The Dodd Family Abroad, Vol. I

I intended to have despatched this by to-day's post, but it is Saint Somebody's day, and the office closes at two o'clock, so that I 'll have to keep it over, perhaps till Saturday, for to-morrow, I find, we 're to go to Waterloo, to see the field of battle. There's a prince – whose name I forget, and, indeed, I could n't spell, if I remembered it – going to be our "Cicerone." I 'm not sure if he says he was there at the battle; but Mrs. D. believes him as she would the Duke of Wellington. Then there's a German count, whose father did something wonderful, and two Belgian barons, whose ancestors, I 've no doubt, sustained the national reputation for speed. The season is hardly suitable for such an excursion; but even a day in the country – a few hours in the fields and the free air – will be a great enjoyment James is going to bring a Polish friend of his, – a great Don he calls him, – but I 'm so overlaid with nobility, the Khan of Tartary would not surprise me now. I 'll keep this open to add a few lines, and only say good-bye for the present.

Saturday.

Waterloo's a humbug, Tom. I don't mean to say that Bony found it so some thirty-odd years back, but such it now appears. I assure you they 've cut away half the field to commemorate the battle, – a process mighty like slicing off a man's nose to establish his identity. The result is that you might as well stand upon Hounslow Heath or Salisbury Plain, and listen to a narrative of the action, as visit Waterloo for the sake of the localities. La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont stand, certainly, in the old places, but the deep gorge beside the one, and the ridge from whence the cannonade shattered the other, are totally obliterated. The guides tell you, indeed, where Vivian's brigade stood, where Picton charged and fell, where Ney's column halted, faltered, and broke; they speak of the ridge behind which the guard lay in long expectancy; they describe to you the undulating swell over which our line advanced, cheering madly: but it's like listening to a description of Killarney in a fog, and being informed that Turk Mountain is yonder, and that the waterfall is down a glen to your right. One thing is clear, Tom, however, – we beat the French; and when I say "We," I mean what I say. England knows, and all Europe knows, who won the battle, and more's the disgrace for the way we 're treated. But, after all, it's our own fault in a great measure, Tom; we take everything that comes from Parliament as a boon and a favor, little guessing often how it will turn out. Our conduct in this respect reminds me of poor Jack Whalley's wife. You remember Jack, that was postboy at the Clanbrazil Arms. Well, his wife one day chanced to find an elegant piece of white leather on the road, and she brought it home with her in great delight, to mend Jack's small clothes, which she did very neatly. Jack set off the next day, little suspecting what was in store for him; but when he trotted about five miles, – it was in the month of July, – he began to feel mighty uneasy in the saddle, – a feeling that continued to increase at every moment, till at last, as he said, "It was like taking a canter on a beehive in swarming time;" and well it might, for the piece of leather was no other than a blister that the apothecary's boy had dropped that morning on the road; and so it is, Tom. There's many a thing we take to be a fine patch for our nakedness that's only a blister, after all. Witness the Poor Law and the "Cumbrous Estates Court," as Rooney calls it. But I 'm wandering away from Waterloo all this time. You know the grand controversy is about what time the Prussians came up; because that mainly decides who won the battle. I believe it's nearly impossible to get at the truth of the matter; for though it seems clear enough they were in the wood early in the day, it appears equally plain they stayed there – and small blame to them – till they saw the Inniskillings cutting down the Cuirassiers and sabring all before them. They waited, as you and I often waited in a row, till the enemy began to run, and then they were down on them. Even that same was no small help; for, by the best accounts, the French require a deal of beating, and we were dreadfully tired giving it to them! Sergeant Cotton, the guide, tells me it was a grand sight just about seven o'clock, when the whole line began cheering; first, Adam's brigade, then Cooke's battalion, all taking it up and cheering madly; the general officers waving their hats, and shouting like the rest. I was never able to satisfy myself whether we gained or lost most by that same victory of Waterloo; for you see, Tom, after all our fighting in Spain and Portugal, after all Nelson's great battles, all our triumphs and votes of thanks, Europe is going back to the old system again, – kings bullying their people, setting spies on them, opening their letters, transporting the writers, and hanging the readers. If they 'd have let Bony alone when he came back from Elba, the chances were that he 'd not have disturbed the peace of the world. He had already got his bellyful of fighting; he was getting old, falling into flesh, and rather disposed to think more of his personal ease than he used to do. Are you aware that the first thing he said on entering the Tuileries from Elba was, "Avant tout, un bon dîner"? One of the marshals, who heard the speech, whispered to a friend, "He is greatly changed; you 'll see no more campaigns." I know you 'll reply to me with your old argument about legitimacy and divine right, and all that kind of thing. But, my dear Tom, for the matter of that, have n't I a divine right to my ancestral estate of Tullylicknaslatterley; and look what they 're going to do with it, to-morrow or next day! 'T is much Commissioner Longfield would mind, if I begged to defer the sale, on the ground of "my divine right." Kings are exactly like landlords; they can't do what they like with their own, hard as it may seem to say so. They have their obligations and their duties; and if they fail in them, they come into the Encumbered Estates Court, just like us, – ay, and, just like us, they "take very little by their motion."

