And with their radiant beauty cheer the sight.
..........I have, as thy sweet lips complain,
On many a lip of ruby banqueted.-’
Triojias Wade.
I have ever been romantic. At twelve I wrote poetry—for by that name my grandmother was pleased to designate my melodies—and at sixteen was regularly in love. In two years more, I left “England, home, and beauty,” “to seek the “bubble reputation.” Need I say what agony that parting with the fair one caused? How convulsively Clara sobbed, and how awfully I swore in return, when I received from her hand a ringlet—hue, sunny—binding, violet-coloured silk—which was duly deposited over the fourth rib—left side—with a solemn adjuration, that there the said ringlet should abide and dwell until the heart it covered had ceased to beat, and the lungs adjacent should exercise their expiring functions, in murmuring warm but feeble prayers for the happiness of the donor.
At nineteen I carried the colours of the —th into action at Salamanca, but I lament to say, that the honour of carrying them out was reserved for another gentleman of the sword.
“There’s a d—d ill-looking tirailleur, covering me dead,” observed a brother ensign, to whom “the king’s banner” had been entrusted.
“I’m devilish, glad to hear it,” I responded, “for I thought the scoundrel was levelling at myself.” *
* True anecdote.
My supposition was, unfortunately, correct; for before I had done speaking, a bullet broke the colour-staff, passed through the arm that held it, and took temporary possession of my person exactly opposite the spot, where the gage d’amour of my absent Clara had been deposited. I dropped—two rear-rank men picked me up instanter—and, though the action was particularly hot at the moment, they insisted on bearing me from the field. The anxiety which these worthy men expressed for the safety of their officer was astonishing, and I think they would have never halted until we had been out of range of the Cadiz mortar, had the same mortar been in battery at Salamanca.