on the thramp all over the Ahndes mountains, let alone the Himalayas and everywhere—and ye don't get much warming there, I can tell ye. Pray don't unconvanience any of ye, gentlemen-I'll do." The first stranger had to squeeze himself into less than nothing as the second pulled an arm-chair that some one had left empty for a moment full in front of the fire, and threw off his cloak, which he tossed on the table, regardless of pots and tumblers, before he sat down. "So, ye can give me a shake-down, I cahlculate, Caballero? As hard as ye plaze, and harder-it's aisy to shake down an owld cahmpeener, as was all through with Gin'ral Bolivar an' Gin'ral Jackson, and doesn't know what lying soft manes. Faith, if ye'll moind Biddy to lay me a mahthress under the feathers and give 'm a touch o' the pan, I'll be in clover. Ye're eyeing that great coat, gentlemen? And well ye may; I've got a dozen of 'em at home, and he's been mate and dhrink and house and home to an owld fightin' cahmpeener this forty year. And Misther Padrone! What do ye kape good to eat in the larder? Will it be a olla, like me owld friend Don Pomposo Magnifico-and a mighty fine thing's a olla-or 'll it be a pot au feu, like Moshou Johnny Crapaud, or 'll it be a egg-an'-a-rahsher? Aha, it'll be a egg-an'-a-rasher, then? Then just take 'm an' boil 'm an' broil 'm as if ye loved 'm, and I'll wash 'm down with a squaze 0' the lemon, if ye'll bring the matarials--ye can bring the matarials right awee, if ye plaze, while I'm waitin' the rahsher. Here's yer good healths, Caballeros, all round. And it's mighty fair liquor too, I can tell ye. But them great coats? Ah, I've worn 'em in East. Injy, and by the powers, if I hadn't, I wouldn't be alive this day. I wore 'm when I was cahried off into the jungle by a live tiger, gentlemen, a rale Bengal; and ye wouldn't think 'm to look at 'm, 'twas so tough it kep' the cratur' tearin' and blarin' ten mortal hours to get his teeth in, an me all the while as cool an' jolly as Sahngaree—and a moighty fine dhrink is Sahngaree, I can tell ye. I mended 'm with a bit o' thread, or ye'd see where the naygur's jaws went in where he was rhampagin'. By token, 'twas that owld top-coat I wore when I were with Gin'ral Bolivar at the battle of Carabobo, and all them places-ye'll have heerd tell of that, anyhow-an' I had a dozen bullets through 'm, or in 'm, I'd say, before ye could say mint julup. Caramba! If ye'd heerd how them boys hurrahed when I rode in beside the Gin'ral into Caracas with that very top-coat there all tore in tahthers! An' ye see 'm betther than new." "It must be something, then, like the metaphysical puzzle of the school-boy's pocket-knife," said the first stranger, who had listened to this eloquent tirade with a half-amused smile. "First it had a new blade, and then the new blade had a new handle, and yet it was the same old knife still." The old campaigner turned round. "D'ye mane I'm bouncin', me little owld gentleman? Is it the 'pothecary ye are, or may be the schoolmasther?" "Not at all, sir. I have travelled myself; and travellers should meet like augurs." "Ah, to London, may be, but ye'll not have been to New York, I'm thinkin, nor to Buenos Ayres, nor to Lima, nor yet to Delhi, nor to Cork, nor to Yerba Buena. So you're the schoolmasther, are ye? Proud to know ye, sir-I always had a taste for learnin,' and I'd have been a scholar meself if I'd not had to fight me way. Here's the rahsher-stamin' hot, too, and me as sharp-set as a new bowie. Them's the weapons, sir, when ye're at close quarthers, as an owld cahmpeener likes to be. I've scahlped a whole battery when I've been among 'em, when the divils had naught but their long hangers an' their big guns.—As swate a bit o' bacon as I ever clapped grinders to-So if ye're the schoolmasther, ye'll have heard tell of Gin'ral Bolivar? Then ye'll have heard," he went on with his mouth full, "of Mejor Dionysius Soollivan, of Castle Soollivan, County Sligo, and of th' pahtriot army of Venezuela, that's fought at Carabobo and Puerto Caballo, and at Ayacucho, and would have been at Ocumare -worse luck for them them was always victories, anyhow, when there was Mejor Soollivan to the fore. If it hadn't been for that murderin' jealous blagyard Paez, 'tis Fayld Marshal Soollivan I'd be this day. Here, Padrone! another rahsher and another squaze.