I know it's very hard to be turned out of your "holding." I can imagine the feelings with which a man would quit such a comfortable quarter as the Tuileries, and such a nice place for summer as Versailles; Dodsborough is too fresh in my mind to leave any doubt on this point; but there 's another side of the question, Tom. What were they there for? You'll call out, "This is all Socialism and Democracy," and the devil knows what else. Maybe I 'll agree with you. Maybe I 'll say I don't like the doctrine myself. Maybe I 'll tell you that I think the old time was pleasantest, when, if we pressed a little hard to-day, why, we were all the kinder to-morrow, and both ruler and ruled looked more leniently on each other's faults. But say what we will, do what we will, these days are gone by, and they 'll not come back again. There 's a set of fellows at work, all over the world, telling the people about their rights. Some of these are very acute and clever chaps, that don't overstate the case; they neither go off into any flights about universal equality, or any balderdash about our being of the same stock; but they stick to two or three hard propositions, and they say, "Don't pay more for anything than you can get it for, – that's free-trade; don't pay for anything you don't want, – that's a blow at the Church Establishment; don't pay for soldiers if you don't want to fight, – that 's at 'a standing army;' and, above all, when you have n't a pair of breeches to your back, don't be buying embroidered small-clothes for lords-in-waiting or gentlemen of the bedchamber." But here I am again, running away from Waterloo just as if I was a Belgian.

When we got to Hougoumont, a dreadful storm of rain came on, – such rain as I thought never fell out of Ireland. It came swooping along the ground, and wetting you through and through in five minutes. The thunder, too, rolled awfully, crashing and cannonading around these old walls, as if to wake up the dead by a memory of the great artillery. Mrs. D. took to her prayers in the little chapel, with Mary Anne and the Pole, James's friend. Caroline stood with me at a little window, watching the lightning; and James, by way of airing his French, got into a conversation, or rather a discussion, about the battle with a small foreigner with a large beard, that had just come in, drenched to the skin. The louder it thundered, the louder they spoke, or rather screamed at each other; and though I don't fancy James was very fluent in the French, it's clear the other was getting the worst of the argument, for he grew terribly angry and jumped about and flourished a stick, and, in fact, seemed very anxious to try conclusions once more on the old field of conflict.

James carried the day, at last; for the other was obliged, as Uncle Toby says, "to evacuate Flanders," – meaning, thereby, to issue forth into the thickest of the storm rather than sustain the combat any longer. When the storm passed over, we made our way back to the little inn at the village of Waterloo, kept in the house where Lord Anglesey suffered amputation, and there we dined. It was neither a very good dinner nor a very social party. Mrs. D.'s black velvet bonnet and blue ribbons had got a tremendous drenching; Mary Anne contrived to tear a new satin dress all down the back, with a nail in the old chapel; James was unusually grave and silent; and as for the Pole, all his efforts at conversation were so marred by his bad English that he was a downright bore. It is a mistake to bring one of these foreigners out with a small family party! they neither understand you nor you them. Cary was the only one that enjoyed herself; but she went about the inn, picking up little curiosities of the battle, – old buttons, bullets, and the like; and it was a comfort to see that one, at least, amongst us derived pleasure from the excursion.

