44 SKETCHES OF EIGHTEEN. BY CORNET. "For he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet, Henry IV. A question-a question, most noble Reader-" Do you know, or are you connected with an embryo ensign or cornet?" Ah! I see by the twinkle of that eye, you are. What! No? Well, if you really don't, read this slight sketch, and should you ever, in aftertimes, come across one, you will know him from these pages; that is, I hope so, as all my descriptive talents shall be called into play to depict this sketch as true to life as possible. If, on the other hand, you are the father, brother, or near relative of my subject, place this narrative to the wandering of a demented brain, and read some other more to your taste, with which this magazine abounds. Our hero, of course, is sent to Eton. All lads are now sent to Eton, after passing through one of those receptacles for tender plants, designated by the term "private schools." His mamma fancies, in her own mind, that, as heir to four thousand a year, he must be an idle gentleman, tied to her apron-string. He might be allowed to botanize, or read novels or French plays; and then he must play on the flute, and sing, whether he has voice or ear or not. He may go to Almack's with her, and dangle after her to the Opera; roll in his father's stately brougham to see the sights of London; or be allowed to ride, now and then, a steady hack in the park. His father knows full well, from personal experience, the horror of an idle life, but he chooses for his son the bar. They say, if a father has a large family of sons, without the means of providing for them, he is sure to pick out the wildest, and intend him for the church. So it is with the "governors" of the nineteenth century: if their son have no brains or wit, he is intended for the law; then it must follow he must be an M. P., perchance get a title, be Lord Chancellor, or the devil knows not what. The youth sees a review of the Life Guards, and he thinks-mind you, only thinks, and this is before he goes to Eton-that he should like to go into the army. His mother turns up her eyes with horror. Her darling to be contaminated by a set of officers with big mustachios and swords, who drink and swear, and, above all, hunt. She tells him of her third cousin, twice removed, who went into the army, was quartered at Dublin, and killed over one of those nasty stone walls-how the stones rolled on his body-how the blood gushed from his mouth: all these horrors she pictured to him, and he began to think, being a little egotist, that the army was not such a good place after all. Well, he goes to Eton College, and, after being there about half a year, he goes to the terrace to see the Queen. The beauty of the band of the Blues and varied hue of the Scots Fusiliers, captivate his narrow mind, just as a peacock is most beloved by womankind. Then rise up in his mind the deeds of these aforesaid Fusiliers-their warlike actions at Talavera, Barrosa, and, finally, at Waterloo: then, to be commanded by the Duke of Saxony, Prince of Saxe Coburg and Gotha, with all the letters of the alphabet after his name. He turns round to his more sober companion, and unfolds his mind: his fellow-fag bids him think of the riding-school, drill, parade; but, no, our hero only thinks of his regimentals; having a boreman of his own, instead of being a fag at his tutor's; to valse with some butterfly, and talk of "Our Mess," and "Tom Mowbray, or Jack O'Graddy of ours;" to offer her music written for her "by our band-master." His military ardour rises, and he nearly refuses to fag that night. He upsets his master's "two of butter," for which he gets well licked; and forgets to do his derivations for six o'clock school, for which he gets well swished. Pass we over the tears and entreaties, the arguments, the pros and cons, the whys and wherefores, the noes and yeses, of father, mother, and son. "Dear Byron," says his mother to his father, "will pine so he grows daily more thin. Can you allow the pretty plant to die before your eyes? Do let him go into the army. You know how much I hated it; but to have my darling emaciate before my eyes is too horrid." The father is determined: the bar is his desire. The mamma calls him "brute." A family jar ensues-cries, tears follow; entreaties, &c., form the second act; and, as is invariably the custom, the final: ends by the lady gaining her point, for the bravest man is a coward before his own wife. Well, our hero, Master Byron, leaves Eton, and goes to a private tutor's, abounding with young damsels, who are too anxious to catch him in their trammels. They are what are commonly termed "garrison hacks," and, of course, doting on military men. They told him what a fine