SEWING UP THE FOGEYS.

It was in the year 1814, and while I was garrisoned in Portsmouth, I received the following note from Sir John T—:

"Dear Hill,—Will you do me the favour to come out here to dinner to-day? If possible, prevail on Doyle to accompany you. I want the aid of both to sew up the Fogeys.

"Fort Cumberland.

"Yours, very truly,

"John T.”

What assistance Colonel T required at my hands, or the exact meaning of the strange phrase with which he terminated his brief note, I could not, for the life of me, comprehend; and as I think it extremely probable that my reader is in a similar state of mystification, I will do my best to explain the case forthwith.

Sir John T- commanded a regiment of militia, called the Cornish Miners, finer fellows never wielded pickaxe, or carried musket; a more jovial set than the officers never surrounded a mess-table. The allied Sovereigns were, at the period when I speak, daily expected to visit Portsmouth; and to make room for a regiment which had returned from service, the Miners were marched off to Fort Cumberland, on the verge of Southsea Common, already occupied by a Veteran battalion.

These old soldiers had received the new-comers with great cordiality; and it was determined to take the earliest opportunity of returning their hospitality, by inviting them to the mess of the Miners. It was to this dinner that my friend Doyle and myself were bidden; and, as we were intimate not only with the Colonel, but most of the pleasant men of his regiment, we readily complied with his request.

In our very best embroidered jackets, and severely got up for the day, we reached Fort Cumberland, were kindly welcomed by our friends, who, however, did not carry their affection so far as to favour us with the hug for which their county is celebrated. The mess-room, like every other apartment in the fort, was a low casemated chamber, receiving light from the narrow windows, which flanked the only door it possessed; but which, nevertheless, from the thickness of the masonry, and the quantity of earth it supported, (which formed the parapet of the fort,) was extremely cool, and appeared admirably adapted for a summer refectory.

The dinner-drum beat, and the veterans began to assemble: the first trio who arrived possessed but four arms and five legs amongst them; then came two more, each minus a fin, but sporting capital lower limbs. The major, who was next announced, had been severely wounded, though the shots which had left such evident marks of a ruined constitution had spared his "precious limbs." Several others, all more or less maimed, came dropping in. Doyle and myself were made known to the gallant heroes as they severally appeared.

The dinner was served, the Colonel was about to take his seat, when, looking round, he said,

"I do not see Captain Camplin amongst us. I hope nothing prevents our having the pleasure of his company."

"Here I am, Colonel," shouted a stentorian voice from the bottom of

the room; and with a rapid pace, the speaker advanced. He, poor soul, had lost one leg, one arm, and one eye; but the brilliancy of the orb that was left was extraordinary. It was, as the song says, a piercer;" and the activity with which he stumped along, almost tempted one to believe that he had been born with a wooden leg. "Here I am, my dear Colonel beg pardon for being last, but I had to attend some female friends who came to see our fort here; and I have been promenading with them on the common."

Placing the Major on his right, and the senior Captain, a fine-looking old man, with silver hair, named Micklejohn, on his left, the Colonel sat himself down. I had been requested to sit next to the Major, and Doyle, to take another of the visiters under his especial care. Opposite to me sat the last-comer; and on my dexter side, a sturdy old boy, who was blessed with his proper number of digits. Soup being a onehanded invention, was no criterion; but when the fish was served, I was surprised to see that my opposite acquaintance managed to eat with as much ease as his more gifted neighbours; nor was he less expert in the art of drinking. He was challenged by most of his Cornish friends, by several of his own corps, and of course by Doyle and myself, who felt ourselves in duty bound to fulfil the object of our visit.

It was impossible, during dinner, for anybody to enter into conversation, even with his nearest companion; the rattle of knives, forks, and plates, reverberated along the roof and sides of our dungeon-shaped chamber, making the roughest music I ever had heard. When, however, the cloth was removed, and the wine, the life-blood of society, began to circulate, a stillness, by comparison, reigned amongst us.

Various toasts were drunk, and many speeches made; excepting in the glass of the Major, not a single heel-tap had been detected. Presently the old boys, warmed with the generous juice, began to relate to their militia friends the battles they had seen. Captain Camplin outshone them all; marvellous as many of his adventures were, it would have been cruel to doubt a single statement from so marked a man. The Major related to Sir John, that, when the battalion arrived at Waterford, some two years before, the people had stared at the mutilated figures that passed; but Camplin's company closing the line of march, and his triple suffering meeting their gaze, an impudent rascal pointed him out to his fellows, saying,-"Now, be Jabus, the town's taken!"

