University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
LOWE, WALTER, AND POLLEN PAY A VISIT TO GRISELDA. THE BATTLE
OF WATERLOO FOUGHT OVER AGAIN BY NAPOLEON WINKLE.

Griselda only awaited the impending execution of the will
for a perfect realization of her ambitious projects. For the
present her own will was paramount, but she desired the consummation
of a provision for the future.

Already, and in anticipation of the position and power,
to which, from the first dawn of her good fortune, she plainly
perceived she must arrive, she had consulted the best authorities
in style and fashion, as to the mode of living and manners
to be observed, by one in her enviable station. Of course,
every thing was British and European. First, researches were
made in her genealogical line, and it was found that one of
her ancestors, two or three generations removed, had been a
captain. He had been called Captain—whether it was in the
militia, or on a ferry boat, or in the night watch, made no difference—she
was the descendant of Captain Gusset; and as
dead men tell no tales, she might say what she pleased in regard
to his gallant exploits, without danger of contradiction.

Her pedigree established, all other impediments vanished.
British novels taught her the mode of luxurious living, and
the etiquette to be observed by a lady of her affluence. And
besides, there were American writers—though foppish, fashionable—who
had obtained access to the aristocratic circles
of British society, and whose published volumes described
the domestic habits of lords and ladies. From such sources
Griselda learned when to retire, when to rise, what to eat,
how to dress, and other small particulars of an aristocratic
establishment. That it was desirable the fashions of Europe
should prevail in our country, would be inferred from the fact
that government did nothing for the encouragement of teachers
of an indigenous growth, while the foreign authors, defrauded
of their property, nevertheless had their sentiments
expanded throughout the Republic, involving the readers in
no further expense than the mere cost of paper and printing.
And Griselda was only one among the millions who imbibed
a relish for the effeminate and free enjoyments of life, such as

some of the British novelists demonstrated as being in vogue
in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square, and other noted places
in the west end of London.

It was, therefore, with feelings of most exquisite delight,
that Griselda beheld Walter and his two friends approaching
the mansion. Lowe, although the subject of dark suspicions,
and sometimes of conjectures of an opposite character, was
certainly a mysterious personage—but against whom nothing
could with certainty be alleged. He was young and handsome—accomplished
and generous; and these more than sufficed,
as Griselda learned from the practice in Harley street,
Cavendish square, for his reception in the boundoirs of the
most distinguished American ladies. Pollen was a poet, and
in all ages and countries, but ours, the poets were freely admitted
into the best society. And Griselda resolved to contribute
her mite, in condemnation and ridicule of every thing
merely American. She had learned from Walter, that Pollen
was read and approved in England; and that if he had but
the means to defray his expenses thither, he would be immediately
caressed by the Sutherlands, the Stanhopes, the
Spences, the Beauforts, etc. Walter, himself, when he chose
to be smiled upon by her, had always been a sort of privileged
pet of the retired milliner.

Refreshing her memory of similar visits in the fashionable
novels, Griselda conformed to them as nearly as possible in
the reception of the young gentlemen; and they soon had
reason to be convinced they were heartily welcome to the hospitalities
of the mansion.

“It was kind in you, Walter,” said Griselda, when they
were seated, “to think of your languishing friend, in her deep
seclusion. I have just been reading one of Mr. —'s tales
of the country enjoyments in England, and wondering why we
did not imitate such pleasant examples. There is nothing to
prevent it. We have here all the means of similar delights.
Let us improve them. Promise me, all of you, that you will
be my guests for a week or a fortnight, at the very least, and
I will devise means for your amusement.”

“What have you to say, Pollen?” asked Walter.

“I shall be perfectly willing to remain until driven hence.
You know I have no fixed home—no regular employment—
and if Mrs. Winkle will permit me to enjoy myself in my

own way when the fit comes on—and you can explain what
that means—I shall be honored by her entertainment.”

“No explanation is necessary,” said she. “This is Liberty
Hall. Do as you please. Command what you desire, and
consider every thing your own. If a fit of composition, such
as used to seize upon Lord Byron, should take possession of
you, depend upon it, you shall not be disturbed. I should
like, above all things, to read a poem in print, which had been
written in my house.”

“Very considerate, truly,” said Lowe. “If the poet does
not now consider himself invested with the freedom of the
place, he can have no appreciation of handsome receptions.”

“I thank you, Mr. Lowe, for your kind remark,” said
Griselda; “and I really wish you would spend a large portion
of your time at the mansion, during the absence of—”

“Who?” asked Pollen. “The lord of the estate?”

“Oh, no! A certain young lady, who has mysteriously
disappeared,” replied Griselda.

“Do, sir,” said Pollen. “The walks about the premises
are silent and romantic, and adapted to passionate musing. I
shall enjoy them. Oh, the joyous air, perfumed with roses!
and the carollings of happy birds! I must rush out in their
midst. Who will accompany me? Who will follow? Excuse
me!” and he darted through one of the long windows
descending to the floor, and crossing the lawn, disappeared behind
a hedge of altheas.

Walter, leaving Lowe with his aunt, sought his uncle in
the library. He was in the midst of charts and papers, with
pen in hand, making a diagram of the field of Waterloo.

“Come to my arms, my boy!” he cried, embracing his
nephew, and evincing the real delight his presence afforded.

“I am glad to see you so happy, uncle, and that you have
resumed your cherished employments.”

