66 and heroes, as guilty of flat rebellion against the first and most sacred canon of nature-the law of self-preservation; and when I read or hear of them lying in heaps on the ensanguined plain, or crawling to their tents after their dearbought victories, armless, legless, noseless, and riddled with balls, like so many targets, I behold the just punishment of their insurrectionary conduct. When the line of battle is drawn out; I own I do not even talk of these things without an itching of my heels, and a shuddering over my whole frame; when the swords are unsheathed, the bayonets fixed, the musquets loaded, the cannon ready to roar at a moment's notice from the gunners, is there not-I put it to every man of common sense, is there not a small still voice within us which distinctly says, run away as fast as your legs can carry you.” I have heard it a thousand times, on infinitely less trying occasions; it is, no doubt, one of those heaven-sent warnings, which it is downright impiety to slight; and if we dare to disobey, our blood be on our own heads; we have none to blame but ourselves for the horrible consequences which are certain to ensue, as long as gunpowder and cold steel possess the property of repealing the union of soul and body. To my uniform and rigid observance of this inward admonition do I ascribe it, that I am now in the full enjoyment of life and health, and that when I call the muster-roll of the various limbs and features of my body, (in which I piously consider myself as having only a trust-property,) there is not a single one of the whole number missing. But you will say, "Sir, where is your reputation?" My reply is, that a live coward is well worth a dead hero; and an integral man better fifty times than one of those wretched fractions of humanity to be seen limping and creeping about our military and naval hospitals, with one limb in Flanders, a second in Portugal, and often a third in America or Egypt, I really do not know with what propriety one of these miserable remnants "Sans leg, sans arm, sans eye, sans every thing," can have manhood predicated of them at all? If we admit them into fellowship with our kind, it must be with the same limitations that we make in the case of a tailor, who is indeed the just algebraic equivalent of a Chelsea pen sioner. Let us calculate: put H for one of these mutilated warriors of a hundred fights, T for a knight of the thimble, and M for an integer man. Then, as H is by hypothesis an astonishing hero, and therefore retaining, in all probability, not above oneninth of the carcase which he brought with him into the world, we have H= M Now, it is a theorem, as well established as any in mixed mathematics, that the relation between T and M is expressed by a like fraction, or that T-M Comparing these two equa 9. tions we arrive at the true expression or value for a warlike character, name ly H-T; a conclusion which, by mathematical demonstration, places Mr. Hulby or Mr. Willis on a par with any military maniac on record, from the son of Peleus down to fighting Fitzgerald. Again, it is an admitted principle, recognised by all sound political economists, that one of the chief elements of national strength is population, Now, what kind of population is to be understood? I answer, in the first place, a living population, not a dead one; and in the second, a population with as large, and not as small, a supply of hands, and feet, and eyes, and noses, as possible. What follows, but that he is the best patriot, who most anxiously provides for the safe-keeping of his person; in other words, the man who eschews an armed enemy, as a good Christian does the horns of the devil? I am aware I state what many will call a paradox; but I think it is a principle in politics, not more original than correct, that the strength of every country is directly proportioned to the quantity and intensity of the spirit of cowardice that animates her people. An alacrity to run away has saved many a good citizen for the service of the commonwealth, who had otherwise been a meal for carrion crows, or, at best, a subject for anatomical investigation. Were all men as covetous of cork legs, as the Marquis of Anglesea, what should we do for runners of the bank or post-men? A hero would make a bad letter-carrier or running foot man. Then there is Sir Henry Hardinge, who was so desperately gallant, that he left his rightarm behind him somewhere or other on the continent. What would become of the loom and anvil, if there were not members of the community more frugal of their limbs than Sir Henry? Why, we should want stockings to our feet, and twelve-penny nails to knock up a booth at Donnybrook. The human frame is the great implement, or machine, of human industry; the fewer dislocations and mutilations it has undergone, the better it is adapted to its object. Take away an arm and it is like depriving a pump of its handle; take away a leg, and it is like pulling a wheel from a waggon; slice off a nose, and you might as well take the gnomon from the dial-plate. A perfect man is a perfect engine; his usefulness is the maximum. The difference between the hero and the dastard is this, the latter