However astonished I had been at the warmth, by which I was treated in London, I was still less prepared for the enthusiasm which greeted me in every town through which I passed. There was not a village where we stopped to change horses whose inhabitants did not simultaneously pour forth to welcome me with every demonstration of delight. That the fact of four horses and a yellow chaise should have elicited such testimonies of satisfaction, was somewhat difficult to conceive; and even had the important news that I was the bearer of despatches been telegraphed from London by successive postboys, still the extraordinary excitement was unaccountable. It was only on reaching Bristol that I learned to what circumstance my popularity was owing. My friend Mike, in humble imitation of election practices, had posted a large placard on the back of the chaise, announcing, in letters of portentous length, something like the following:—
“Bloody news! Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo! Five thousand prisoners
and two hundred pieces of cannon taken!”
This veracious and satisfactory statement, aided by Mike’s personal exertions, and an unwearied performance on the trumpet he had taken from the French dragoon, had roused the population of every hamlet, and made our journey from London to Bristol one scene of uproar, noise, and confusion. All my attempts to suppress Mike’s oratory or music were perfectly unavailing. In fact, he had pledged my health so many times during the day; he had drunk so many toasts to the success of the British arms, so many to the English nation, so many in honor of Ireland, and so many in honor of Mickey Free himself,—that all respect for my authority was lost in his enthusiasm for my greatness, and his shouts became wilder, and the blasts from the trumpet more fearful and incoherent; and finally, on the last stage of our journey, having exhausted as it were every tribute of his lungs, he seemed (if I were to judge by the evidence of my ears) to be performing something very like a hornpipe on the roof of the chaise.
Happily for me there is a limit to all human efforts, and even his powers at length succumbed; so that, when we arrived at Bristol, I persuaded him to go to bed, and I once more was left to the enjoyment of some quiet. To fill up the few hours which intervened before bedtime, I strolled into the coffee room. The English look of every one, and everything around, had still its charm for me; and I contemplated, with no small admiration, that air of neatness and propriety so observant from the bright-faced clock that ticked unwearily upon the mantelpiece, to the trim waiter himself, with noiseless step and a mixed look of vigilance and vacancy. The perfect stillness struck me, save when a deep voice called for “another brandy-and-water,” and some more modestly-toned request would utter a desire for “more cream.” The attention of each man, absorbed in the folds of his voluminous newspaper, scarcely deigning a glance at the new-comer who entered, was in keeping with the general surroundings,—giving, in their solemnity and gravity, a character of almost religious seriousness, to what, in any other land, would be a scene of riotous and discordant tumult. I was watching all this with a more than common interest, when the door opened, and the waiter entered with a large placard. He was followed by another with a ladder, by whose assistance he succeeded in attaching the large square of paper to the wall above the fireplace. Every one about rose up, curious to ascertain what was going forward; and I myself joined in the crowd around the fire. The first glance of the announcement showed me what it meant; and it was with a strange mixture of shame and confusion I read:—
“Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo: with a full and detailed account of the
storming of the great breach, capture of the enemy’s cannon, etc., by
Michael Free, 14th Light Dragoons.”
Leaving the many around me busied in conjecturing who the aforesaid Mr. Free might be, and what peculiar opportunities he might have enjoyed for his report, I hurried from the room and called the waiter.
“What’s the meaning of the announcement you’ve just put up in the coffee-room? Where did it come from?”
“Most important news, sir; exclusively in the columns of the ‘Bristol Telegraph,’—the gentleman has just arrived—”
“Who, pray? What gentleman?”
“Mr. Free, sir, No. 13—large bed-room—blue damask—supper for two—oysters—a devil—brandy-and-water-mulled port.”