged in half
vacancy, one face struck me, for the expression
of sincere sympathy and interest it bore. It
was that of a middle-aged man of an humble
walk in life, whose dress bespoke him from the
country. There was nothing in his appearance
to have called for attention or notice, and at
any other time I should have passed him over
without remark, but now, as his features betokened
a feeling almost verging on anxiety, I
could not regard him without interest.

Whichever way my eyes turned, however my
thoughts might take me off, whenever I looked
toward him, I was sure to find his gaze steadily
bent upon me, and with an expression quite distinct
from mere curiosity. At last came the
summons for me to reappear before the Court,
and the crowd opened to let me pass in.

The noise, the anxiety of the moment, and
the movement of the people confused me at first,
and when I recovered self-possession, I found
that the Judge Advocate was reciting the charge
under which I was tried. There were three distinct
counts, on each of which the Court pronounced
me “Not Guilty,” but at the same
time qualifying the finding by the additional[Pg 32]
words—”by a majority of two;” thus showing
me that my escape had been a narrow one.

“As a prisoner of war,” said the President,
“you will now receive the same treatment as
your comrades of the same rank. Some have
been already exchanged, and some have given
bail for their appearance to answer any future
charges against them.”

“I am quite ready, sir, to accept my freedom
on parole,” said I; “of course, in a country
where I am an utter stranger, bail is out of the
question.”

“I’m willing to bail him, your worship; I’ll
take it on me to be surety for him,” cried a
coarse, husky voice from the body of the court;
and at the same time a man dressed in a great
coat of dark frieze pressed through the crowd
and approached the table.

“And who are you, my good fellow, so ready
to impose yourself on the Court?” asked Peters.

“I’m a farmer of eighty acres of land, from
the Black Pits, near Baldoyle, and the Adjutant
there, Mr. Moore, knows me well.”

“Yes,” said the Adjutant, “I have known
you some years, as supplying forage to the
cavalry, and always heard you spoken of as
honest and trust-worthy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moore; that’s as much as
I want.”

“Yes; but it’s not as much as we want, my
worthy man,” said Peters; “we require to know
that you are a solvent and respectable person.”

“Come out and see my place then; ride over
the land and look at my stock; ask my neighbors
my character; find out if there’s any thing
against me.”

“We prefer to leave all that trouble on your
shoulders,” said Peters; “show us that we
may accept your surety and we’ll entertain the
question at once.”

“How much is it?” asked he, eagerly.

“We demanded five hundred pounds for a
Major on the staff; suppose we say two, Colonel,
is that sufficient?” asked Peters of the President.

“I should say quite enough,” was the reply.

“There’s eighty of it any way,” said the
farmer, producing a dirty roll of bank notes,
and throwing them on the table; “I got them
from Mr. Murphy in Smithfield this morning,
and I’ll get twice as much more from him for
asking; so if your honors will wait ’till I come
back, I’ll not be twenty minutes away.”

“But we can’t take your money, my man;
we have no right to touch it.”

“Then what are ye talking about two hundred
pounds for?” asked he, sternly.

“We want your promise to pay in the event
of this bail being broken.”

“Oh, I see, it’s all the same thing in the end;
I’ll do it either way.”

“We’ll accept Mr. Murphy’s guarantee for
your solvency,” said Peters; “obtain that and
you can sign the bond at once.”

“Faith I’ll get it sure enough, and be here
before you’ve the writing drawn out;” said he,
buttoning up his coat.

“What name are we to insert in the bond?”

“Tiernay, sir.”

“That’s the prisoner’s name, but we want
yours.”

“Mine’s Tiernay too, sir, Pat Tiernay of the
Black Pits.”

Before I could recover from my surprise at
this announcement he had left the Court, which,
in a few minutes afterward, broke up, a clerk
alone remaining to fill up the necessary documents
and complete the bail-bond.

The Colonel, as well as two others of his
officers, pressed me to join them at breakfast,
but I declined, resolving to wait for my name-sake’s
return, and partake of no other hospitality
than his.

It was near one o’clock when he returned,
almost worn out with fatigue, since he had
been in pursuit of Mr. Murphy for several hours,
and only came upon him by chance at last.
His business, however, he had fully accomplished;
the bail-bond was duly drawn out and
signed, and I left the barrack in a state of happiness
very different from the feeling with which
I had entered it that day.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A BRIEF CHANGE OF LIFE AND COUNTRY.

