Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 20

CHAPTER XXV. A PASSING VISIT TO KILLALA

I found a very pleasant party assembled around the bishop’s breakfast-table at Killala. The bishop and his family were all there, with Charost and his staff, and some three or four other officers from Ballina. Nothing could be less constrained, more easy, or more agreeable, than the tone of intimacy which in a few days had grown up between them. A cordial good feeling seemed to prevail on every subject, and even the reserve which might be thought natural on the momentous events then happening was exchanged for a most candid and frank discussion of all that was going forward, which, I must own, astonished as much as it gratified me.

The march on Castlebar, the choice of the mountain-road, ‘which led past the position occupied by the Royalists, the attack and capture of the artillery, had all to be related by me for the edification of such as were not conversant with French; and I could observe that however discomfited by the conduct of the militia, they fully relied on the regiments of the line and the artillery. It was amusing, too, to see with what pleasure they listened to all our disparagement of the Irish volunteers.

Every instance we gave of insubordination or disobedience delighted them, while our own blundering attempts to manage the people, the absurd mistakes we fell into, and the endless misconceptions of their character and habits, actually convulsed them with laughter.

‘Of course,’ said the bishop to us, ‘you are prepared to hear that there is no love lost between you, and that they are to the full as dissatisfied with you as you are dissatisfied with them?’

‘Why, what can they complain of?’ asked Charost, smiling; ‘we gave them the place of honour in the very last engagement!’

‘Very true, you did so, and they reaped all the profit of the situation. Monsieur Tiernay had just told the havoc that grape and round shot scattered amongst the poor creatures. However, it is not of this they complain – it is their miserable fare, the raw potatoes, their beds in open fields and highways, while the French, they say, eat of the best and sleep in blankets; they do not understand this inequality, and perhaps it is somewhat hard to comprehend.’

‘Patriotism ought to be proud of such little sacrifices,’ said Charost, with an easy laugh; ‘besides, it is only a passing endurance: a month hence, less, perhaps, will see us dividing the spoils, and revelling in the conquest of Irish independence.’

‘You think so, colonel?’ asked the bishop, half slyly.

‘Parbleu! to be sure I do – and you?’

‘I’m just as sanguine,’ said the bishop, ‘and fancy that, about a month hence, we shall be talking of all these things as matters of history; and while sorrowing over some of the unavoidable calamities of the event, preserving a grateful memory of some who came as enemies but left us warm friends.’

‘If such is to be the turn of fortune,’ said Charost, with more seriousness than before, ‘I can only say that the kindly feelings will not be one-sided.’

And now the conversation became an animated discussion on the chances of success or failure. Each party supported his opinion ably and eagerly, and with a degree of freedom that was not a little singular to the bystanders. At last, when Charost was fairly answered by the bishop on every point, he asked —

‘But what say you to the Army of the North?’

‘Simply, that I do not believe in such a force,’ rejoined the bishop.

‘Not believe it – not believe on what General Humbert relies at this moment, and to which that officer yonder is an accredited messenger! When I tell you that a most distinguished Irishman, Napper Tandy – ’

‘Napper Tandy!’ repeated the bishop, with a good-humoured smile; ‘the name is quite enough to relieve one of any fears, if they ever felt them. I am not sufficiently acquainted with your language to give him the epithet he deserves, but if you can conceive an empty, conceited man, as ignorant of war as of politics, rushing into a revolution for the sake of a green uniform, and ready to convulse a kingdom that he may be called a major-general, only enthusiastic in his personal vanity, and wanting even in that heroic daring which occasionally dignifies weak capacities – such is Napper Tandy.’

‘What in soldier-phrase we call a “Blague,”’ said Charost, laughing; ‘I’m sorry for it.’

What turn the conversation was about to take I cannot guess, when it was suddenly interrupted by one of the bishop’s servants rushing into the room, with a face bloodless from terror. He made his way up to where the bishop sat, and whispered a few words in his ear.

