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"He spurr'd to the foot of the high Castle rock,
Let Mons Meg and her Maidens three volleys gar flee,
"The Gordon he asks of him whither he goes→→→
'Tis with you, sir.
"The kettledrums clash'd, and the trumpets were blown,
Died away the wild war-note o' Jeffrey the wee!"
This boy will be the death of me. Oh! hoh hoh!
Is Christopher gone?-is the great North no more?
Enough he died with conquering Frank."
No subject is too sacred for your ridicule. Your spirit is intensely, incurably, and irredeemably diabolical. But I forget-ye are but a Crosscauseway soldier-ye never saw a real battle
Me! Lord forbid !
Old as ye are, and laugh as you may, I think you are like to see such things ere you die. Sir, I have seen them. Godlike in form and attitude, and almost in intellect-clear-sighted, rational, contemplative, eloquentvoluptuous, courteous, gentle, brave, upright, gallant, romantic-a prince among mortal things, but a little lower than the angels-once let his blood boil beneath the hot breath of trumpets, and Man is but the fiercest of the feræ.
War is the game, sir-life, honour, glory, are a grand stake. The air above is mad, and the earth staggers and reels, when the old original savage of the woods bursts splendidly horrible from amidst the snapt fetters of custom, and the pretty flimsy veils and mantlings of your civilisation are beat and trodden into mud and Lethe, and the beautiful wild-beast burns and pants for brotherly blood.
"La Victoire marchera au pas de charge! L'aigle et les couleurs nationaux voleront du clocher en clocher jusqu'aux tours de Notre Dame !"
You have repeated one of the finest sentences that ever came from the lips or the pen of the greatest orator of modern ages-Napoleon Bonaparte! What a flame of glory kindled him on such occasions-" Quaranto siècles vous regardent du haut de ces Pyramides !"-" Qu'il soit dit
chacun-Il etoit dans cette grande bataille sous les murs de Moscow!" I wonder at nothing that these men did.
"Up, Guards, and at them"-served the turn.
Yes, truly-what a fine story is that Sir Walter tells us in some of his notes about the grim old Douglas at Ancrum Moor! He was just about to charge, when a heron sprung up between and the English van. "Aha!" he cried, "would to God my gude grey hawk were here, that we might a’ yoke thegither!”
Well said, old Bell-the-Cat!-Ay, ay, 'tis that kind of allocutio that will always do the trick with us. None of your flowers of flummery here!
I trust our own old Plain Speaker has a campaign or two in him yet.
Ay, barring accidents, a round dozen of them, if need be. He had been pulled down a little with the grippe when I saw him first; but before I left town, his cheeks had plumped out again, and he looked fit for any thing. His eye has lost nothing of its eagle brightness; he walks to this hour as straight as a ramrod; and his leg is as perfect as it could have been at thirty. He is to the fore yet, thank God-heart, soul, bone, and bloodbut if it were otherwise, we have pretty cards in the pack.
Combermere-Hill-Kemp-all fine fellows, and in full vigour.
Ay, and Murray and Hardinge, either of them well worth your three.
What a beautiful picture of the old cavalier is Sir George Murray. I know nothing like it in that style.
Nor I, and Pickersgill's portrait, in this year's exhibition, does him as much justice, by Jupiter, as either Lawrence, or Vandyke, or Velasquez could have done. But somehow, Sir George appears to me to carry a certain tinge of languor about him-his eye is so gentle, calm, melancholy, pensive-I should doubt of there being quite enough stimulus.
No fears, the first "clarion-clarion wild and shrill" would send the blood tumbling through him like another Garry. We have always had Platoffs and Bluchers among us enow, I warrant ye-but we have sometimes felt the want of a Gneisenau-and this soft-eyed hero appears to stand second to Wellington in the opinion of most of his compeers.
He is a cock of the right feather to be sure, and speaks, by the by, as well as if he had never had another trade.
However I am no judge of such concerns, of course-but I strongly suspect if there were a war either at home or abroad, the army would expect to see Hardinge as far forward as any body but the Duke.
We shall have work for Murray here among ourselves. Scotland will look to him in the first instance.
"There are hills beyond Pentland and streams beyond Forth,
You heard Sir Henry Hardinge too?
Several times; but never a set speech. He may not, perhaps, be exactly an orator, which, among other and better things, Nature certainly meant Murray to be; but he has complete command of clear, terse, nervous language-is quick as lightning at retort-has a full, masculine, sonorous voice-considerable dignity of action, too-and, above all, carries with him such an air of upright, manly single-mindedness, high noble feeling, and unaffected modesty, that, judging from the little I saw, I am not sure if any body in the House produces altogether a more powerful effect. His defence of Philpotts was a first-rate thing, and did that job as well as Cicero could have come up to.
Why, that could not have been a difficult job-for the Bishop's justification of facts was clear as day. Sir Henry lost an arm, didn't he, at Waterloo ?
I don't know where it happened, but that, you know, is a mutilation which takes grace from no man. He is the perfect model of a soldier-a short, compact, firm, handsome figure, all buttoned up to the chin in blue and black, and a countenance which, though without the statuesque elegance of Bonaparte's, reminded me more of that in the extraordinary mass of brow, the large, deep-cut, grey, fiery eye, the solid contour of the jaw, the fall of the hair, and the whole style of complexion, than any other head I remember to have met with. This is one of our very first cards. If things go well, he must be a Secretary of State in the next Cabinet-if darkly, he must come down and raise the standard in Yorkshire-for that, I believe, is his calfcountry.
A fine fellow you describe. Come, the bowl's near out-God save the King, and let's to bed.
God save the King, say ye? Well, I'll try my hand.
Not bad-Come, Timotheus, 'tis well on to one o'clock, and this is a
decent house, and we must e'en turn in.
Tip me just one touch of the fiddle ere we go-you have never yet even attempted to give me a notion of this murderous Paganini.
To hear is to obey. The violin is behind you there, in the corner.
SONATA MAESTOSA SENTIMENTALE.
Wonderful, incredible, sublime !-Worth twenty uxorcides!
Now for a stave of the old order, with an accompaniment on the fourth string. Fill my glass with brandy-Here's to Douglas Cheape, George Joseph Bell, George Brodie, and all good fellows-Tory, Whig, and Radical! Attend (sings.)
Till he of the stuff,
In a pair of old hose,
Had put by Quantum Suff.
As we may suppose.
When halt and give o'er,
After which, at full leisure,
Whom considering as puts
That their whole generation,
Where tall as a Steeple,
Yet among Tory lads
Of the God-fearing breed,
Still maund'ring and hav'ring
Frae June to December,
For his powers peristaltic
This respectable course
When, just after the King
And his innocent Queen,
For their damn'd Guillotine