My new acquaintance never ceased to congratulate
himself on what he called the lucky
accident that had led him to the barracks that
morning, and thus brought about our meeting.
“Little as you think of me, my dear,” said he,
“I’m one of the Tiernays of Timmahoo myself;
faix, until I saw you, I thought I was the last
of them! There are eight generations of us in
the church-yard at Kells, and I was looking to
the time when they’d lay my bones there, as
the last of the race, but I see there’s better fortune
before us.”

“But you have a family I hope?”

“Sorrow one belonging to me. I might have
married when I was young, but there was a
pride in me to look for something higher than I
had any right, except from blood, I mean; for a
better stock than our own isn’t to be found;
and that’s the way years went over and I lost
the opportunity, and here I am now an old
bachelor, without one to stand to me, barrin’ it
be yourself.”

The last words were uttered with a tremulous
emotion, and on turning toward him I saw his
eyes swimming with tears, and perceived that
some strong feeling was working within him.

“You can’t suppose I can ever forget what I
owe you, Mr. Tiernay.”

“Call me Pat, Pat Tiernay,” interrupted he,
roughly.

“I’ll call you what you please,” said I, “if
you let me add friend to it.”

“That’s enough; we understand one another
now, no more need be said; you’ll come home
and live with me. It’s not long, maybe, you’ll
have to do that same; but when I go you’ll be
heir to what I have: ’tis more, perhaps, than[Pg 33]
many supposes, looking at the coat and the
gaiters I’m wearin’. Mind, Maurice, I don’t
want you, nor I don’t expect you to turn farmer
like myself. You need never turn a hand to
any thing. You’ll have your horse to ride—two
if you like it. Your time will be all your own,
so that you spend a little of it, now and then,
with me, and as much divarsion as ever you
care for.”

I have condensed into a few words the substance
of a conversation which lasted till we
reached Baldoyle; and passing through that not
over-imposing village, gained the neighborhood
of the sea-shore, along which stretched the farm
of the “Black Pits,” a name derived, I was
told, from certain black holes that were dug in
the sands by fishermen in former times, when
the salt tide washed over the pleasant fields
where corn was now growing. A long, low,
thatched cabin, with far more indications of
room and comfort than pretension to the picturesque,
stood facing the sea. There were neither
trees nor shrubs around it, and the aspect of
the spot was bleak and cheerless enough, a
coloring a dark November day did nothing to
dispel.

It possessed one charm, however, and had it
been a hundred times inferior to what it was,
that one would have compensated for all else—hearty
welcome met me at the door, and the
words, “This is your home, Maurice,” filled my
heart with happiness.

Were I to suffer myself to dwell even in
thought on this period of my life, I feel how insensibly
I should be led away into an inexcusable
prolixity. The little meaningless incidents of
my daily life, all so engraven on my memory
still, occupied me pleasantly from day till night.
Not only the master of myself and my own
time, I was master of every thing around me.
Uncle Pat, as he loved to call himself, treated
me with a degree of respect that was almost
painful to me, and only when we were alone
together, did he relapse into the intimacy of
equality. Two first-rate hunters stood in my
stable; a stout-built half-deck boat lay at my
command beside the quay; I had my gun and
my grayhounds; books, journals; every thing,
in short, that a liberal purse and a kind spirit
could confer—all but acquaintance. Of these
I possessed absolutely none. Too proud to descend
to intimacy with the farmers and small
shopkeepers of the neighborhood, my position
excluded me from acquaintance with the gentry;
and thus I stood between both, unknown to
either.

For a while my new career was too absorbing
to suffer me to dwell on this circumstance.
The excitement of field sports sufficed me when
abroad, and I came home usually so tired at
night that I could barely keep awake to amuse
Uncle Pat with those narratives of war and campaigning
he was so fond of hearing. To the
hunting-field succeeded the Bay of Dublin, and
I passed days, even weeks, exploring every creek
and inlet of the coast; now cruising under the
dark cliffs of the Welsh shore, or, while my boat
lay at anchor, wandering among the solitary
valleys of Lambay; my life, like a dream full
of its own imaginings, and unbroken by the
thoughts or feelings of others! I will not go
the length of saying that I was self-free from
all reproach on the inglorious indolence in which
my days were passed, or that my thoughts
never strayed away to that land where my first
dreams of ambition were felt. But a strange
fatuous kind of languor had grown upon me,
and the more I retired within myself, the less did
I wish for a return to that struggle with the
world which every active life engenders. Perhaps—I
can not now say if it were so—perhaps
I resented the disdainful distance with which
the gentry treated me, as we met in the hunting-field
or the coursing-ground. Some of the isolation
I preferred may have had this origin, but
choice had the greater share in it, until at last
my greatest pleasure was to absent myself for
weeks on a cruise, fancying that I was exploring
tracts never visited by man, and landing on
spots where no human foot had ever been known
to tread.