‘And how is the wind blowing, Andrew?’ asked the bishop, in a voice that all his self-command could not completely steady.

‘From the north, or the north-west, and mighty strong, too, my lord,’ said the man, who trembled in every limb.

The affrighted aspect of the messenger, the excited expression of the bishop’s face, and the question as to the ‘wind,’ at once suggested to me the idea that a French fleet had arrived in the bay, and that the awful tidings were neither more nor less than the announcement of our reinforcement.

‘From the north-west,’ repeated the bishop; ‘then, with God’s blessing, we may be spared.’ And so saying, he arose from the table, and with an effort that showed that the strength to do so had only just returned to him.

‘Colonel Charost, a word with you!’ said he, leading the way into an adjoining room.

‘What is it? – what has happened? – what can it be?’ was asked by each in turn. And now groups gathered at the windows, which all looked into the court of the building, now crowded with people, soldiers, servants, and country-folk gazing earnestly towards the roof of the castle.

‘What’s the matter, Terry?’ asked one of the bishop’s sons, as he threw open the window.

‘Tis the chimbley on fire, Master Robert,’ said the man; ‘the kitchen chimbley, wid those divils of Frinch!’

I cannot describe the burst of laughter that followed the explanation.

So much terror for so small a catastrophe was inconceivable; and whether we thought of Andrew’s horrified face, or the worthy bishop’s pious thanksgiving as to the direction of the wind, we could scarcely refrain from another outbreak of mirth. Colonel Charost made his appearance at the instant, and although his step was hurried, and his look severe, there was nothing of agitation or alarm on his features.

‘Turn out the guard, Truchet, without arms,’ said he. ‘Come with me, Tiernay – an awkward business enough,’ whispered he, as he led me along. ‘These follows have set fire to the kitchen chimney, and we have three hundred barrels of gunpowder in the cave!’ Nothing could be more easy and unaffected than the way he spoke this; and I actually stared at him, to see if his coldness was a mere pretence, but far from it – every gesture and every word showed the most perfect self-possession, with a prompt readiness for action.

When we reached the court, the bustle and confusion had reached its highest, for, as the wind lulled, large masses of inky smoke hung, like a canopy, overhead, through which a forked flame darted at intervals, with that peculiar furnacelike roar that accompanies a jet of fire in confined places. At times, too, as the soot ignited, great showers of bright sparks floated upwards, and afterwards fell, like a fiery rain, on every side. The country-people, who had flocked in from the neighbourhood, were entirely occupied with these signs, and only intent upon saving the remainder of the house, which they believed in great peril, totally unaware of the greater and more imminent danger close beside them.

Already they had placed ladders against the walls, and, with ropes and buckets, were preparing to ascend, when Truchet marched in with his company, in fatigue-jackets, twenty sappers with shovels accompanying them.

‘Clear the courtyard, now,’ said Charost, ‘and leave this matter to us.’

The order was obeyed somewhat reluctantly, it is true, and at last we stood the sole occupants of the spot, the bishop being the only civilian present, he having refused to quit the spot, unless compelled by force.

The powder was stored in a long shed adjoining the stables, and originally used as a shelter for farming tools and utensils. A few tarpaulins we had carried with us from the ships were spread over the barrels, and on this now some sparks of fire had fallen, as the burning soot had been carried in by an eddy of wind.

The first order was, to deluge the tarpaulins with water; and while this was being done, the sappers were ordered to dig trenches in the garden, to receive the barrels. Every man knew the terrible peril so near him; each felt that at any instant a frightful death might overtake him, and yet every detail of the duty was carried on with the coldest unconcern; and when at last the time came to carry away the barrels, on a species of hand-barrow, the fellows stepped in time, as if on the march, and moved in measure, a degree of indifference, which, to judge from the good bishop’s countenance, evidently inspired as many anxieties for their spiritual welfare as it suggested astonishment and admiration for their courage.

