NEILL O'NEILL.

A MILITARY ANECDOTE.

One day after the return of our troops from Brussels, I was pacing Piccadilly "just thinking of nothing," as my countrymen say, unless it was how to kill the evening, for which, miraculously, I had no engagement, when I heard a clattering noise on the pavement behind me. On casting a lingering, but by no means a very longing look in that direction, I descried, limping along, and trying to overtake me, an ancient Corporal who had lost both his legs by a single shot at Waterloo. I could not mistake him for a moment; and though one would imagine that two wooden instruments of locomotion would contribute very little either to the beauty or celerity of his progress, his noble, erect, and soldier-like figure, and his bold but not impudent expression of countenance gave him an air at once of dignity and grace, which redeemed his alternate limp and shuffle, the dire effects of timber toes, and enabled me readily to recognize my old Orderly Neill O'Neill-a name of which he was justly proud-a veteran of a hundred fights, who had battled by my side all through my share of the Peninsular Campaigns, and had lost his legs precisely when he stood in need of every kind of support.

Just opposite to Mrs. Grange's my old friend and comrade twisted up to me, and seemed to be charmed to rejoin even the small portion of the corps which I formed. With a look of mingled simplicity and archness, in which there was neither a touch of impudence nor servility," May God and the Saints bless you, said he, "and may the virgin send your honour just such a pair of legs as I have!"

"I'm very much obliged to you, O'Neill," I replied, "but really I'm quite contented with my legs as they stand;" and at the same time I cast a complacent look at my own supporters, displaying an equal mixture of the Hercules Farnese, and the Apollo Belvedere.

Lord bless your honour's own handsome legs," he rejoined, and long may you live to wear them! Many's the eye, black, brown, blue and grey, (St. Patrick's love to 'em all!) that's looked at them (not that its you that has the least taste of pride on that score though well you may) and thought-God forgive me! Sure is it myself that would be telling the sacrets o' the ladies' thoughts, sweet innocent craturs! But it was n't that

way I was maning, Sir, at all at all, when I wished your honour a pair timbers like mine.

What was it then, O'Neill? "I asked: for I confess I was pleased with even an Old Soldier's flattery gross as it was:the truth being that if I have, as O'Neill said "the laste taste of vanity," it is about the symmetry of my crural members."

"I know how you met with your misfortune," I added; “and I'm glad to see you make a jest of it."

"Misfortune! does your honour call it? Sure and if it was to do again, wouldn't I lose my legs twice, aye, and a hundred times over? It's only because yer honour don't know all the advantages of wanting legs that you trate my bit of an accident as a misfortune. I've gained by my loss in more ways than

one."

"How, O'Neill ?"

"First and foremost, ye see, I've no need of either shoe or stocking, not to mention the brogues, and that's so much saved out o' the pinsion.

"True, O'Neill-and then?"

"Your honour knows too, that I had always a bit of a liking to the cratur in every shape, both flesh and spirit. As for the drop, barrin 'I'd tuk an oath afore the Priest agin' that same, bad manners to me, if I'd care if it was the raal Inishown (the virgin's benediction on the potheen and the Divil's on the excisemen!) or that cut-throat Spanish aguardiente (as they call their brandy) but yer honour knows I always liked it, and many's the row I've got into by that same. I'm sure I've aften wished all the spirits were in the Red Sea-and that would make a good drop o'punch, sure, more's the pity to waste so much good water! but where's the use of wishin? what can't be, can't be, and nobody knows that better than a jontleman bred and born, like yer honour, that has travelled over all the world, and more.” Well, but

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66 Sure you may say that, Sir. You see when I was a thrifle drunk-not to say dead drunk-plaze the Saints, I'll never be that, for I'll always be able to hould on by the wall-but, when I was jist merry I'd may be hit my shins agin a hard stone, or dip into one of the baggage waggon's ruts up to the middle, or get a thorn in my foot, your honour knows shoes were scarce in the Peninshula-or I'd be numbed with the could, and snow, and rain, and many's the time I've prayed for a cannon ball to end me. Now I don't care for stones, or thorns or coulds, or damps, snows or rains, and my wooden legs care as little, but not less than I do."

"You're a true philosopher, O'Neill: a Brahman couldn't be more indifferent to misfortune than you are.'

"Is it of the Indians you're talking? and wasn't I in India too with Wellington and Baird, and all the haroes of the Peninshula, God bless them! when I was there, I'd been glad of my wooden legs, sure. If a scorpion came near our tent, I could have squashed him-if a tiger had sneaked up, I'd have put my leg in his throat. At home it's all the same. When my wife's angry, I shake the timber at her; when she's pleased, I crack her nuts with it. If the fire's bad, it serves me for a poker; and when my limbs get old, I cook a chop with them."

"You are very happy in your loss," said I.