If Uncle Pat would occasionally remonstrate
on the score of these long absences, he never
ceased to supply means for them, and my sea
store and a well-filled purse were never wanting,
when the blue Peter floated from “La
Hoche,” as in my ardor I had named my cutter.
Perhaps at heart he was not sorry to see me
avoid the capital and its society. The bitterness
which had succeeded the struggle for independence
was now at its highest point, and there
was what, to my thinking at least, appeared
something like the cruelty of revenge in the
sentences which followed the state trials. I
will not suffer myself to stray into the debatable
ground of politics, nor dare I give an opinion on
matters, where, with all the experience of fifty
years superadded, the wisest heads are puzzled
how to decide; but my impression at the time
was, that lenity would have been a safer and a
better policy than severity, and that in the momentary
prostration of the country lay the precise
conjuncture for those measures of grace
and favor, which were afterward rather wrung
from than conceded by the English government.
Be this as it may, Dublin offered a
strange spectacle at that period. The triumphant
joy of one party—the discomfiture and depression
of the other. All the exuberant delight
of success here; all the bitterness of failure
there. On one side festivities, rejoicings,
and public demonstrations; on the other, confinement,
banishment, or the scaffold.

The excitement was almost madness. The
passion for pleasure, restrained by the terrible
contingencies of the time, now broke forth with
redoubled force, and the capital was thronged
with all its rank, riches, and fashion, when its
jails were crowded, and the heaviest sentences
of the law were in daily execution. The state
trials were crowded by all the fashion of the
metropolis; and the heart-moving eloquence of[Pg 34]
Curran was succeeded by the strains of a merry
concert. It was just then, too, that the great
lyric poet of Ireland began to appear in society,
and those songs which were to be known afterwards
as “The Melodies,” par excellence, were
first heard in all the witching enchantment
which his own taste and voice could lend
them. To such as were indifferent to or could
forget the past, it was a brilliant period. It
was the last flickering blaze of Irish nationality,
before the lamp was extinguished for ever.

Of this society I myself saw nothing. But
even in the retirement of my humble life the
sounds of its mirth and pleasure penetrated,
and I often wished to witness the scenes which
even in vague description were fascinating. It
was then in a kind of discontent at my exclusion,
that I grew from day to day more disposed
to solitude, and fonder of those excursions which
led me out of all reach of companionship or
acquaintance. In this spirit I planned a long
cruise down channel, resolving to visit the Island
of Valencia, or, if the wind and weather favored,
to creep around the southwest coast as far
as Bantry or Kenmare. A man and his son, a
boy of about sixteen, formed all my crew, and
were quite sufficient for the light tackle and
easy rig of my craft. Uncle Pat was already
mounted on his pony, and ready to set out for
market, as we prepared to start. It was a
bright spring morning—such a one as now and
then the changeful climate of Ireland brings
forth, in a brilliancy of color and softness of atmosphere
that are rare in even more favored
lands.

“You have a fine day of it, Maurice, and just
enough wind,” said he, looking at the point
from whence it came. “I almost wish I was
going with you.”

“And why not come, then?” asked I. “You
never will give yourself a holiday. Do so for
once, now.”

“Not to-day, any how,” said he, half sighing
at his self-denial. “I have a great deal of
business on my hands to-day; but the next
time—the very next you’re up to a long cruise,
I’ll go with you.”

“That’s a bargain, then?”

“A bargain. Here’s my hand on it.”

We shook hands cordially on the compact.
Little knew I it was to be for the last time, and
that we were never to meet again.

I was soon aboard, and with a free mainsail
skimming rapidly over the bright waters of the
bay. The wind freshened as the day wore on,
and we quickly passed the Kish light-ship, and
held our course boldly down channel. The
height of my enjoyment in these excursions
consisted in the unbroken quietude of mind I
felt, when removed from all chance of interruption,
and left free to follow out my own fancies,
and indulge my dreamy conceptions to my
heart’s content. It was then I used to revel in
imaginings which sometimes soared into the
boldest realms of ambition, and at other
strayed contemplatively in the humblest walks
of obscure fortune. My crew never broke in
upon these musings; indeed old Tom Finnerty’s
low crooning song rather aided than interrupted
them. He was not much given to talking, and
a chance allusion to some vessel afar off, or
some head-land we were passing, were about
the extent of his communicativeness, and even
these often fell on my ear unnoticed.