He himself, it must be owned, displayed no sign of trepidation, and in the few words he spoke, or the hints he dropped, exhibited every quality of a brave man.

At moments the peril seemed very imminent indeed. Some timber having caught fire, slender fragments of burning wood fell in masses, covering the men as they went, and falling on the barrels, whence the soldiers brushed them off with cool indifference. The dense, thick smoke, too, obscuring every object a few paces distant, added to the confusion, and occasionally bringing the going and returning parties into collision, a loud shout, or cry, would ensue; and it is difficult to conceive how such a sound thrilled through the heart at such a time. I own that more than once I felt a choking fulness in the throat, as I heard a sudden yell, it seemed so like a signal for destruction. In removing one of the last barrels from the hand-barrow, it slipped, and, falling to the ground, the hoops gave way, it burst open, and the powder fell out on every side. The moment was critical, for the wind was baffling, now wafting the sparks clear away, now whirling them in eddies around us. It was then that an old sergeant of grenadiers threw off his upper coat and spread it over the broken cask, while, with all the composure of a man about to rest himself, he lay down on it, while his comrades went to fetch water. Of course his peril was no greater than that of every one around him, but there was an air of quick determination in his act which showed the training of an old soldier. At length the labour was ended, the last barrel was committed to the earth, and the men, formed into line, were ordered to wheel and march. Never shall I forget the bishop’s face as they moved past. The undersized and youthful look of our soldiers had acquired for them a kind of depreciating estimate in comparison with the more mature and manly stature of the British soldier, to whom, indeed, they offered a strong contrast on parade; but now, as they were seen in a moment of arduous duty, surrounded by danger, the steadiness and courage, the prompt obedience to every command, the alacrity of their movements and the fearless intrepidity with which they performed every act, impressed the worthy bishop so forcibly, that he muttered half aloud, ‘Thank Heaven there are so few of them!’

Colonel Charost resisted steadily the bishop’s proffer to afford the men some refreshment; he would not even admit of an extra allowance of brandy to their messes. ‘If we become too liberal for slight services, we shall never be able to reward real ones,’ was his answer; and the bishop was reduced to the expedient of commemorating what he could not reward. This, indeed, he did with the most unqualified praise, relating in the drawing-room all that he had witnessed, and lauding French valour and heroism to the very highest.

The better to conceal my route, and to avoid the chances of being tracked, I sailed that evening in a fishing-boat for Killybegs, a small harbour on the coast of Donegal, having previously exchanged my uniform for the dress of a sailor, so that if apprehended I should pretend to be an Ostend or Antwerp seaman, washed overboard in a gale at sea. Fortunately for me I was not called on to perform this part, for as my nautical experiences were of the very slightest, I should have made a deplorable attempt at the impersonation. Assuredly the fishermen of the smack would not have been among the number of the ‘imposed upon,’ for a more sea-sick wretch never masqueraded in a blue jacket.

My only clue, when I touched land, was a certain Father Doogan, who lived at the foot of the Bluerock Mountains, about fifteen miles from the coast, and to whom I brought a few lines from one of the Irish officers, a certain Bourke of Ballina. The road led in this direction, and so little intercourse had the shore folk with the interior, that it was with difficulty any one could be found to act as a guide thither. At last an old fellow was discovered, who used to travel these mountains formerly with smuggled tobacco and tea; and although, from the discontinuance of the smuggling trade, and increased age, he had for some years abandoned the line of business, a liberal offer of payment induced him to accompany me as guide.

It was not without great misgivings that I looked at the very old and almost decrepit creature who was to be my companion through a solitary mountain region.

The few stairs he had to mount in the little inn where I put up seemed a sore trial to his strength and chest; but he assured me that, once out of the smoke of the town, and with his foot on the ‘short grass of the sheep-patch,’ he’d be like a four-year-old; and his neighbour having corroborated the assertion, I was fain to believe him.

