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be necessary to bring all those causes into due operation. We are not to expect that the great movements of society will take effect suddenly, or that the mischiefs inflicted on our commerce by years of suspended intercourse can be instantly redressed when the intercourse is re-opened. Such a radical derangement in the vital parts of the system leaves consequences behind it, which are not so soon recovered. It is under these consequences that we are now suffering, and, while this state of things continues, the prosperity of the country will be retarded. Our merchants, anxious to push into new channels of commerce, and to relieve themselves from a load of unsaleable goods, will run into ruinous adventures. Bankruptcies will take place,-alarms will occasionally shake the mercantile community, and embarrassments and a scarcity of cash will be generally complained of. But peace, we may be assured, will in time produce its proper fruits. If the world remain tranquil, the former relations will certainly revive between commercial countries, and commerce, blighted by war and violence, will yet recover and flourish in the congenial climate of security and peace.

NARRATIVE OF A SOLDIER OF THE

SEVENTY-FIRST REGIMENT.

SOME three months since, a decent tradesman was taking a walk on the Calton Hill. He observed a man working among the stones rather awkwardly, like a person not much accustomed to that kind of labour. He stood for a little observing him, till at length the stranger, lifting up his head, displayed the countenance of an old school-fellow, whom he perfectly remembered as the object of envy and emulation among his companions. "What brought you here, Tom, and where have you been this dreary length of time?" The soldier, for such it seems he was, answered, that he had been fighting the battles of his country in many parts of the world, and, being now discharged, had no resource but common labour. Much concerned at seeing one, who was considered in his school-days as likely to attain, by his talents and acquirements, the rank of " gentleman

and scholar," thus reduced, his friend asked him to share the homely supper of his family that evening. He came, and, cheered by the air of comfort and cordiality of welcome, got into tolerable spirits, fought all his battles o'er again, and, in the sequel, proved so entertaining, that the invitation, first given out of compassionate kindness, was warmly renewed, in hopes of hearing more of details at once so authentic and interesting. This new Ulysses possessed the faculty of reciting the tale of his woes and wanderings with that simple eloquence which adds the interest excited by the narrator to that awakened by the narration. His friend, who is very acute, and better informed than is usual with persons in his station, duly appreciated the purity and precision of his style, and observed, that it was a great pity he had not kept a journal of these occurrences. "How do you know that I have not?" said the soldier; and the next day he sent his friend a handful of papers, as a specimen of his journal, which, it seems, he had kept pretty regularly, this being the only manner in which the lingering love of letters, which no misery could extinguish, found a vent. These fragments were written on odd scraps of paper of various kinds, but, under every disadvantage, the clearness, conciseness, and modesty of the style, and the importance of the events in which he acted a very subordinate part, powerfully arrested attention. His friend was no less pleased than surprised. He made haste to show the papers to gentlemen on whose judgment he thought he could depend. They highly approved of the style in which the journal was written, and, upon diligent inquiry among officers who had been in the same service, were confirmed in their opinion of the authenticity of the details. His friend was delighted with the prospect of seeing a happy termination to the soldier's adventures, in consequence of the notice which a publication of his narrative might excite among such as had it in their power to patronize him. All these visions of felicity, however, were dispersed, by the reception of a letter containing the remainder of the hapless soldier's journal, which exhibits such a simple picture of blasted hopes, and a mind utterly subdued by long

suffering, that it will interest all who can distinguish more truly in the natural language of hopeless depression, than in the highest wrought description, what a man suffers who dearly loves the land he must leave, Here it follows: perhaps for ever.

"Edinburgh, May 1818. "Dear John,-These three months I I am a burden on can find nothing to do. Jeanie and her husband, (his sister and brother-in-law.) I wish I was a soldier again. I cannot even get labouring work. God will bless those, I hope, who have been good to n.e. I have seen my folly. I would be useful, but can get nothing to do. My mother is at her rest; God receive her soul! I will go to South America. Maria de Parides will put me in a way to do for myself, and be a burden to no go to Spain, and live in Or, I shall Boho. I will go to Buenos Ayres. Farewell! John, this is all I have to leave you. It is your's; do with it as you think proper. If I succeed in the South, I will return, and lay my bones beside my parents; if not, I will never come back."

one.