"I remember," replied the hero on whom this remark had been made, "I remember our Waterford quarters well; I dined one day with a merchant there, and he being anxious to give me a taste of some curious claret of his own importing, was prevented by the corkscrew being absent without leave; I won his heart, and those of all present, by lugging one out of my waistcoat pocket, which I invariably carried, and on the handle of which I had caused to be engraved The young man's best companion.""

"A most profane appropriation of the name of an accellent buik, my good Camplin," observed Captain Micklejohn; "but you were a'ways a ne'er do well, or you might have had some of your blessed members spared ye, and your Lisbon campaign not attended with sic malancholy circumstances.'

"May I ask what happened there, Sir ?" said I to the white-headed

warrior; but ere he could speak, the piercing glance of his friend's eye was full upon me, and the sufferer said quickly,

"A trifle, Sir, not worth relating, known only to my friend Micklejohn and the surgeon. However, we'll change the subject. Sir John, couldn't you prevail on one of your officers to favour us with a song?"

The call was promptly obeyed, and the singer was entitled to the privilege of a call in return. The Major was asked to name those of his officers who were given to the concord of sweet sounds, and many voices quickly proclaimed Camplin their principal vocalist.

He wasted no time in useless ceremony, but loudly chanted forth the cheering appeal said to be written by General Wolfe, of,

"Why, soldiers, why should we be melancholy,
Whose duty 'tis to die,"

with such a volume of voice, as proved that his lungs were as "ilegant as any in Ballyracket.

The nine o'clock drums had beaten some time, but not a man would stir from his can." About ten the Major, pleading ill-health, made a

stealthy exit, and I, of course, closed up to my host.

"Did you ever," said Sir John to me, sotto voce," see such a set of fellows? Why, half my lads are tipsy at this moment, but not one of these venerable sponges seems to have sopped up a quarter of the wine he intends to carry. I see I shall have a hard job to sew up these fogeys: however, something must be done for the honour of Cornwall."

He whispered one of the mess waiters, who instantly left the room. Bumpers were proposed in rapid succession, some to be drunk with honours; and it was a sight to see how manfully the lame, the halt, and the blind, stood up, whilst many of their militia friends were obliged to balance themselves by holding on to the edge of the table.

Suddenly the door flew open, and the band of the regiment entered the room, playing the County tune of "One and All!" and paraded several times round the assembled party. I could not but smile to see the black man, who played the cymbals, clash them together close to the ears of the visiters, as he passed, and the big drum, following the noisy example of his sable countryman. Such a din I never heard, and most heartily glad was I when the band, or, as I thought them, the banditti, were permitted to return to their beds, from which they had been so unexpectedly summoned.

Their visit, however, had produced the desired effect; one by one, the party lessened, inviters as well as guests, and about eleven o'clock, none remained but Camplin, Micklejohn, the President, Doyle, and myself: the former in joyous accents, said,

Ah, my dear Colonel, this is delightful: we can now enjoy an hour or two in rational conversation, the bandsmen are gone to their barracks, and my milksop brother officers have sneaked off to their rooms; I don't mean to follow them just yet, although I pride myself on being an early man."

"The deuce you do?" ejaculated Sir John in a low voice.

"Yes, Colonel," said Camplin, "there's Andrew Micklejohn and myself, old companions and fellow sufferers, we like to set a good example, and usually retire as soon as possible after-"

It would have been well for you if you had done so all your life, Camplin; but that infernal affair at Lisbon-"

"Well, well, don't let's talk of those matters now; two or three glasses of wine, just to top up with, and then we 'll wish the Colonel good night."

These two or three were speedily dispatched, the worthy Scotchman suddenly ceased to join in conversation, finding his articulation become every moment more indistinct, and rose to leave the room.

"Don't go, Andrew ; just two glasses more, and I'm with you, for you know, old Crowdey, I'm an early man."

Doyle, under pretext of assisting the Caledonian, made his retreat; but it would have puzzled a Solomon to say which of the two staggered most.