Determined, however, to make his excursion subservient to profit in his old vocation, he provided himself with some pounds of tobacco and a little parcel of silk handkerchiefs, to dispose of amongst the country-people, with which, and a little bag of meal slung at his back, and a walking-stick in his hand, he presented himself at my door just as the day was breaking.

‘We ‘ll have a wet day I fear, Jerry,’ said I, looking out.

‘Not a bit of it,’ replied he. ‘Tis the spring-tides makes it cloudy there beyant; but when the sun gets up it will be a fine mornin’; but I ‘m thinkin’ ye ‘re strange in them parts’; and this he said with a keen, sharp glance under his eyes.

‘Donegal is new to me, I confess,’ said I guardedly.

‘Yes, and the rest of Ireland, too,’ said he, with a roguish leer. ‘But come along, we ‘ve a good step before us;’ and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. Once in the street, however, he stepped out more freely, and, before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease.

CHAPTER XXVI. A REMNANT OF ‘FONTENOY’

There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The short dry cough, the little husky ‘ay,’ that sounded like anything rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and, more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd grey eyes, told me that I had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and that he read me through and through.

‘And so,’ said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my shipwreck, ‘and so the Flemish sailors wear spurs?’

‘Spurs! of course not; why should they?’ asked I, in some astonishment.

‘Well, but don’t they?’ asked he again.

‘No such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it.’

‘So I thought,’ rejoined he; ‘and when I looked at yer “honour’s” boots’ (it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference), ‘and saw the marks on the heels for spurs, I soon knew how much of a sailor you were.’

‘And if not a sailor, what am I, then?’ asked I; for, in the loneliness of the mountain region where we walked, I could afford to throw off my disguise without risk.

‘Ye’re a French officer of dragoons, and God bless ye; but ye ‘re young to be at the trade. Aren’t I right, now?’

‘Not very far from it, certainly, for I am a lieutenant of hussars,’ said I, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always feel on the mention of our corps.

‘I knew it well all along,’ said he coolly; ‘the way you stood in the room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how you believed me when I spoke of the spring-tides, and the moon only in her second quarter, I saw you never was a sailor, anyhow. And so I set a-thinking what you were. You were too silent for a pedlar, and your hands were too white to be in the smuggling trade; but when I saw your boots, I had the secret at once, and knew ye were one of the French army that landed the other day at Killala.’

‘It was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!’ said I, laughing.

‘Arrah, what use would it be,’ replied he; ‘sure ye ‘re too straight in the back, and your walk is too regular, and your toes turns in too much, for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray you!’

‘So it seems, then, I must try some other disguise,’ said I, ‘if I ‘m to keep company with people as shrewd as you are.’

‘You needn’t,’ said he, shaking his head doubtfully; ‘any that wants to betray ye wouldn’t find it hard.’

I was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without speaking.

‘Yez came too late, four months too late,’ said he, with a sorrowful gesture of the hands. ‘When the Wexford boys was up, and the Kildare chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the north, then, indeed, a few thousand French down here in the west would have made a differ; but what’s the good in it now? The best men we had are hanged or in gaol; some are frightened; more are traitors! ‘Tis too late – too late!’

‘But not too late for a large force landing in the north, to rouse the island to another effort for liberty.’

‘Who would be the gin’ral?’ asked he suddenly.

‘Napper Tandy, your own countryman,’ replied I proudly.

‘I wish ye luck of him!’ said he, with a bitter laugh; ‘‘tis more like mocking us than anything else the French does be, with the chaps they sent here to be gin’rals. Sure it isn’t Napper Tandy, nor a set of young lawyers like Tone and the rest of them, we wanted. It was men that knew how to drill and manage troops – fellows that was used to fightin’; so that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it, at laste. I ‘m ould enough to remimber the “Wild Geese,” as they used to call them – the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in France; and I remimber, too, the sort of men the French were that came over to inspect them – soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them. And a fine sarvice it was. Volte-face! cried he, holding himself erect, and shouldering his stick like a musket, marche! Ha, ha! ye didn’t think that was in me; but I was at the thrade long before you were born.’