thing it was to be a joli hussar, to kick his sabretash on entering a ball-room: that the clank of his sword and spurs would inspire any young lady with love, if his pretty face did not do so better. Well, our youth's chief study is the Army List, and he knows who commands every regiment from the Life Guards to the 99th foot. He quizzes the Militia Locals and Yeomanry, and is accounted quite an oracle in military matters: he knows who is the regimental tailor to the 3rd Dragoon Guards, how much lace it takes to trim the jackets of the 8th Hussars, and the exact tinge of the cherry-coloured continuers of the 11th. Mr. -, an old and retired officer, who greatly distinguished himself in the Peninsular, is describing Aff ghanistan; the sufferings our brave troops underwent there; the perfidy of the wily Akbar; the hold-fasts and military movements. He is speaking of Major-General Shelton, who commanded her Majesty's 44th foot: only to show his knowledge (but nearly marking his arrogant ignorance), our hero contradicts the old colonel, an argument ensues, and the company at large lose an amusing anecdote. Our hero gets his commission. "Oh! the Dickens" (as Fielden's works exclaimed when Boz's came into the field), with what joy he reads in the Gazette," Byron --, gent., to be cornet, vice Jackman promoted." With what pleasure he opens his tailors' and saddlers' letters, requesting orders! how he gloats over the superscription" of theth Dragoons! The congratulations he receives all tend to make him the happiest man alive. One more anecdote. The young cornet's father is the member forshire, and, to curry favour and get votes, he gives a ball in the town-hall of The youth goes there attended by his mother: one of the greatest disappointments is that he is not allowed to go in full regimentals; bear's-grease, although professing such great things, being unable to bring mustachios or a tuft. Well, he must close his partners with the shop," and he will be sure to succeed. He arrives, and is introduced to Miss A., a very pretty girl, dressed in a plain white frock; her hair prettily braided, into which is put a white camillia, verifying the old words, unadorned, adorned the most." He dances with her; tells how his (?) regiment is the best in the service; what deeds it has done; how, at this present time, it will slay all Ireland, if they once arise; how, to use the phrase of a well-known political character, "his horse will be up to its knees in the blood of the infidels." She seemed to take it all so quietly, and was not startled as if by a galvanic shock. No, "the finale was finished without his making the impression he intended, or verifying the words of the garrison hacks." Then it cut him to the heart's core to see with what a gentle smile she accepted the offer of a handsome unpretending clergyman. He thought he would try the father, a fine grey-headed old man, of perfect symmetry, who stood about six feet high. "Good ball," said the cornet, without the least ceremony or introduction; "just been having a little gelidum sine, but perhaps you prefer calidum cum." "Sir," said the old gentleman. "Eh! Devilish hot," said the rather staggered youngster. "Sir," said the other, "I should have thought a man of your coolness could never have been hot," and, making him a low bow, walked off. "Mother," said our hero, "who is that vulgar old fool there?" "Oh, my dear, it is General A., who so greatly distinguished himself at Quatre Bras." "Oh! odd, very." "I must introduce, my dear General A., my son; and may he follow in your footsteps!" "Madam, I feel highly flattered by your compliment, said the old general; I am afraid I behaved rather rudely just now to your son, and beg to apologise; but I must own I could not distinguish his great likeness to his mother's lady-like manners." In conclusion. For the freedom of ourselves, for the defence of our island, for preserving peace at home and quelling discord abroad, we must have an army. What an army is ours! The laurels it has gained, the deeds it has done, the victories it has performed, require no comments from me. To constitute this army we must have young men; but, let me ask, how many of them, now-a-days, enter but for the sake of wearing a tinselly uniform? How many enter the army for the sake of performing the heroic deeds which their forefathers have done, and which their banners commemorate? Let their own consciences answer them. Suffice for me to say, if they do enter the army, let them not talk of the shop. Let their conversation be rational, and they will merit universal applause. SPORTING PEREGRINATIONS. BY ROBIN HOOD. From what cause it is somewhat difficult to declare, but the latter part of the season was