glories in the perfection of his frame; the former is never at rest-never contented for a moment, until he has minimised his body corporate, and reached the precise limit at which further subtraction is incompatible with existence; and when he has done this, he plants laurels and sits him down under the shade, and imagines himself a paragon of honour and glory. Such extreme folly is truly melancholy, and reminds one forcibly of the metamorphosed herd of Circe. "And they, so perfect is their misery, Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, But think themselves more comely than before." The true glory is evidently in the opposite scale; and I have the authority of the great poet I have just quoted in support of my opinion. "Peace hath her victories, Not less renowned than war." The glories of cowardice flashed across the spirit of Milton as he wrote this, and other passages of the same tenor and import. He says in another place, contrasting the principles of warriors and cravens, "But if there is in glory aught of good, "Means far different," must mean flight in battle, lurking in cellars during sieges, abominating swords and pistols, preferring any extremity of disgrace to a duel, imitating the bearing of Horace and Demosthenes in action, but devoutly resolving, never, if possible, to show even our backs upon such disagreeable occasions. By "deeds of peace," the same thing is to be understood. The lyric poet just mentioned performed an exploit of this kind at Phillippi, when he threw away his shield and waddled out of the fray with all the speed he was capable of. He does not appear, however, to have been aware how creditable a line of conduct he adopted, or he would not have said in alluding to it, "Relictâ non bene parmulâ," He never did any thing in his life half so discreet and commendable. Demosthenes, too, achieved a "deed of peace," when he rushed from Cheronea like one pursued by fiends, and finding himself caught in his retreat, wheeled round, fell on his knees, roared like a wild bull, and craved quarter, of-a blackberry bush. Oh! Sir, this is true glory. This is not the bubble that is to be found in the cannon's mouth," but the substantial reputation that is reconcilable with a skull unfractured, bones unbroken, and a long life in the bosom of our family and friends. Let any one who likes have the renown of the Nelsous, Wolfes, and Abercrombies; I prefer my own bed, albeit a hard mattrass, to any "bed of honour" that was ever prepared for warrior. The skin of a man is made from different materials than the hide of a rhinoceros, and as long as it is so, I shall hold it a point of conscience to shudder at a sword, even in the scabbard, and to run at the cocking of a pistol as if a rampant and roaring lion was at my heels. I am fond of my dinner, and I feel it convenient to have two hands to assist me in dispatching it: I like a walk over the hills in summer-time, and I doubt much if I should enjoy that pleasure often, was I so consummate a hero as his Excellency the late Lord Lieutenant. I am, &c. FUGAX. GREEK SONG. How wild, yet how sweetly the mariner's hymn As the trireme, bird-like, is seen to skim, A youthful warrior stands at the prow, His casque is of gold, with plumes that flow And gleaming thro' the shade. He comes from the mouldering ruins of Troy His cheek flush'd with conquest, his eyes lit with joy, As near he approached to Leucate's height, He sees beside a watch-fire's light, She had heard that the laurell'd sons of Greece Hope fill'd her heart with the balm of peace, Even then from the brink of the dizzy steep Swift o'er the billows the seamen bound, While the song of joy goes merrily round, Over the beetling cliff she hung, In breathless expectancy, And tho' many and loudly the victors sung, She fainted-Oh heaven! She fainted and fell And Grecian bards and maidens tell, BARNY O'REIRDON, THE NAVIGATOR. By SAMUEL LOVER, Esq. R. H.A. Author of "Legends and Stories of Ireland." CHAP. II. HOMEWARD-BOUND. "Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good."-Old Saying. The captain ordered Barny on deck, as he wished to have some conversation with him on what he, very naturally, considered a most extraordinary adventure. Heaven help the captain! he knew little of Irishmen or he would not have been so astonished. Barny made his appearance. Puzzling question, and more puzzling answer, followed in quick succession between the commander and Barny, who, in the unidst of his dilemma, stamped about, thumped his head, squeezed his caubeen into all manner of shapes, and vented his despair anathematically— "Oh! my heavy hathred to you, you tarnal thief iv a long sailor, its a purty scrape yiv led me into. By gor, I thought it was Fingal he said, and now I hear it is Bingal. Oh! the divil sweep you for navigation, why did I meddle or make wid you at all at all! and my curse light on you, Terry O'Sullivan, why did I iver come acrass you, you onlooky vagabonde, to put sitch thoughts in my head? An so its Birgal, and not Fingal, you're goin to, captain." 