I have often heard descriptions of that night march from Brussels to the field; and truly, what with the gloomy pine-wood, the deep and miry roads, and the falling rain, it must have been a very piteous affair; but for downright ill-humor and discontent, I 'd back our own journey over the same ground against all. The horses, probably worn out with toiling over the field all day, were dead beat, and came gradually down from a trot to a jog, and then to a shamble, and at last to a stop. James got down from the box, and helped to belabor them; it was raining torrents all this time. I got out, too, to help; for one of the beasts, although too tired to go, contrived to kick his leg over the pole, and couldn't get it back again; but the Count contented himself with uttering most unintelligible counsels from the window, which when he saw totally unheeded, he threw himself back in the coach, lighted his meerschaum, and began to smoke.

Imagine the scene at that moment, Tom. The driver was undressing himself coolly on the roadside, to examine a kick he had just received from one of the horses; James was holding the beasts by the head, lashing, as they were, all the time; I was running frantically to and fro, to seek for a stone to drive in the linch-pin, which was all but out; while Mrs. D. and the girls, half suffocated between smoke and passion, were screaming and coughing in chorus. By dint of violent bounding and jerking, the wheel was wrenched clean off the axle at last, and down went the whole conveniency on one side, our Polish friend assisting himself out of the window by stepping over Mrs. D.'s head, as she lay fainting within. I had, however, enough to do without thinking of him, for the door being jammed tight would not open, and I was obliged to pull Mrs. D. and the girls out by the window. The beasts, by the same time, had kicked themselves free of everything but the pole, with which appendage they scampered gayly away towards Brussels; James shouting with laughter, as if it was the best joke he had ever known. When we began to look about us and think what was best to be done, we discovered that the Count had taken a French leave of us, or rather a Polish one; for he had carried off James's cloak and umbrella along with him.

We were now all wet through, our shoes soaked, not a dry stitch on us, – all except the coachee, who, having taken off a considerable portion of his wearables, deposited them in the coach, while he ran up and down the road, wringing his hands, and crying over his misfortune in a condition that I am bound to say was far more pictorial than decent. It was in vain that Mrs. D. opened her parasol as the last refuge of offended modesty. The wind soon converted it into something like a convolvulus, so that she was fain once more to seek shelter inside the conveyance, which now lay pensively over on one side, against a muddy bank.

Such little accidents as these are not uncommon in our own country; but when they do occur, you are usually within reach of either succor or shelter. There is at least a house or a cabin within hail of you. Nothing of the kind was there here. This "Bois de Cambre," as they call it, is a dense wood of beech or pine trees, intersected here and there by certain straight roads, without a single inhabitant along the line. A solitary diligence may pass once in the twenty-four hours, to or from Wâvre. A Waterloo tourist party is occasionally seen in spring or summer, but, except these, scarcely a traveller is ever to be met with along this dreary tract These reassuring facts were communicated to us by the coachee, while he made his toilet beside the window.

By great persuasions, much eloquence, French and English, and a Napoleon in gold, our driver at length consented to start on foot for Brussels, whence he was to send us a conveyance to return to the capital. This bargain effected, we settled ourselves down to sleep or to grumble, as fancy or inclination prompted.

I will not weary you with any further narrative of our sufferings, nor tell of that miserable attempt I made to doze, disturbed by Mrs. D.'s unceasing lamentations over her ruined bonnet, her shocked feelings, and her shot-silk. A little before daybreak, an empty furniture-van came accidentally by, with the driver of which we contracted for our return to Brussels, where we arrived at nine o'clock this morning, almost as sad a party as ever fled from Waterloo! I thought I 'd jot down these few details before I lay down for a sleep, and it is likely that I may still add a line or two before post-hour.

Monday.

My dear Tom, – We've had our share of trouble since I wrote the last postscript. Poor James has been "out," and was wounded in the leg, above the knee. The Frenchman with whom he had a dispute at Hougoumont sent him a message on Saturday last; but as these affairs abroad are always greatly discussed and argued before they come off, the meeting did n't take place till this morning, when they met near Lacken. James's friend was Lord George Tiverton, Member for Hornby, and son to some Marquis, – that you'll find out in the "Peerage," for my head is too confused to remember.