certainly very deficient in the important article of scent, and consequently few packs of hounds can boast of a very brilliant termination; it is true we had occasional frost, but certainly not exceeding the average of previous years; and the latter end of the season was distinguished by unusual heat and consequent dryness of the earth; nevertheless, that did not commence till nearly the latter end of March, when fox-hunting was approaching towards a close. It is, however, somewhat singular that the Earl Fitzhardinge's hounds had several good runs in their Cheltenham country after the dry weather commenced, and far superior to any they had previously. Reports from Northamptonshire state that the Pytchley have scarcely had a run during the whole season; neither have the Atherstone had much to boast of; while their neighbours, the Warwickshire, have been doing marvellous things. That there is some luck in fox-hunting, as well as other destinies of mankind, I cannot express a doubt; nevertheless, there must be something more than luck when one pack has a great share of sport and another literally none. After all, I am inclined to think much more depends upon the discretion of man himself than we are wont to admit: the fickle goddess is too commonly condemned for what ordinary discrimination would avert, and good sense and judgment promote. Never having seen anything of otter-hunting, I felt particularly anxious to witness the performance of the pack kept for that purpose at Worcester; but, in consequence of an unmeaning trick, the attendants of those hounds were woefully disappointed. When gentlemen give themselves great trouble and incur considerable expense in the furtherance of an object, especially when that object is a good one, which the destruction of the amphibious piscator unquestionably is, it is very annoying, to say the least of it, that their good intentions should be interfered with. Three cubs having latterly been captured in the Leigh Brook, the dam of which was still at liberty, it was determined to proceed in search of her. Soon after the melodious nightingale had ceased to pour forth her mellifluous warblings, we were busily engaged on the banks of the meandering brook; and whatever the result might be, there was this much of consolation, that the delightful scene, enhanced by the invigorating freshness of the morning, fully repaid us for having snatched a few hours from the arms of Somnus to enrol them as some of the most agreeable moments of our lifetime. Scarcely had the hounds tried the brook more than a mile above Leigh, when one of the old ones hit upon a scent, which at first he took heel-way; but that was soon discovered; when, retracing it, the pack joined in full chorus. It was, however, immediately apparent to all present who knew anything of hunting, that all was not right; with the wildness peculiar to such occasions, they went at a pace almost equal to that of fox-hounds, diverging considerably from the brook, a very different course to that which the otter is accustomed to take, evincing the want of tact which the bunglers possessed by taking such a line. Crossing some meadows, they returned to the brook; on the other side of which was stationed a party who reside in the immediate neighbourhood, who must have come prepared to exult in the scheme, one of whom, in his anxious desire to see those who had to cross the brook up to their necks in the stream, exclaimed— "Get over! get over! they will be in the plantation just above in five minutes, and it is full of traps!" This ejaculation, coupled with the manner the hounds had been running, established the impression, as Mrs. Lobsky, with due feminine perception of the orders of nature, exclaims to her husband, whose excuse had fired her imagination with phantoms of the green-eyed monster-"You don't catch in the river the fish of the sea." No more do otters assume the habits of the fox, by leaving the vicinity of their native waters for upland pasture, fallow fields, plantations, and gorse covert. Running past a gentleman's seat on the banks of the brook, where an artificial expanse of the same, with other adornments judiciously displayed, proclaim the taste of the owner, and contribute vastly to beautify the scene, they turned to the right, completely away from the brook, across the country, after the fashion of fox-hounds. The trick was, however, too palpable, and all who had come out in the hope of enjoying the amusement of otter-hunting, came simultaneously to a stand-still. Nor was the mortification of one party exceeded by that of the other, as those who had played off the unsportsman-like hoax could not fail to display their chagrin that the merest Tyros in otter-hunting could |