—And p'raps ye've heard of Irun and San Sebastian an' Quane Isabella an' Don Carlos an' Sir De Leecy Ivans? There's quanes an' kings too 'ld be top-side down but for the Mejor, I can tell ye-there's the Cross of San Fernando upstairs this minute in my valise. Talk o' Sir De Leecy! It's Jay Say Bay I'd be, huntin' me own hounds an' drinkin' me own clar't at Castle Soollivan if all of us had their own. A blagyard baste is jealousy. : "Ah, gentlemen, there's nothin' in life like war-an'-glory unless it be a bit o' bacon an' a squaze. I'm another man now. Ah! ye don't know County Sligo, I reckon? If ye did ye wouldn't want an inthrojuction to Mejor Soollivan; an' I'll be happy to see any on ye, or all on ye, if ye happen to be passin' that wee an' I'm at home. A nice town this-Gressford, ye call 'm? Plenty down at shootin' time? Who'll be the great man now? I'm an' owld cahmpeener, an' an owld quarther-master, an' I like to know me quarthers before I tuck in betwixt the shates. I learned that wi' the Jibbewaysthem's Injuns. May be I'll know some on 'em?" "Lord Wendale be the main landlord here away," said one of the circle. "Lord Wendle! I know 'm well." "Your honour knows his lordship the Earl?" asked Peter Pigot. "Dine with 'm. Who else?" A respectful murmur ran round the room. "Well, your honour, there ben't a many else; there be parson, the Vicar, but he be out nigh Beckfield, and comes in o' Sundays""An' Lord what-d'ye-call'm, Wendle-he'll be at home, I reckon?" "Well, he be at Beckfield when he be down here, but he be up in Lon❜on now" "Lon'on? The juice-an'-all! I'd have called on 'm." "And there be the Captain up at Laurels; that be all. Who else be there, Master Simmons?" "A brother in arrums? Oho! He'll be a owld cahmpeener; may be I'll know 'm too?" The first stranger rose. "Good night, gentlemen," he nodded: but all were far too intent on the earl's friend to see the sugar-andwater drinker leave the room. "He be Captain Westwood, your honour; comed here last Candlemas." “And-and-and-aisy now, Denis me boy, aisy now,” he said to himself, as if to a horse, and then, draining his tumbler, stood up with his back to the fire. "May be I'll know 'm; there aren't so many owld cahmpeeners that th' owld Mejor don't know most on 'em. Westwood-not mahried, eh?" The landlord grinned at the stout farmer and made a joke. "Do your honour hearken yon crowing down at back? That ben't a cock; that be a hen." The audience nudged one another, and chuckled over the joke of Gressford St. Mary. "Grey mare, hm! Mars an' Vaynus, Mars an' Vaynus! Mrs. Captain the betther horse, eh? Any childern? Hulloa! Where's me little owld schoolmasther? I'd have thought he'd have took the chance of a palaver with an owld cahmpeener, as 'ld give 'm a wrinkle in the jographies. But that's the wee with 'm. Saydahnt arruma Tokay, as the Roomans say-an' a moighty fine liquor's Tokay, I can tell ye. I've dhrunk a hogshead of 'm. So there's childern?" "Three girls and a young 'un-a fine little chap he be, too. There be Miss Carry, and Miss Julia, and Miss Mary Anne, and Master Geral'-nice childer, they all be." "And Miss Olympia," broke in a young man in shirt-sleeves and a striped waistcoat. "You be forgettin' she." "Aye, and Miss Limper. But they don't make much count o' Miss Limper; she be a sort of a kep' dark-'un, she be." "Never you mind that, Mr. Pigot," retorted the man in shirtsleeves. "The dark 'un be the best filly o' the lot, and so says I.” "And who'll you be, me man?" asked the Major, gathering up his cloak. "I were groom at Captain's, till madam thought they'd get on with the old gardener, without I. I be under-groom at Vicar's now. She be a screw, she be." "Can ye catch a tahnner, me man? Bueñas noches, gentlemen all. I'm afraid I've kep' y'up. Pleasant dhrames to ye, caballeros." He walked up steadily to bed, in spite of the amount of lemon he had consumed, preceded by the warming-pan and followed by Peter Pigot in person, who flattered himself that he knew the deference due to an honoured guest who was at the same time a major and my lord's friend. The old campaigner had monopolised the talk; he had bragged, he had blustered, and yet he had made himself a hero -even though, except to the ex-groom of The Laurels, he had not stood a glass to a single thirsty soul. In five minutes more, without taking the trouble to undress, he was snoring between the blankets, with his top-coat for an additional covering. (To be continued.) TRITE SONGS TURNED ANEW BY A NOVELIST. II. THE SPARROW'S DEATH. ODDESSES and Gods of Love, Whom, than her own bright eyes more, Such a honey-sweet he grew, From her lap he would not move; But on that sweet circuit daily Hopp'd his rounds, and twitter'd gaily Only to his lady-love. Now he hops his gloomy way To that bourne, from which they say Bird, nor man, return for aye. Evil catch thee, evil gloom! Grave, that hast devouring jaws Of my bonny sparrow's doom. Oh, that such a crime can be! CATULL. Carm. III. R. D. B. |