64 Yes indeed, Paddy." "An' might I be so bowld to ax, captain, is Bingal much farther nor Fingal? A trifle or so, Paddy." Och, thin, millia murther, weirasthru, how 'ill I iver get there, at all at all roared out poor Barny. By turning about, and getting back the road you've come, as fast as you can." Is it back? Oh! Queen iv Heaven! an how will I iver get back ?" said the bewildered Barny. "Then you don't know your course it appears?" "Oh faix I knew it, iligant, as long as your honor was before me." "But, you don't know your course back?" "Why, indeed, not to say rightly all out, your honor." "Can't you steer?" said the captain. "The divil a betther hand at the tiller in all Kinsale," said Barny with his usual brag. "Well, so far so good," said the captain. "And you know the points of the compass-you have a compass, I suppose.' "A compass! by my sowlan its not let alone a compass, but a pair a compasses I have, that my brother, the carpinthir, left me for a keepsake whin he wint abroad; but, indeed, as for the points o' thim I can't say much, for the childher spylt thim intirely, rootin' holes in the flure." 66 What the plague are you talking about?" asked the captain. 66 "Wasn't your honor discoorsin' me about the points o' the compasses?" "Confound your thick head!" said the captain. Why, what an ignoramus you must be, not to know what a compass is, and you at sea all your life? Do you even know the cardinal points?" "The cardinals! faix an its a great respect I have for them, your honor. Sure, ar'n't they belongin' to the Pope?" "Confound you, you blockhead !" roared the captain in a rage—" 'twould take the patience of the Pope and the cardinals, and the cardinal virtues into the bargain, to keep one's temper with you. Do you know the four points of the wind ?" 66 Well, what about the pig ?" Decide upon the matter at once, either Why, Sir, did you never hear a pig come on board or cast off;" and the can see the wind ?" 66 I can't say that I did.” "Oh thin he does, and for that rayson who has a right to know more about it ?" "You don't, for one, I dare say, Paddy; and maybe you have a pig aboard to give you information." "Sorra taste your honor, not as much as a rasher o' bacon; but its maybe your honor never seen a pig tossin up his snout, consaited like, and running like mad afore a storm." 66 66 Well, what if I have ?" Well, Sir, that is when they see the wind a comin." "Maybe so, Paddy, but all this knowledge in piggery wont find you your way home; and, if you take my advice, you will give up all thoughts of endeavouring to find your way back, and come on board. You and your messmates, I dare say, will be useful hands, with some teaching; but, at all events, I cannot leave you here on the open sea, with every chance of being lost." 66 Why thin, indeed, and I'm behowlden to your honor; and its the hoighth o' kindness, so it is, your offer; and its nothin' else but a gentleman you are, every inch o' you; but I hope its not so bad wid us yet, as to do the likes o' that." "I think it's bad enough," said the captain, "when you are without a compass, and knowing nothing of your course, and nearly a hundred and eighty leagues from land." "An' how many miles would that be, captain ?" Three times as many." "I never larned the rule o' three, captain, and maybe your honor id tell me yourself." "That is rather more than five hundred miles." "Five hundred miles!" shouted Barny. "Oh! the Lord look down on us! how 'ill we iver get back!!" "That's what I say," said the captain; "and, therefore, I recommend you come aboard with me." "And where 'ud the hooker be all the time?" said Barny. "Let her go adrift," was the answer. "Is it the darlint boat? Oh, by dad, I'll never hear o' that at all." "Well, then, stay in her and be lost captain was turning away as he spoke, when Barny called after him, "Arrah, thin, your honor, don't go jist for one minit antil I ax you one word more. I wint wid you, whin would I be home agin?" "In about seven months." If Oh, thin, that puts the wig an it at I dar'n't go at all.” wanst. passing." "Thrue for you, in throth," said Barny, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Faix its myself knows, to my sorrow, the half-year comes round mighty suddint, and the Lord's agint comes for the thrifle o' rint; and faix I know, by Molly, that nine months is not long in goin' over either," added Barney with a grin. "Then what's your objection, as to the time?" asked the captain. "Arrah, sure, Sir, what would the woman that owns me do while I was away? and maybe its break her heart the craythur would, thinkin' I was lost intirely; and who'd be at home to take care of the childher, and airn thim the bit and the sup, whin I'd be away? and who knows but its all dead they'd be afore I got back? Och hone! sure the heart id fairly break in my body, if hurt or harm kem to them, through me. say no more, captain dear, only give me a thrifle o' directions how I'm to make an offer at gettin' home, and its myself that will pray for you night, noon and mornin', for that same." So, "Well, Paddy," said the captain, as you are determined to go back, in spite of all I can say, you must attend to me well while I give you as simple instructions as I can. You say you know the four points of the wind, North, South, East, and West." "Yis Sir." |