THE CAPTAIN.

I WAS sitting in the Coffee-room of an Inn at Hastings, enjoying the cool sea-breeze and a pint of Madeira, when the entrance of a stranger dissipated the short reverie into which I had fallen. "Waiter," quoth he, as he walked up the room, "the coach starts at nine precisely, and, therefore, my fine fellow, you must please to give me notice of its arrival, for if I should, by any chance, be disappointed-beware revenge! Better you had never breathed this vital air than answer my fell wrath." The waiter departed with an incredulous smirk, and the stranger, who had uttered the above fearful threat with the cool unconcern of an oracular presence, began to hum an air and to arrange his neckcloth at the glass; the swell of such air being augmented or diminished exactly in accordance with the folds and windings of the cravat, and terminating in a graceful shake on the completion of that arrangement.

During this short period, however, I had been strictly scrutinizing the appearance of this mysterious person. He was a man somewhat below the ordinary size, and apparently between forty and fifty years of age. His face was of a copper complexion, and garnished with a pair of exaggerated whiskers, which, like his redundant head of hair, seemed to have sustained some injury in an escape from recent and devouring flames. There was a singed

aridity in both, as of a blighted furze bush. His eyes had all the restless activity of bullets, and his promontory of a chin was sustained by the neckcloth above-mentioned, which meandered round his neck in an infinite multiplicity of windings, and at length fell down over his waistcoat with all the prodigality of a cataract.

While I was thus engaged in examining this strange being, he approached, and, offering me his snuff-box with much courteousness, took a seat at the same table. "Charming view of the sea," said he, "splendid prospect-ocean, ocean-nothing like ocean; what does the poet say-splendid poet, Byron?-what says he of ocean? Let me see, he likens it-to a horse, is it? No -yes-to a horse, certainly; says he, I'll lay my hand upon thy mane'-glorious burst that-as though it were the mane of a horse, you perceive- I'll lay my hand upon thy mane.'" Here he attempted to describe the action by clenching one hand upon the table in a convulsive manner, while he snatched an enormous pinch of snuff with the other.

As I was not a little amused by this original, I rather encouraged than repulsed his advances towards conversation -an encouragement not at all necessary; for I found, ere long, that the main difficulty would be to impede his progress; and my endeavours to stem the current of his discourse were as vain as those of one who should attempt to turn the course of a cannon-ball with a bodkin, or to blow against the falls of Niagara.

"You are drinking Madeira, I perceive,” he remarked, "I shall be happy to join you, not that I drink much now-a-days. I have abjured it long ago, ever since my last duel. You must have read the account of it in the papers-Trigger and Storks? No? I'll tell you how it

occurred. It was after dinner at the mess, one evening; the wine had circulated pretty freely, and there was a great deal of conversation. Lieut. Storks, amongst others, was violent-rampant, as I may say, in his conversation. He was always a fiery little fellow-fine fellow, though—but extremely absurd-ignorant, wofully ignorant. He would have it, that Virgil was a Latin poet, and that Galileo was not a Swede; and went so far, upon my attempting to set him right on these points, as to call me a presumptuous and ignorant coxcomb. You enquire, I perceive, what I did upon this provocation? Threw the contents of my wine-glass into his face; that was all-I give you my word.

"The next morning, Major Fireball burst into my room, and shaking me by the shoulder vociferatedHonour calls. Fight, my Trigger, you must fight. Honour calls." dear fellow,' said I, starting up in bed, fight? fight for what, with whom?' No apology received-never make apologies in the army-compelled to fight a man who could take off a pin's head at twenty paces."

"Well, Sir, you went out, of course?

در

"Went out, Sir, of course; and winged him, Sirwinged him, by Heaven."

"How, Captain, then he fired in the air?"

"Fired in the hair, rather, my dear boy, ha! ha! shaved off my left whisker, I assure you. Do you know, there is one thing I never could avoid doing. I did it in this same business with Storks. I have heard some of our old fighting colonels and majors laugh at the notion; but I assert, Sir, that no man ever feels a bullet whizzing past him but he bobs, Sir, he bobs. When I first went into a field of battle, I stuck my head firmly between my shoulders, and said I to myself, Hang me if I do bob;

but I could not help it-no man can help it. You hear a ball spinning past you on the left-you bob-thus; another comes whizzing on the right-you bob-so :--must bob-depend upon it."

I thought this a favourable opportunity of expatiating on the Captain's courage, more especially exemplified, I thought, in the modesty with which he detailed his exploits; and the frank avowal he had made of his bobbing propensity.

"Courage, my dear fellow, courage," he interposed, "is of two qualities, negative and positive-and of two descriptions, animal and moral. I enjoy both in perfection. Now, I'll tell you a circumstance that does not seem, at first sight, to reflect much credit on my courage -my animal courage: but mark the moral intrepidity— pray discover the noble bravery-a contempt of custom. You must know, Sir, I was at one time paying certain little delicate attentions to a young lady-fine girlnoble creature-with as pretty a four hundred a year as man could desire to see in a quarterly course of payment. Well, Sir, there was another-a hated rivalcountenanced by the mother, a venomous old basilisk, killing to look upon-you know the sort of person I speak of. In the mean time I was creating an interest in the right quarter-mark me-making the post-office echo with my sighs, and casting sheep's eyes out of a calf's head, as the poet says, ha! ha! This, of course, was gall and wormwood to my rival, but honey and treacle to me. Now, Sir, to the point at once. We came to high words, and what do you think he did?"

"I cannot possibly say."

But guess."

"Cannot concieve."

"He kicked me, Sir; kicked me down stairs, out of the house, with anything but a light, although a fantastic toe."

"Kicked you! my dear Sir, but surely—”

"I bore it," interrupted the Captain; "I bore it with heroic fortitude,"-rubbing his chin with much complacency.

"But you demanded satisfaction afterwards, no doubt; nothing but blood could expiate-”

"Pish! my dear Sir, I see you know nothing of the laws of honour. Do you think I could consent to meet a man who would be guilty of kicking a gentleman down stairs. My dear Sir!-only reflect-don't you see it would be impossible to put such a man upon a level? Don't you see the thing at once?"

While I was debating this point within myself-in which, sooth to say, I discovered more discretion and common sense than madness and courage—and was inclined to rank the Captain rather as a philosopher than a hero, he burst out again.

"Talking of kicking reminds me of a strange adventure-ha! ha! I shall never forget it. The landlord of the house where I once lodged-furnished apartments, first floor, all that sort of thing-was discoursing one night of ghosts, and expressing a superstitious dread of those mushroom species of mockery-which I firmly believe to be the shadows of the dead rambling about to divert ennui, seeing that their owners have no longer any occasion for them;—well, Sir, his wife, a wicked jade, full of spirits, gay as a lark, was pleased to doubt my courage in these matters, whereas, Sir, I despise the thing altogether. I have seen hundreds of them, of all sizes, ever since the wound in my head at Badajos-a large as