Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I
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Lever Charles James. Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I
CHAPTER I. MYSELF
CHAPTER II. DARBY THE “BLAST.”
CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE
CHAPTER IV. MY WANDERINGS
CHAPTER V. THE CABIN
CHAPTER VI. MY EDUCATION
CHAPTER VII. KEVIN STREET
CHAPTER VIII. NO. 39, AND ITS FREQUENTERS
CHAPTER IX. THE FRENCHMAN’S STORY
CHAPTER X. THE CHURCHYARD
CHAPTER XI. TOO LATE
CHAPTER XII. A CHARACTER
CHAPTER XIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR
CHAPTER XIV. THE JAIL
CHAPTER XV. THE CASTLE
CHAPTER XVI. THE BAIL
CHAPTER XVII. MR. BASSET’S DWELLING
CHAPTER XVIII. THE CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS
CHAPTER XIX. THE QUARREL
CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT
CHAPTER XXI. THE ÉCOLE MILITAIRE
CHAPTER XXII. THE TUILERIES IN 1803
CHAPTER XXIII. A SURPRISE
CHAPTER XXIV. THE PAVILLON DE FLORE
CHAPTER XXV. THE SUPPER AT “BEAUVILLIERS’S”
CHAPTER XXVI. THE TWO VISITS
CHAPTER XXVII. THE MARCH TO VERSAILLES
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PARK OF VERSAILLES
CHAPTER XXIX. LA ROSE OF PROVENCE
CHAPTER XXX. A WARNING
CHAPTER XXXI. THE CHÂTEAU
CHAPTER XXXII. THE CHÂTEAU d’ANCRE
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TEMPLE
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CHOUANS
CHAPTER XXXV. THE REIGN OF TERROR UNDER THE CONSULATE
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRIAL
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CUIRASSIER
CHAPTER XXXIX. A MORNING AT THE TUILLERIES
CHAPTER XL. A NIGHT IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS
CHAPTER XLI. A STORY OF THE YEAR ‘92
CHAPTER XLII. THE HALL OF THE MARSHALS
CHAPTER XLIII. THE MARCH ON THE DANUBE
CHAPTER XLIV. THE CANTEEN
CHAPTER XLV. THE “VIVANDIÈRE OF THE FOURTH”
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It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January – no matter for the year – that the Gal way mail was seen to wind its slow course through that long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the “sweet town of Athlone.” The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while the splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up roads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If the outsiders – with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against the cutting wind – presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within, who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charm the eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seen at rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sank back into the coach to con over their moody thoughts, or, if fortunate, perhaps to doze.
In the rumble, with the guard, sat one whose burly figure and rosy cheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made his companions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap fastened beneath the chin, and a large mantle of blue cloth, bespoke him a soldier, if even the assured tone of his voice and a certain easy carriage of his head had not conveyed to the acute observer the same information. Unsubdued in spirit, undepressed in mind, either by the long day of pouring rain or the melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed as brightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed as cheerily, as though Nature had put forth her every charm of weather and scenery to greet and delight him. Now inquiring of the guard of the various persons whose property lay on either side, the name of some poor hamlet or some humble village; now humming to himself some stray verse of an old campaigning song, – he passed his time, diversifying these amusements by a courteous salute to a gaping country girl, as, with unmeaning look, she stared at the passing coach. But his principal occupation seemed to consist in retaining one wing of his wide cloak around the figure of a little boy, who lay asleep beside him, and whose head jogged heavily against his arm with every motion of the coach.
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“Lord be about us, what a severe season! But why isn’t Tom here?” I started at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added, – “I don’t want him, though.”
“Of course you don’t,” said the attorney; “it’s little comfort he ever gave you. Are you in pain there?”
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