His friend, on receiving this letter, sought for him with anxious diligence, but could hear nothing of him. Finding, however, that a vessel from Leith had sailed for Buenos Ayres about that time, he takes it for granted that the hard fated adventurer has gone there to try once more the friendship and compassion of strangers. We have treated our readers as those that delight in the perusal of ordinary novels are apt to treat their favourite authors, that is, revealed the conclusion before entering on the narrative; not entirely without design, because the naked sad reality, so evident, in this dividing asunder of soul and spirit, that a warm hearted and tical Scotchman feels at parting, in hopeless anguish, from the home to which he had so long looked forward as a harbour of peace: Those feelings of a desolate heart, we say, are so unlike the conclusion of a fictitious story, which is always wound up by some striking event, that it affords an additional pledge of the authenticity of the narrative of which we are going to give a sketch,—a meagre one, indeed, as being rather intended to awaken than to gratify curiosity. We enter the more willingly on this task, as the story affords a beautiful illustration of the Scottish character, such as it exists among that class which may be

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strictly styled the people, that class,
respectable though humble, among
which the features of national charac-
ter are still to be found unchanged.
Thomas -
for he does not

says, from
mention his sirname, as he
motives of delicacy, was born in Edin-
burgh about 1793. We shall give
the beginning of his story in his own
words.

"I was born of poor but respectable parents, in Edinburgh, who bestowed upon me an education superior to my rank in It was their ambition to educate me life. for one of the learned professions; my mother wishing me to be a clergyman, my father to be a writer. They kept from themselves many comforts, that I might appear genteel at school: my brothers and sister did not appear to belong to the same family. My parents had three children, two boys and a girl, besides myself. On me alone was lavished all their care. My brothers, John and William, could read and write, and at the age of twelve years, were bound apprentices to trades. sister, Jane, was made, at home, a servant of all-work, to assist my mother. I alone was a gentleman in a house of poverty."

My

There is something very striking in this last expression, that reverence for every appearance of talent, that ambition to cultivate it, which could induce, not merely the parents, but the whole family, to submit to severe privations for the sake of this favoured individual, form a picture of life and manners not unfrequent in Scotland, but rarely to be met with in any other country. His father, however, from sickness, and other misfortunes, soon became unable to support him in the same ease and comfort with which his education had been begun. He became discontented in consequence; and, falling in with some acquaintances who had formed themselves into a spouting-club, he came to the resolution, in spite of the remonstrances of his parents, of going on the stage. We must give the result of this adventure, too, in his own language.

"I had, through the interference of my new acquaintances, got introduced to the Manager of the Theatre at Edinburgh, who was pleased with my manner and appearance. The day was fixed on which I was to make my trial. I had now attained I had the summit of my first ambition. not the most distant doubt of my success. Universal applause, crowded houses, and wealth, all danced before my imagination.

Intoxicated with joy, I went home to my parents. Never shall the agony of their looks be effaced from my memory. My mother's grief was loud and heart-rending, but my father's harrowed up my very soul. It was the look of despair-the expression of his blasted prospects he had so long looked forward to, with hopes and joy, hopes, that had supported him in all his toil and privations, crushed in the dust. It was too much; his eyes at length filled with tears, and, raising them to heaven, he only said, or rather groaned, 6 God, thy ways are just and wise-thou hast seen it necessary to punish my foolish partiality and pride. But, O God! forgive the instrument of my punishment.' Must I confess, I turned upon my heel and said, with the most cool indifference, (so much had the indulgence of my former life blunted my feelings towards my parents,) When I am courted and praised by all, and have made you independent, you will think otherwise of my choice.' Never, never,' he replied, you bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Thomas, Thomas, you will have our deaths to answer for,' was all that my mother could say; tears and sobs choked her utter

ance.

"I was immoveable in my resolves. The bills were printed, and I had given my word. This was the last time I ever saw them both. The scene has embittered all my former days, and still haunts me in all my hours of thought. Often, like an avenging spirit, it starts up in my most tranquil hours, and deprives me of my peace. Often, in the dead of night, when on duty, a solitary centinel, has it wrung from my breast a groan of remorse.

fled. In that moment.of bitter agony and shame, my punishment commenced.-I trembled; a cold sweat vozed through every pore; my father and mother's words rung in my ears; my senses became confused-hisses began from the audienceI utterly failed. From the confusion of my mind, I could not even comprehend the place in which I stood. To conclude, I shrunk unseen from the theatre, bewildered, and in a state of despair."