He stood to James like a trump; drove him to the ground in his own phaeton, lent him his own pistols, – the neatest tools ever I looked at, I wonder he could miss with them, – and then brought him back here, and is still with him, sitting at the bedside like a brother. Of course it's very distressing to us all, and poor James is in terrible pain, for the leg is swelled up as thick as three, and all blue, and the doctors don't well know whether they can save it; but it's a grand thing, Tom, to know that the boy behaved beautifully. Lord G. says: "I've been out something like six-and-twenty times, principal or second, but I never saw anything cooler, quieter, or in better taste than young Dodd's conduct." These are his own words, and let me tell you, Tom, that's high praise from such a quarter, for the English are great sticklers for a grave, decorous, cold-blooded kind of fighting, that we don't think so much about in Ireland. The Frenchman is one Count Roger, – not pronounced Roger, but Rogee, – and, they say, the surest shot in France. He left his card to inquire after James, about half an hour ago, – a very pretty piece of attention, at all events. Mrs. D. and the girls are not permitted to see James yet, nor would it be quite safe, for the poor fellow is wandering in his mind. When I came into the room he told Lord George that I was his uncle! and begged me not to alarm his aunt on any account!

I can't as yet say how far this unlucky event will interfere with our plans about moving. Of course, for the present, this is out of the question; for the surgeon says that, taking the most favorable view of his case, it will be weeks before J. can leave his bed. To tell you my mind frankly, I don't think they know much about gunshot wounds abroad; for I remember when I hit Giles Eyre, the bullet went through his chest and came out under the bladebone, and Dr. Purden just stopped up the hole with a pitch-plaster, and gave him a tumbler of weak punch, and he was about again, as fresh as ever, in a week's time. To be sure, he used to have a hacking kind of a short cough, and complained of a pain now and then; but everybody has his infirmities!

I mentioned what Purden did, to Baron Seutin, the surgeon here; but he called him a barbarian, and said be deserved the galleys for it! I thought to myself, "It's lucky old Sam does n't hear you, for he's just the boy would give you an early morning for it!"

I was called away by a message from the Commissary of the Police, who has sent one of his sergeants to make an inquiry about the duel.

If it was to Roger he went, it would be reasonable enough; but why come and torment us that have our own troubles? I was obliged to sit quiet and answer all his questions, giving my Christian name and my wife's, our ages, what religion we were, if we were really married, – egad, it's lucky it was n't Mrs. D. was under examination, – what children we had, their ages and sex, – I thought at one time he was going to ask how many more we meant to have. Then he took an excursion into our grandfathers and grandmothers, and at last came back to the present generation and the shindy.

If it was n't for Lord George, we 'd never have got through the business; but he translated for me, and helped me greatly, – for what with the confusion I was in, and the language, and the absurdity of the whole thing, I lost my temper very often; and now I discover that we 're to have a kind of prosecution against us, though of what kind, or at whose suit, or why, I can't find out. This will be, therefore, number three in my list of law-suits here, – not bad, considering that I 'm scarce as many weeks in the country! I have n't mentioned this to you before, for I don't like dwelling on it; but it's truth, nevertheless. I must close this at last, for we have Lord G. to dinner; and I must go and put Paddy Byrne through his facings, or there 'll be all kinds of blundering. I wish I'd never brought him with us, nor the jaunting-car. The young chaps – the dandies here – have a knack of driving, as if down on us, just to see Mary Anne trying to save her legs; but I 'll come across them one day with the whip, in a style they won't like. Betty Cobb, too, was no bargain, and I wish she was back at Dodsborough.

We 're always reading in the newspapers how well the Irish get on out of Ireland, – how industrious they become, how thrifty, and so on; don't believe a word of it, Tom. There's Betty, the same lazy, good-for-nothing, story-telling, complaining, discontented devil ever she was; and as for Paddy Byrne, his fists have never been out of somebody's features, except when there were handcuffs on them, —semper eadem! Tom, as we used to say at Dr. Bell's. Whatever we may be at home, – and the "Times" won't say much for us there, – it's there we 're best, after all. The doctors are here again to see James; so that I must conclude with love to all yours, and Remain ever faithfully your friend,

Kenny I. Dodd.

LETTER VI. MISS MARY AUNE DODD TO MISS DOOLAN, OF BALLYDOOLAN

Dearest Kitty, – What a dreadful fortnight have we passed through! We thought that poor dear James must have lost his leg; the inflammation ran so high, and the pain and the fever were so great, that one night the Baron Seutin actually brought the horrid instruments with him, and I believe it was Lord George alone persuaded him to defer the operation. What a dear, kind, affectionate creature he is! He has scarcely ever left the house since it happened; and although he sits up all night with James, he seems never tired nor sleepy, but is so full of life all day long, playing on the piano, and teaching us the mazurka! I should rather say teaching me, for Cary, bless the mark, has taken a prudish turn, and says she has no fancy for being pulled about, even by a lord! I may as well mention here, that there is nothing less like romping than the mazurka, when danced properly; and so Lord George as much as told her. He scarcely touches your waist, Kitty; he only "gives you support," as he says himself, and he never by any chance squeezes your hand, except when there 's something droll he wants you to remark.

