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“Hostess.—Here’s a goodly tumult!—I’ll forswear keeping house, afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now—” Shakspeare.

“ There’s a ery and a shout,

And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what it’s about.”

Thomas Ingoldsby.

To judge from external appearances, King George the Third, of blessed memory, never laid out money to less advantage, than when he induced private Ulic Flyn of the gallant twenty-seventh, ycleped the Enniskilleners, to undertake the defence of “his crown and dignity” for the modest consideration of twelve pounds bounty, and thirteenpence-halfpenny a day. Although the standard then was low, how the devil Mr. Flyn contrived to touch it, remained a mystery. Ulic was barely five feet one, his singular proportions had driven three sergeants to desperation, to “set him up” was declared to be an impossibility; he was moreover, too dirty for a pioneer, and to what military uses he might return, none could even guess.

But it was only for a season that his candle remained under a bushel. Certes, honest Ulic, in propriâ persona, was no hero; to bloodshed generally he had an invincible antipathy; and had “the imminent deadly breach” remained unmounted until Mr. Flyn made the essay, it would have been safe for ever. To a higher order of things his talents appertained; his crimping was magnificent, and the wariest bog-trotter who ever dispensed with shoes, had reason to look sharp if he foregathered with Ulic Flyn over a noggin of whisky, and was not made “food for powder” afterwards. While the sergeant was narrating his interview with Napoleon, Ulic continued in deep conference with the most intoxicated of the countrymen, and had the unhappy bumpkin known the truth, in the course of his life he had never been in such dangerous company before. On one flank, Mr. Flyn waited an opportunity to enlist him, and on the other, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity, was experimentalizing on his side-pocket. Both were clever in their line, but, as the result proved, of the twain the Jew was the abler artiste.

More than one hint had been already given that the pleasantest company must part; and, as a speedy movement was at hand, Mr. Flyn redoubled his exertions to add to the defenders of the realm, and do the state some service.

“What a life we lead!” he whispered in the countryman’s ear:

“Nothing to do from one end of the year to the other, but eat, drink, sleep, and clean a musket!—lots of liberty!—go where you like, and—”

“Get crammed into the black-hole on your return, and be kept at pack-drill with a log upon your leg for a fortnight,” responded the Israelite with a grin.

Mr. Flyn directed a murderous side-look at the unbeliever, who appeared determined to render useless all his honourable efforts to uphold the glory of the land; but still the short gentleman continued to draw a pleasing and veracious picture of military life.

“Our colonel’s such a trump—a gentleman every inch. He dances with the sergeants’ wives, calls every man by his right name—Tom, Bill, or Jerry,—and his purse is always in his fingers. ‘Ulic,’ says he to me, as I passed him in the barrack yard last Friday, ‘go, drink my health, ye divil, and if you get glorious, why tell the adjutant that I bid ye do so,’ and with that he tosses me half-a-crown.”

“Lord! what a wopper!” ejaculated the Jew.

“Why he’s the very terror of the regiment,—orders a man ‘a hundred’ for sneezing on parade, and flogs regularly twice a week to give the drummers exercise. Take my advice, young man; be off at once, or that’ere chap will do ye brown.” So saying, he closed his left eye, rose, and returned to the fire, under the pretence of lighting his pipe; for having succeeded in drawing out the countryman’s money-bag while he gave him good advice, the Jew was anxious to move from the immediate vicinity of the prigged pocket, before the abstraction of its contents should be discovered. The fifer immediately took the vacant seat, Mr. Flyn became more eloquent than ever, but the unbeliever had done the mischief effectually—the bird was scared; and after announcing that he was “a widow’s son,” the bumpkin stoutly declared that “he would be shot at for nobody.”

The case seemed hopeless; but Mr. Flyn was not the person to despair. With affectionate ardour he seized the peasant’s hand, swore that from first sight he had loved him like a brother, and consequently that they must have a parting glass. He discovered, unfortunately, that he had no silver; but the sergeant had enough for all, and he would trouble him to ask him, the sergeant, for a shilling. The request was made and granted; the polite commander instantly produced the current coin, Ulic Flyn called for another pint, the fifer, underneath the table, slily attached his own cockade to the dexter side of the caubeeine of the “widow’s son,” while the lance corporal tapped him playfully on the shoulder, and hailed him for life a camarado.

Dark suspicions flashed across the peasant’s mind. What meaned this wondrous civility? His eye caught that of the Jew—he remembered the admonition of the Israelite—and was he “done brown” already? Up he sprang, desired his companions to come away, and would have bade the company “a fair good-night,” had not a gentle detainer been laid on.

“Sit down, my boy,” exclaimed the commander. “Drink like a soldier to-night—and in the morning ye’ll have time enough to take lave of y’er relashins.”

“Take lave of my relashins!” returned the countryman, as he made a desperate effort to reach the door—an intention on his part which was promptly prevented; for on one side he was pinioned by the fifer, on the other collared by Mr. Flyn, while the commander talked something about the articles of war, and hinted that mutiny was punishable with death.