"Well, Sir John," continued Camplin, "we've had a delightful day, good dinner, excellent wine, and plenty of it. Capital wine; not a headache in a hogshead: if I wasn't an early man, I declare to you I shouldn't mind another bottle, but as it is, one more bumper, and then I'll bid you good afternoon."

"Morning, you mean," said the Colonel, beginning to evince some signs of weariness.

'Impossible, my dear Sir; I make it a rule to be in bed before midnight; have done so for years, and am well known by all my friends as an early man.”

“Take another anchovy toast, my good Sir," said I, rather anxious to see the end of the carouse, which, I was quite sure, a very little more wine must inevitably effect.

"Thank you, my dear fellow, I honour you, and I honour your cloth, and your table; you've gained immortal laurels this day,-drinking your wine like a man, and keeping sober as a judge-as wise as a dove, and as innocent as a serpent. I'll tell you what happened to an officer of yours in the year 1770, when I was a lieutenant,-no, I wasn't gazetted till 68-yes I was,-it was at the taking of one of the West India Islands, or the Cape of Good Hope, or Flushing, I don't just at the moment remember which; but, however, another glass will refresh my memory, thank you, Sir John, I'll drink your health in a bumper, and then if you will do me the honour to come over to my room, we'll have some cold cigars-a little brandy-and some beef and water. Artillery man, Sir John's health-up, standing-with three!"

The jolly old warrior got upon his left leg, that is, the leg that was left; the wine found its way down his throat, his body found its way to the floor, and down he fell, flat, and speechless. I hastened to assist him, but Sir John catching my arm, said,

"Join me, my dear boy, in one cheer, we've won the day, Hurrah! we've accomplished our task, we've SEWN UP THE FOGEYS!"

BENSON E. HILL.

THE BEAU OF BYBLOS.

CHAPTER I.

Of the Birth and Parentage of our Hero.

ANNO Mundi 2530, or, by Christian calculation, 3307 years ago, there appeared in the fashionable morning papers of Arabia-according to the best authority, Rumor-the following notice :-"BIRTHS-Yesterday morning her Royal Highness Myrrha, only daughter of His Most Gracious Majesty Cynaras, King of Cyprus, of a son.'

It is our melancholy task to record that her royal highness was not "so well as could be expected" after her accouchement; in fact, as the nurse declared, with tears in her eyes, "the poor dear moped and moped, and at last died like a lamb!" There was certainly some secret sorrow preying upon her mind; but her profound silence threw a veil of mystery over her misfortunes, which it is not in the power of our historic pen to raise. There is only one little circumstance which may tend to cast a glimmering ray upon the dense obscurity which enveloped this singular affair-no certificate of her marriage could be discovered!

Had she lived, the gossips would have had a fine field for the exercise of their peculiar talents; but de mortuis nil nisi bonum was a maxim which the heathens of those distant days considered it a particular virtue to observe. The gods (who of course were "let into the secret") were touched with her misfortunes, and transformed her into a tree. But, as our story has nothing further to relate touching Myrrha, we will proceed with the narration of the adventures of Adonis, who was the fruit and only branch of the said tree.

Some nymphs in the neighbourhood (young ladies more celebrated for the purity of their minds than the extent of their wardrobe) took compassion upon the lovely orphan, and brought him up "by hand" in the caves of Arabia. They all declared he was a darling, and took a pride in rearing and instructing their curly-headed pet; and as he grew up and flourished under their care, they felt a peculiar delight in teaching him many little tricks, which, it must be admitted, he never afterwards forgot. Any other child would have been neglected or lost sight of; but Nature had been so lavish in her gifts of grace and beauty towards him, that he was an unceasing topic of conversation in the neighbourhood. There were, of course, sundry conjectures touching his paternity. Some went so far as to say that he was a son of Jupiter; others of Apollo; while the crabbed old crones, who disliked his prattle and playfulness, declared he was a son of somebody of a very different character, utrum horum-but stay, most eloquent goose-quill! nor condescend to chronicle these hypotheses, a nobler task is before thee. Yes! thou shalt indite a tale more welcome to the taste of the reader than the stuffed and roasted goose from whose wing thou wert untimely plucked!

CHAP. II.

Of his going forth into the World.

Young gentlemen till a certain age may conduct themselves very peaceably in a "ladies' preparatory establishment;" but no sooner do