‘How is this?’ said I, in amazement; ‘you were not in the French army?’

‘Wasn’t I, though? maybe I didn’t get that stick there.’ And he bared his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from a Highlander’s bayonet. ‘I was at Fontenoy!’

The last few words he uttered with a triumphant pride that I shall never forget. As for me, the mere name was magical. ‘Fontenoy’ was like one of those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it almost seemed impossible that I should see before me a soldier of that glorious battle.

‘Ay, faith!’ he added, ‘‘tis more than fifty, ‘tis nigh sixty years now since that, and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in the regiment “Tourville”; I was recruited for the “Dillon,” but they scattered us about among the other corps afterwards, because we used now and then to be fighting and quarrellin’ among one another. Well, it was the Dillons that gained the battle; for after the English was in the village of Fontenoy, and the French was falling back upon the heights near the wood – arrah, what’s the name of the wood? Sure, I’ll forget my own name next. Ay, to be sure, Verzon – the “Wood of Verzon.” Major Jodillon – that’s what the French called him, but his name was Joe Dillon – turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a farmhouse, and making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire on the English column. It was loaded with grape, and at half-musket range, so you may think what a peppering they got. At last the column halted and lay down; and Joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to bring up artillery to silence our guns. A few minutes more and it would be all over with us. So Joe shouts out as loud as he could, “Cavalry there! tell off by threes, and prepare to charge.” I needn’t tell you that the divil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time; but the English didn’t know that, and, hearin’ the ordher, up they jumps, and we heerd the word passin’, “Prepare to receive cavalry.” They formed square at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a charge as tore a lane right through the middle of them. Before they could recover, we opened a platoon-fire on their flank; they staggered, broke, and at last fell back in disorder upon Aeth, with the whole of the French army after them. Such firin’ – grape, round shot, and musketry – I never seed afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it was more like a hunt nor anything else; for ye see the Dutch never came up, but left the English to do all the work themselves, and that’s the reason they couldn’t form, for they had no supportin’ column.

‘It was then I got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin’ that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye see, there’s nothin’ so treacherous as a Highlander. I was just behind one, and had my sword-point between his bladebones ready to run him through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under the short ribs, and that was all I saw of the battle; for I bled till I fainted, and never knew more of what happened. ‘Tisn’t by way of making little of Frenchmen I say it, for I sarved too long wid them for that – but sorra taste of that victory ever they’d see if it wasn’t for the Dillons, and Major Joe that commanded them! The English knows it well, too! Maybe they don’t do us many a spite for it to this very day!’

‘And what became of you after that?’

‘That same summer I came over to Scotland with the young Prince Charles, and was at the battle of Prestonpans afterwards! and, what’s worse, I was at Culloden! Oh, that was the terrible day. We were dead bate before we began the battle. We were on the march from one o’clock the night before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! We lost our way twice, and after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves opposite a milldam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides led us all astray! Then came ordhers to wheel about face and go back again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and almost faintin’ with hunger. Some of us had nothing to eat for two days, and the Prince, I seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a wooden measure of whisky for his own breakfast. Well, it’s no use talking; we were bate, and we retreated to Inverness that night, and next morning we surrendered and laid down our arms – that is, the “Régiment do Tournay” and the “Voltigeurs de Metz,” the corps I was in myself.’

‘And did you return to France?’

‘No; I made my way back to Ireland, and after loiterin’ about home some time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, I took sarvice with one Mister Brooke, of Castle Brooke, in Fermanagh, a young man that was just come of age, and as great a divil, God forgive me, as ever was spawned. He was a Protestant, but he didn’t care much about one side or the other, but only wanted diversion and his own fun out of the world; and faix he took it, too! He had plenty of money, was a fine man to look at, and had courage to face a lion!

