University of Virginia Library

THE BOLD DRAGOON,
OR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER.

My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it's a
profession, d'ye see, that has run in the family.
All my forefathers have been dragoons and died
upon the field of honour except myself, and I
hope my posterity may be able to say the same;
however, I don't mean to be vainglorious. Well,
my grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon,
and had served in the Low Countries. In fact,
he was one of that very army, which, according
to my uncle Toby, “swore so terribly in Flanders.”
He could swear a good stick himself; and,
moreover, was the very man that introduced the
doctrine Corporal Trim mentions, of radical heat
and radical moisture; or in other words, the mode
of keeping out the damps of ditch water by burnt
brandy. Be that as it may, it's nothing to the
purport of my story. I only tell it to show you

that my grandfather was a man not easily to be
humbugged. He had seen service; or, according
to his own phrase, “he had seen the divil”—
and that's saying every thing.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his
way to England, for which he intended to embark
at Ostend;—bad luck to the place for one
where I was kept by storms and head winds for
three long days, and the divil of a jolly companion
or pretty face to comfort me. Well, as I
was saying, my grandfather was on his way to
England, or rather to Ostend—no matter which,
it's all the same. So one evening, towards nightfall,
he rode jollily into Bruges. Very like you
all know Bruges, gentlemen, a queer, old-fashioned
Flemish town, once they say a great
place for trade and money making, in old times,
when the Mynheers were in their glory; but
almost as large and as empty as an Irishman's
pocket at the present day. Well, gentlemen,
it was the time of the annual fair. All Bruges
was crowded; and the canals swarmed with
Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch

merchants; and there was hardly any getting
along for goods, wares, and merchandises, and
peasants in big breeches, and women in half a
score of petticoats.

My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy
slashing way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow—staring
about him at the motley crowd, and
the old houses with gabel ends to the street and
storks' nests on the chimneys; winking at the
ya vrouws who showed their faces at the windows,
and joking the women right and left in the street;
all of whom laughed and took it in amazing good
part; for though he did not know a word of their
language, yet he had always a knack of making
himself understood among the women.

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual
fair, all the town was crowded; every inn
and tavern full, and my grandfather applied in
vain from one to the other for admittance. At
length he rode up to an old rackety inn that looked
ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats
would have run away from, if they could have
found room in any other house to put their heads.

It was just such a queer building as you see in
Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up
into the clouds; and as many garrets, one over
the other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet.—
Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a
stork's nest on the chimney, which always brings
good luck to a house in the Low Countries; and
at the very time of my grandfather's arrival,
there were two of these long-legged birds of
grace, standing like ghosts on the chimney top.
Faith, but they've kept the house on its legs to
this very day; for you may see it any time you
pass through Bruges, as it stands there yet; only
it is turned into a brewery—a brewery of strong
Flemish beer; at least it was so when I came
that way after the battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as
he approached. It might not altogether have
struck his fancy, had he not seen in large letters
over the door,

HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK.

My grandfather had learnt enough of the language
to know that the sign promised good liquor.

“This is the house for me,” said he, stopping
short before the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon
was an event in an old inn, frequented only by
the peaceful sons of traffick. A rich burgher of
Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish
hat, and who was the great man and great
patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean
long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller
of Geneva from Schiedam, sat smoking on
the other, and the bottle-nosed host stood in the
door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap,
beside him; and the hostess' daughter, a plump
Flanders lass, with long gold pendants in her
ears, was at a side window.

“Humph!” said the rich burgher of Antwerp,
with a sulky glance at the stranger.

“Der duyvel!” said the fat little distiller of
Schiedam.

The landlord saw with the quick glance of a
publican that the new guest was not at all, at all,
to the taste of the old ones; and to tell the truth,
he did not himself like my grandfather's saucy

eye. He shook his head—“Not a garret in the
house but was full.”

“Not a garret!” echoed the landlady.

“Not a garret!” echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller
of Schiedam continued to smoke their pipes
sullenly, eyed the enemy askance from under
their broad hats, but said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten.
He threw the reins on his horse's neck,
cocked his hat on one side, stuck one arm akimbo,
slapped his broad thigh with the other hand—

“Faith and troth!” said he, “but I'll sleep
in this house this very night!”

My grandfather had on a tight pair of buckskins—the
slap went to the landlady's heart.

He followed up the vow by jumping off his
horse, and making his way past the staring Mynheers
into the public room.—May be you've
been in the bar room of an old Flemish inn—
faith, but a handsome chamber it was as you'd
wish to see; with a brick floor, a great fire
place, with the whole bible history in glazed

tiles; and then the mantle-piece, pitching itself
head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regiment
of cracked tea-pots and earthen jugs paraded
on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft
platters hung about the room by way of pictures;
and the little bar in one corner, and the bouncing
bar maid inside of it with a red calico cap and
yellow ear drops.