I must say, Kitty, that in Ireland we conceive the most absurd notions about the aristocracy. Now, here, we have one of the first, the very first young nobleman of the day actually domesticated with us. For the entire fortnight he has never been away, and yet we are as much at home with him, as easy in his presence, and as unconstrained as if it were your brother Robert, or anybody else of no position. You can form no idea how entertaining he is, for, as he says himself, "I 've done everything," and I 'm certain so he has; such a range of knowledge on every subject, – such a mass of acquaintances! And then he has been all over the world in his own yacht. It's like listening to the "Arabian Nights," to hear him talk about the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn; and I'm sure I never knew how to relish Byron's poetry till I heard Lord G.'s description of Patras and Salamis. I must tell you, as a great secret though, that he came, the other evening, in his cloak to the drawing-room door, to say that James wanted to see me; and when I went out, there he was in full Albanian dress, the most splendid thing you ever beheld, – a dark violet velvet jacket all braided with gold, white linen jupe, like the Scotch kilt, but immensely full, – he said, two hundred ells wide, – a fez on his head, embroidered sandals, and such a scimitar! it was a mass of turquoises and rubies. Oh, Kitty! I have no words to describe him; for, besides all this, he has such eyes, and the handsomest beard in the world, – not one of those foppish little tufts they call imperials, nor that grizzly clothes-brush Young France affects, but a regular "Titian," full, flowing, and squared beneath. Now, don't let Peter fancy that he ought to get up a "moyen âge look," for, between ourselves, these things, which sit so gracefully on my Lord, would be downright ridiculous in the dispensary doctor; and while I 'm on the topic, let me say that nothing is so thoroughly Irish as the habit of imitating, or rather of mimicking, those of stations above our own. I 'll never forget Peter's putting the kicking-straps on his mare just because he saw Sir Joseph Vickare drive with them; the consequence was that the poor beast, who never kicked before, no sooner felt the unaccustomed encumbrance than she dashed out, and never stopped till she smashed the gig to atoms. In the same way, I 'm certain that if he only saw Lord George's dress, which is a kind of black velvet paletot, braided, and very loose in the sleeves, he'd just follow it, quite forgetting how inconvenient it might be in what he calls "the surgery." At all events, Kitty, do not say that I said so. I'm too conscious how little power I have to serve him, to wish to hurt his feelings.

You could not believe what interest has been felt about James in the very highest circles here. We were at last obliged to issue a species of bulletin every morning, and leave it with the porter at the hotel door. I own to you I thought it did look a little pretentious at first to read these documents, with the three signatures at the foot; but Lord George only laughed at my humility, and said that it was "expected from us." From all this you may gather that poor James's misfortune has not been unalloyed with benefit. The sympathy – I had almost said the friendship – of Lord G. is indeed priceless, and I see, from the names of the inquiries, that our social position has been materially benefited by the accident. In the little I have seen of the Continent, one thing strikes me most forcibly. It is that to have any social eminence or success you must be notorious. I am free to own that in many instances this is not obtained without considerable sacrifice, but it would seem imperative. You may be very rich, or very highly connected, or very beautiful, or very gifted. You may possess some wonderful talent as a painter or a musician or as a dramatist. You may be the great talker of dinner-parties, – the wit who never wanted his repartee. A splendid rider, particularly if a lady, has always her share of admiration. But apart from these qualities, Kitty, you have only to reckon on eccentricities, and, I am almost ashamed to write it, on follies. Chance – I never could call it good fortune, when I think of poor James – has achieved for us what, in all likelihood, we never could have accomplished for ourselves, and by a turn of the wheel we wake and find ourselves famous. I only wish you could see the list of visitors, beginning with princes, and descending by a sliding scale to barons and chevaliers; such flourishing of hats, too, as we receive whenever we drive out! Papa begins to complain that he might as well leave his at home, as he is perpetually carrying it about in his hand. But for Lord George, we should never know who one-half of these fine folk were; but he is acquainted with them all, and such droll histories-as he has of them would convulse you with laughter to listen to.