‘The first place we went to was Aix-la-Chapelle, for Mr. Brooke was named something – I forget what – to Lord Sandwich, that was going there as an Ambassador.

It was a grand life there while it lasted. Such liveries, such coaches, such elegant dinners every day, I never saw even in Paris. But my master was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he did. There was an ould Austrian there – a Count Riedensegg was his name – and he was always plottin’ and schamin’ with this, that, and the other; buyin’ up the sacrets of others, and gettin’ at their private papers one way or the other; and at last he begins to thry the same game with us; and as he saw that Mr. Brooke was very fond of high play, and would bet anything one offered him, the ould count sends for a great gambler from Vienna, the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a card. Ye may have heerd of him, tho’ ‘twas long ago that he lived, for he was well known in them times. He was the Baron von Breokendorf, and a great friend afterwards of the Prince Ragint and all the other blaguards in London.

‘Well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with despatches, they said, but sorrow other despatch he carried nor some packs of marked cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he puts up at the Grand Hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries and as much state as a prince. That very day Mr. Brooke dined with the count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards; and, pretending to be only playin’ for silver, they were bettin’ a hundred guineas on every game.

‘I always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few was equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould Nick was playin’ he couldn’t do the thrick nater nor the baron. He made everything come up just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades, or the knave of clubs, there it was for you.

‘Most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein’ the luck so dead agin’ them, and everything goin’ so bad; but my master only smiled, and kept muttering to himself, “Faix, its beautiful; by my conscience its elegant; I never saw anybody could do it like that.” At last the baron stops and asks, “What is it he’s saying to himself?” “I’ll tell you by-and-by,” says my master, “when we’re done playing”; and so on they went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn’t very far from a thousand pounds on a single card. At the end, Mr. Brooke lost everything, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says to him, “Double or quit?” and he tuk it.

‘This time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts; and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one as his own. The baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal. “Wait,” says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper; “wait,” says he; “what are ye doin’ there wid your thumb?” for sure enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack.

‘"Do you mane to insult me?” says the baron, getting mighty red, and throwing down the cards on the table. “Is that what you’re at?”

‘"Go on with the deal,” says Mr. Brooke quietly; “but listen to me,” and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, “as sure as you turn the king of hearts, I’ll send a bullet through your skull! Go on, now, and don’t rise from that seat till you ‘ve finished the game.” Faix he just did as he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and gettin’ up from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there was no more seen of him in Aix-la-Chapelle. But that wasn’t the end of it, for scarce was the baron two posts on his journey when my master sends in his name, and says he wants to speak to Count Riedensegg. There was a long time and a great debatin’, I believe, whether they’d let him in or not; for the count couldn’t make if it was mischief he was after; but at last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed.

‘"Count,” says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was alone, “Count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a baron – an ould blaguard that’s as well known as Preney the robber – but I forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. I know well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our despatches – there, ye needn’t look cross and angry – why wouldn’t ye do it, just as the baron always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. Well, now, I’m just in the humour to sarve you. They’re not trating me as they ought here, and I’m going away, and if you’ll give me a few letthers to some of the pretty women in Vienna, Katinka Batthyani, and Amalia Gradoffseky, and one or two men in the best set, I’ll send you in return something that will surprise you.”

‘It was after a long time and great batin’ about the bush, that the ould count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he consented.

‘"There it is,” says Mr. Brooke, “there’s the whole key to our correspondence; study it well, and I’ll bring you a sacret despatch in the evening – something that will surprise you.”

‘"Ye will – will ye?” says the count.

‘"On the honour of an Irish gentleman, I will,” says Mr. Brooke.

‘The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met; and telling them to treat him with every consideration.

‘"There will be another account of me,” says the master to me, “by the post; but I ‘ll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no more.”