After wandering about all night, he met in the morning with a party of recruits, rashly enlisted with them, and embarked at Leith for the Isle of Wight. After describing the effects of the morning air, and the beautiful prospect in the Firth in restoring his sensibility, he says,

To

"I had not yet exchanged words with any of my fellow-recruits; I now inquired of the sergeant, to what regiment I had engaged myself? His answer was, the gallant 71st; you are a noble lad, and shall be an officer." He ran on in this fulsome cant for some time. I heard him not. Tantallon and the Bass were only a little way from us; we were quickly leaving behind all that was dear to me, and all I ought to regret. The shores of Lothian had vanished; we had passed Dunbar; I was seized with a sudden agitation; a menacing voice seemed to ask, What do you here? What is to become your parents? The blood forsook my heart: a delirium followed, and I fell on the deck."

of

He lay under deck in a kind of "Scarce had I left the house, when a gloomy stupor, till he was startled in sensation of horror at what I had done Yarmouth Roads by a dreadful noise pierced my heart. I thought the echo of over head, caused by a storm. Death my steps sounded, You will have our seemed present to him, and he took deaths to answer for. I started, and shelter from its impending horrors in turned back to throw myself at the feet of prayer and good resolutions, one of my parents, and implore their forgiveness. which was, to expiate in some mcaAlready I was at the door, when I met sure the sin of disobedience, by servone of my new acquaintances, who inquiring for seven years in the army. He ed what detained me? I said, I must not go; my parents are against my going, and I am resolved to obey them.' He laughed at my weakness, as he called it. I stood unmoved. Then, with an affected scorn, he said I was afraid, conscious I was unable to perform what I had taken upon me. Fired by his taunts, my good resolves vanished, and I once more left my parents' door, resolved to follow the bent of my own inclinations.

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"I went to the theatre, and prepared for my appearance. The house was crowded to excess. I came upon the stage with a fluttering heart, amidst universal silence. I bowed, and attempted to speak; my lips obeyed the impulse, but my voice had

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took the usual oath when he arrived in Ireland, and received L. 11 of bounty money, of which he laid out L. 4 for necessaries. It was the first money ever he could call his own; of the remainder he sent L. 5 to his parents, with the following letter:

"Newport Barracks, Isle of Wight, July 1806. "Father, If a disobedient and undutiful son may still address you by that dear and now much-valued name;-and my mother!-the blood forsakes my heart, and my hand refuses to move, when I think upon that unhallowed night I left your

peaceful roof to follow my foolish and wayward inclinations. O, I have suffered, and must ever suffer, for my guilty conduct. Pardon me! pardon me! I can hardly hope-yet-O drive me not to despair! I have doomed myself to seven years' punishment. I made this choice in an hour of shame. I could not appear in Edinburgh after what had happened. Never shall 1 again do any thing to bring shame upon myself or you. The hope of your pardon and forgiveness alone sustains me. Again I implore pardon on my knees. Would I could lay my head at your feet! then would I not rise till you pronounced my pardon, and raised to your embrace your

wretched

THOMAS."

Soon after he set sail with the rest of the regiment for South America, being engaged in the unfortunate expedition under General Auchmuty, of which he gives a full and very striking detail. He was, in the mean time, not at all popular among his fellow soldiers. Their ignorance and grossness was incompatible with his acquired knowledge and consequent refinement, and they revenged his shyness by calling him Saucy Tom and the Methodist. He met, however, with a brave Highlander, fully as ignorant, but far more innocent, in whose native goodness and affectionate heart he found some solace. Donald, however, will be best described by our narrator himself.

“There was one of my fellow-soldiers, Donald McDonald, who seemed to take pleasure in my company. We became attached to each other. He came up in the same smack with myself: He was my bed-fellow, and became my firm friend. Often would he get himself into altercations on my account. Donald could read and write. This was the sum of his education. He was innocent, and ignorant of the world; only 18 years of age, and had never been a night from home before he left his father's house, more than myself. To be a soldier was the height of his ambition. He had come from near Inverness to Edinburgh on foot, with no other intention than to enlist in the 71st. His father had been a soldier in it, and was now living at home after being discharged. Do nald called it his regiment, and would not have taken the bounty from any other."

He proceeds to describe his voyage, the impression made on him by Madeira and the Cape of Good Hope, and, finally, their arrival at Maldonado, and what he felt in the first ac

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When Mount Video was stormed, our soldier was left behind with the party who were to protect the camp. Shells fell fast among them. A young officer, running back and forward in confusion, an old soldier said, with the gravity of a Turk, “You need not hide, Sir; if there is any thing there for you, it will find you out. The young man on this stood to his duty, and never after betrayed symptoms of confusion. They remained here seven months, and our young adventurer seems to have been fully awake to all the glories, of a torrid summer.