"Nobody more. Would n't your honour now be contint to lose your legs, to be just as I am? an' sure wouldn't any body, even the king himself, God bless him?"

What His Majesty's taste might be, I have of course no means of knowing; though I don't think he would feel disposed to lose a pair of legs that were once so much admired: as for me, the thing is out of the question, for I am already engaged to Mrs. Herbert, who took a fancy to me on account of my "fashionable length of limb." I gave a sovereign to my philosophieal friend, who evidently did not despise money (as other philosophers are said to have done) and retreated into Mrs. Grange's to eat an ice of which I wish I could transfer the coolness and flavour to Calcutta.

THE DISGRACED SOLDIER.

The silent square is formed; and now they bring
One who is lost to fortune and to fame,

A youthful Soldier.

Is stained for ever.

His struggling heart!

His once honored name

Ah, what feelings wring

In vain to hide the sting
Of fierce remorse, and soul-o'erwhelming shame,
He wears a sterner brow. His spirit's flame
Is early quenched, and never more shall spring
To glory's lofty goal. The word is given-
And the bold hand that late in battle waved

A bright resistless blade, is firmly bound.
Though 'gainst his blackening flesh the lash is driven
With ruthless force-that stroke were lightly braved,
But for the soul's immedicable wound!

F.

THE FATHER AND SON.

A TALE.

[The following Tale was the first of a projected Series of Imitations of the genuine manner, of our living Poets; but lest the copy should be so unlike as to leave the original in doubt, the writer thinks it best to declare that the Father and Son is an attempt to imitate the style of CRABBE.]

In that low shop, which fronts the market-place,
An still displays a show of gloves and lace,
Lived Edward Bolton; happy was his life,
Blest with a darling boy, and blameless wife;
All were contented with the goods he sold,
They cost him silver, but produced him gold:
By Strangers trusted, by his neighbours lov'd,
Blest by the poor, and by the rich approv'd
He only sought a Vestry-man to frown,
And rank among the Magnates of the Town.

That prayer was heard; but when th' Almighty grants
Aught not within the circle of our wants,

He often punishes when he supplies,

And proves his kindness most when he denies,

Gives some fond wish, but takes, to tame our pride,

Some real blessing from our thankless side.

For thirteen years had Edward Bolton been

The constant husband of Eliza Green,
When she was taken from him; so bereaved,
Much for his son, more for himself he grieved;
The boy wept loudly-but the father said,-
"Weep not, my son, nor think that tears will aid;
"Soon I must join her; for a few short years
66 I may survive, and thou shalt dry my tears;
"On thee alone my future hopes depend,
"To me thou shalt be son, and wife, and friend."
"When I forget you, father, let me"-
The father said- " swear not, but let us pray!"
Young William Bolton grew to twenty-one,
An only favourite, and an only son;
Proud was the doating father, when he saw
His William's manhood recogniz'd by law;
For he had seen his son's affections fixt
(Though sordid interests had come betwixt)
On Mary Grey, the loveliest and the last,
Of a long line of honors overcast,

“ Nay,”

By poverty and debt, and all combin'd,
With vain pretensions, empty as the wind.

Old Bolton thought, and to himself he said,
"I for my Boy will win this fair young maid;
"And should it cost me all that I have won,
"I'll gain a daughter, loving as my son;
"For she must love me, when she knows I give,
"My boy, my all....and I with them will live."
He sought the Father, and his offer made ;
"I with my son will share my all," he said;
"And when a few short years have roll'd away,
"I'll freely leave the rest to Mary Grey."

"I doubt not," said the Father of the bride, "That all you promise may be ratified, "Should you live single; but you may be caught, "With some young face; and all will be forgot; "Or as a pious man you seem to be,

Bequeath your earthly goods in charity. "Hear my decision; to the lovers give, "All that you have-you only seek to live, "And you can live with them, rejoiced to see, "The rising of a new Posterity."

Bolton was weakly good; he signed a deed, By which the pair should instantly succeed, To all his wealth; the pair bestowed a room, And the Sire dreamt of days of bliss to come. Years past; at first the Father was caressed, And at their table was a constant guest; But soon the prudent wife began to say66 William, your Sire grows worse from day to day; "He scolds the servants, and our friends amazed, "At his odd ways, say plainly-" He is craz'd ; "Our table let him leave, and keep his room, "And please himself with gladness or with gloom." Much more than this the matron urged with force, And William yielded-though with some remorse; The parent quickly to his cell was sent ; But yet the cruel pair could not prevent, Their son a noble and a sprightly youth From stealing in, his Grandsire's hours to soothe, To wipe the eyes, more dim with tears than age, And all his woes with boyish hopes assuage.

The child's affection rous'd the mother's wrath:

Why is this hoary serpent in our path?

Shall he my boy encourage to conspire

"Against his mother, and against his Sire?
"Hence let him go this night; no more one house

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Shall hold at once thy father and thy spouse!"