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his
head, as he cast an eye round the room: “Faith,
this is the very house I've been looking after,”
said he.

There was some farther show of resistance on
the part of the garrison, but my grandfather was
an old soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and not
easily repulsed, especially after he had got into
the fortress. So he blarney'd the landlord, kissed
the landlord's wife, tickled the landlord's
daughter, chucked the bar maid under the chin;
and it was agreed on all hands that it would be
a thousand pities, and a burning shame into the
bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the
streets. So they laid their heads together, that

is to say, my grandfather and the landlady, and
it was at length agreed to accommodate him with
an old chamber that had for some time been
shut up.

“Some say it's haunted!” whispered the landlord's
daughter, “but you're a bold dragoon, and
I dare say don't fear ghosts.”

“The divil a bit!” said my grandfather, pinching
her plump cheek; “but if I should be troubled
by ghosts, I've been to the Red sea in my
time, and have a pleasant way of laying them,
my darling!”

And then he whispered something to the girl
which made her laugh, and give him a good-humoured
box on the ear. In short, there was nobody
knew better how to make his way among
the petticoats than my grandfather.

In a little while, as was his usual way, he took
complete possession of the house; swaggering all
over it:—into the stable to look after his horse;
into the kitchen to look after his supper. He
had something to say or do with every one;
smoked with the Dutchmen; drank with the

Germans; slapped the men on the shoulders,
tickled the women under the ribs:—never since
the days of Ally Croaker had such a rattling blade
been seen. The landlord stared at him with astonishment;
the landlord's daughter hung her
head and giggled whenever he came near; and
as he turned his back and swaggered along, his
tight jacket setting off his broad shoulders and
plump buckskins, and his long sword trailing by
his side, the maids whispered to one another—
“What a proper man!”

At supper my grandfather took command of
the table d'hôte as though he had been at home;
helped every body, not forgetting himself; talked
with every one, whether he understood their
language or not; and made his way into the intimacy
of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had
never been known to be sociable with any one
during his life. In fact, he revolutionized the
whole establishment, and gave it such a rouse,
that the very house reeled with it. He outsat
every one at table excepting the little fat distiller
of Schiedam, who had sat soaking for a long time

before he broke forth; but when he did, he was
a very devil incarnate. He took a violent affection
for my grandfather; so they sat drinking,
and smoking, and telling stories, and singing
Dutch and Irish songs, without understanding a
a word each other said, until the little Hollander
was fairly swampt with his own gin and water,
and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping,
and trolling the burthen of a Low Dutch love
song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown
to his quarters, up a huge staircase composed of
loads of hewn timber; and through long rigmarole
passages, hung with blackened paintings of
fruit, and fish, and game, and country frolicks, and
huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, such as
you see about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at
length he arrived at his room.

An old-times chamber it was, sure enough,
and crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It
looked like an infirmary for decayed and superannuated
furniture; where every thing diseased
and disabled was sent to nurse, or to be forgotten.

Or rather, it might have been taken for a
general congress of old legitimate moveables,
where every kind and country had a representative.
No two chairs were alike: such high
backs and low backs, and leather bottoms and
worsted bottoms, and straw bottoms, and no
bottoms; and cracked marble tables with curiously
carved legs, holding balls in their claws,
as though they were going to play at ninepins.

My grandfather made a bow to the motley
assemblage as he entered, and having undressed
himself, placed his light in the fire place, asking
pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making
love to the shovel in the chimney corner, and
whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this time sound
asleep; for your Mynheers are huge sleepers.
The house maids, one by one, crept up yawning
to their atticks, and not a female head in the inn
was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming
of the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and
drew over him one of those great bags of down,

under which they smother a man in the Low
Countries; and there he lay, melting between
two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich
between two slices of toast and butter. He was
a warm complexioned man, and this smothering
played the very deuce with him. So, sure
enough, in a little while it seemed as if a legion
of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood
in his veins was in fever heat.

He lay still, however, until all the house was
quiet, excepting the snoring of the Mynheers
from the different chambers; who answered
one another in all kinds of tones and cadences,
like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter
the house became, the more unquiet became my
grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer,
until at length the bed became too hot to hold
him.

“May be the maid had warmed it too much?”
said the curious gentleman inquiringly.

“I rather think the contrary,” replied the
Irishman. “But be that as it may, it grew too
hot for my grandfather.”