In that beautiful country they suffer no inconvenience but from heat; wanted for nothing, and dwelt amidst such a luxury of fruit and flowers, that, had it not been for the pangs of wounded conscience, associated with the remembrance of his parents, he might have been happy. He was one of the youths appointed to guard Sir Samuel Auchmuty, and thus escaped fatiguing duty. He was billetted on a young widow, (the Maria de Parides, mentioned in his farewell letter,) who lived with an aged father, and who was very kind to him. He describes the manners, dress, habits, and superstitions of these people in such a manner, as none but an inmate among them could have done with equal accuracy; and the impression left on the reader's mind of those simple and ignorant, but well-meaning beings, is, upon the whole, favourable.

The natives, by which he seems to mean the Indians, he describes as brutish in their manners, and extravagantly indolent. Our soldier was an object of kindly solicitude to the good people with whom he lived, which they shewed in earnest, though gentle endeavours to convert him. Here follows an account of their painful march through woods and morasses, and of that fatal action in which General Whitelock, with a most unaccountable infatuation, ordered them to at

tack the town of Monte Video with out ammunition, and with bayonets only; the soldiers murmured and said they were betrayed; the sequel is but too well known. Thomas and his companions were forced to surrender, and conveyed to prison. A hundred of them were afterwards marched out and condemned to be shot, unless they would surrender up a golden crucifix taken from a church, and supposed to be concealed among them. It was of great value, and the ferocious appearance of the Spaniards and Indians was very terrible. The crucifix was found on the ground, and they were marched back in safety. A good priest visited him in prison, and after being convinced that his conversion was hopeless, said, "I have done my duty as a priest, and will now do it as a man," and daily brought him some comforts without further mentioning religion. Donald, the fidus Achates of our soldier, was happy, caressed and quite at home among the Spaniards, being, like most of the Macdonalds of Lochaber, a Catholic. On leaving the country, his new friends were most willing to detain him, and he was persuaded to stay. But Thomas found the way to his heart by singing Lochaber no more." The tears started into his eyes; he said, No, no, Ill not stay; I'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.' The good priest was disappointed, saying, however, with a visible pang, "It is natural; I once lov'd Spain above all other places in the world." He gave them his blessing and ten doubloons each at parting.

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They returned to Ireland after seventeen months absence; he felt his return with a chastened joy, and earnestly ejaculated his thanks for preservation through so many dangers, shocked, at the same time, with the riots and dissipation with which the rest testified their joy on the occasion. He wrote home a letter, and sent the amount of the ten doubloons he received from the good priest. He received an answer from his brother, inclosing his father's reply to his first letter, which affords such an admirable specimen of humble worth and good feeling, that we are tempted to insert it, though our extracts are already exceeding the due limits.

"Dear Thomas,-We received your let ter from the Isle of Wight, which gave us much pleasure. I do not mean to add to

your sorrows by any reflection upon what is past, as you are now sensible of your former faults, and the cruelty of your desertion. Let it be a lesson to you in future. It had nearly been our deaths. Your mo

ther, brothers, and myself, searched in every quarter that night you left us; but it pleased God we should not find you. Had we only known you were alive, we would have been happy. We praise God you are safe, and send you our forgiveness and blessings. The money you have sent we mean to assist to purchase your discharge, if you will leave the army and come to us again. You say you have made a vow to remain seven years. It was rash to do so, if you have vowed solemnly. Write us on receipt of this, that I may know what course to pursue.-Your loving parent."

The brother's letter, alas! contains an affecting account of this good man's death.

"He received your letter two days before his death. He was, at the time, propped up in bed."--"He opened it himself; and, as he read, his face beamed with joy, and the tears ran down his cheeks: 'Gallant, unfortunate boy, may God bless and forgive you as I do." He gave me the letter to read to my mother aloud. While I read it, he seemed to pray fervently. He then desired me to write to you as he would dictate. This letter was returned to us again. I now send it you under cover of this. Your mother is well, and sends you her blessings; but wishes you to leave the army, and come home. The money you sent just now, and the five pounds before, will purchase your discharge."

Deeply sorrowing for the consequences of his imprudence, Thomas embarked for Spain with Sir Arthur Wellesley, fought at Vimeira, surveyed the beauties of Cintra with the eye of taste, and mourned over its fatal convention. Speaking of the different conduct of the French and English at Vimeira, he says, "In our first charge I found my mind waver. A breathless sensation came over me, the silence was appalling. I looked alongst the line,it was enough to as sure me: the steady determined scowl of my companions assured my heart, and gave me determination. How unlike the noisy advance of the French," &c. The whole account of the campaign in Portugal is given with the force and vivacity natural to one to whom such scenes were new, and beheld with feeling, firmness, and intelligence. The campaign in Spain, followed by the retreat under General Sir John Moore, is given with painful

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