“Faith there's no standing this any longer,”
says he; so he jumped out of bed and went strolling
about the house.

“What for?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Why, to cool himself to be sure,” replied
the other, “or perhaps to find a more comfortable
bed—or perhaps—but no matter what he
went for—he never mentioned; and there's no
use in taking up our time in conjecturing.”

Well, my grandfather had been for some
time absent from his room, and was returning,
perfectly cool, when just as he reached the door
he heared a strange noise within. He paused
and listened. It seemed as if some one was trying
to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma.
He recollected the report of the room's being
haunted; but he was no believer in ghosts. So
he pushed the door gently ajar, and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying
on within enough to have astonished St.
Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced

fellow in a long flannel gown and a tall
white nightcap with a tassel to it, who sat by
the fire, with a bellows under his arm by way
of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical
music that had bothered my grandfather.
As he played, too, he kept twitching about with
a thousand queer contortions; nodding his head
and bobbing about his tasselled nightcap.

My grandfather thought this very odd, and
mighty presumptuous, and was about to demand
what business he had to play his wind instruments
in another gentleman's quarters, when a
new cause of astonishment met his eye. From the
opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandylegged
chair, covered with leather, and studded
all over in a coxcomical fashion with little brass
nails, got suddenly into motion; thrust out first
a claw foot, then a crooked arm, and at length,
making a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy
chair, of tarnished brocade, with a hole in its
bottom, and led it gallantly out in a ghostly
minuet about the floor.

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer,

and bobbed his head and his nightcap about like
mad. By degrees the dancing mania seemed to
seize upon all the other pieces of furniture. The
antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in couples
and led down a country dance; a three-legged
stool danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled
by its supernumerary leg; while the amorous
tongs seized the shovel round the waist,
and whirled it about the room in a German
waltz. In short, all the moveables got in motion,
capering about; pirouetting, hands across,
right and left, like so many devils, all except a
great clothes press, which kept curtseying and
curtseying, like a dowager, in one corner, in exquisite
time to the music;—being either too corpulent
to dance, or perhaps at a loss for a partner.

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the
reason; so, being, like a true Irishman, devoted
to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolick,
he bounced into the room, calling to the musician
to strike up “Paddy O'Rafferty,” capered up to
the clothes press and seized upon two handles to

lead her out:—When, whizz!—the whole revel
was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and
shovel slunk in an instant as quietly into their
places as if nothing had happened; and the musician
vanished up the chimney, leaving the bellows
behind him in his hurry. My grandfather
found himself seated in the middle of the floor,
with the clothes press sprawling before him, and
the two handles jerked off and in his hands.

“Then after all, this was a mere dream!” said
the inquisitive gentleman.

“The divil a bit of a dream!” replied the
Irishman: “there never was a truer fact in this
world. Faith, I should have liked to see any
man tell my grandfather it was a dream.”

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes press was a
mighty heavy body, and my grandfather likewise,
particularly in rear, you may easily suppose two
such heavy bodies coming to the ground would
make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion shook
as though it had mistaken it for an earthquake.
The whole garrison was alarmed. The landlord,
who slept just below, hurried up with a candle

to inquire the cause, but with all his haste his
daughter had hurried to the scene of uproar before
him. The landlord was followed by the landlady,
who was followed by the bouncing bar maid,
who was followed by the simpering chambermaids
all holding together, as well as they could, such
garments as they had first lain hands on; but all
in a terrible hurry to see what the devil was to
pay in the chamber of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather related the marvellous scene
he had witnessed, and the prostrate clothes press,
and the broken handles, bore testimony to the
fact. There was no contesting such evidence;
particularly with a lad of my grandfather's complexion,
who seemed able to make good every
word either with sword or shillelah. So the
landlord scratched his head and looked silly, as
he was apt to do when puzzled. The landlady
scratched—no, she did not scratch her head,—
but she knit her brow, and did not seem half
pleased with the explanation. But the landlady's
daughter corroborated it, by recollecting that the
last person who had dwelt in that chamber was

a famous juggler who had died of St. Vitus's
dance, and no doubt had infected all the furniture.

This set all things to rights, particularly when
the chambermaids declared that they had all
witnessed strange carryings on in that room;—
and as they declared this “upon their honours,”
there could not remain a doubt upon the subject.

“And did your grandfather go to bed again in
that room?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“That's more than I can tell. Where he
passed the rest of the night was a secret he never
disclosed. In fact, though he had seen much
service, he was but indifferently acquainted with
geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels
about inns at night, that it would have puzzled
him sadly to account for in the morning.”

“Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?” said
the knowing old gentleman.

“Never that I heard of.”