“Sit down. Wait a moment,” said the old gentleman,
tripping lightly across to the door, which he locked. “I am
free, now,” he continued, in a low voice. “How I became entangled
in the silken meshes of matrimony, we will not dwell
upon; suffice it, that I was bound hand and foot, but now am
free. I kept a subtle poison about my person, to take in the
last extremity; but that Scotch lawyer, Bawson, and our
Blore, have extricated me from the clutches of her Machiavelian
diplomacy.”

“Could you not have ruptured the silken cord, uncle?”

“No, not at all. She made no hostile demonstration, but
assumed at the beginning the attitude of superiority, and had
the power to withhold or grant any thing, as I might conciliate
or exasperate her. It is a mystery to you. But wait till
a woman is appended to your neck! You will then find that
whatever is yours, is hers, and that she may insidiously obtain
the arbitrary direction of the whole.”

“I should declare war, uncle, and turn her out of doors!”

“War against a woman? No, sir! All domestic wounds
should be healed on the hearth-stone. But we have overreached
her in diplomacy. Every thing is signed in the form
the sergeant described to you. Bawson has been paid and
dismissed and your aunt has the document safely locked up
in the iron chest with the plate—your plate, Walter. Ha,
ha, ha! If I could only witness her chagrin and disappointment,
upon the discovery that she was outwitted and overreached
in the partition of my effects, I would swallow the
strychnine to-day. Ha! ha! ha! Blore is another Talleyrand!”

“I hope you may not be induced to commit an injustice,
uncle. If there should be an heir—”

“Hist!” said his uncle, placing his lips to the ear of his
nephew, and whispering. “Rely upon it,” he continued,
“and be at ease. I shall do no wrong. But I mean to enjoy
my enfranchisement.”

The repeated reference to his regained liberty, amused
Walter, particularly when he observed so much caution and
secrecy in his communications.

“If you have been really enfranchised, uncle,” said Walter,
“why do you remain in your cabinet?”

“Oh, I am just planning the campaign of the hundred
days. I find fault with Napoleon's last operations, and I
mean to demonstrate how his final calamity might have been
averted. He should have first dislodged the British with
bombs. Your mortar was the article I stood most in need of.
I thank you for it, Walter. Rely upon my gratitude.”

“I suppose, sir, you will not have to encounter any opposition
from my aunt before entering upon this final campaign.”

“Bless you, no! she seems to co-operate with alacrity,
and promises herself much enjoyment. Since the signing of
the treaty, there is a great change in her aspect. She says

the crops being all laid by, I may command the men in the
territories; and Blore says they are eager for the fray. But
between us, Walter,” he added, in a whisper, “this concession
on her part is attributable to the provision made for her in
the event of my death; and I should not be surprised if she
allowed me the utmost opportunity of being killed. Ha, ha,
ha! And the silly woman thinking all the time she would be
my successor in the government!”

“I must own, uncle, that were I in your stead, I should
hardly be diverted at the contemplation of such an event.”

“Pooh, boy, let danger fear us; then it ceases to be danger.
That was Cæsar's motto. But who accompanied you?
I saw two others approach.”

Walter told him, and was pleased to learn that his friends
would prove acceptable guests to the lord as well as the lady
of the mansion, and his uncle immediately proposed repairing
with him to the parlor, which was done; and Lowe had the
satisfaction of enjoying a cordial reception. The old gentleman
even united with Griselda in demanding a prolonged sojourn
from the party, and pledged himself to contribute his
best efforts to render them comfortable.

He was listened to in good humor by his spouse; and both
to manifest her approbation of his courtesy, and to convince
her guests that he was in the possession of perfect freedom,
she requested him and Walter to go in search of the poet, that
the honors of a cordial welcome might be repeated by the
master (as she said) of the house.

As the host conducted his nephew over the grounds, he explained
the advantages of the different positions and salient
points in a military point of view, and indicated the campaign
he had selected for his grand Waterloo exhibition. It was
an extensive pasture, where vast flocks of sheep were grazing,
and was traversed in the centre by the trout brook that meandered
along Mrs. Winkle's premises in the village. On either
side of the brook there was a gradual ascent, and behind the
brow of the hill on the right hand, it was to be supposed that
Wellington and his army sought a shelter.

“I will show you how the red-coats might have been routed
from their hiding places,” said the enthusiast. “But yonder
is your friend, whom we have been seeking.”

“Yes, uncle, and he is in one of his poetical moods, peopling
the hills with the creatures of his imagination.”

“A poet might easily fancy this the field of Waterloo, and
behold every movement of the contending armies. Do not
interrupt him. He may be enjoying the combat.”

“Not he,” said Walter. “He would never dream of that
renowned conflict while gazing upon this lovely scene.”

Pollen reclined on the hillside, in the shade of a hawthorn,
and surrounded by sheep. His propped head had the motion
of one improvising to imaginary shepherdesses, and his eye
dilated in abstraction, failed to distinguish any substantial
objects.

As Walter and his uncle approached, they observed that
a large ram, who had been watching the poet for some time,
now became convinced that the oscillations of his head could
be meant for nothing less than a banter to single combat; and
disdaining to require odds against an invader of his territory,
the leader of the flock, after stepping backward a few paces
to acquire sufficient impetus in the assault, aimed a furious
blow, which, if it had not been for the capacious hat of the
poet, ascending high above his head, might have put an end
to all his musings. Nevertheless, Pollen was slightly stunned,
and rolled over on his face.

“Are you hurt?” asked Walter, running forward and lifting
up his friend.

“I know not,” said Pollen. “Was it an accident? Who
threw the stone?”

“Stone?” iterated the old commander. “It was no stone.
It was yonder Saxon; and he shall be restricted in his territory,
if he persists in committing such wanton aggressions.
Rely upon that. I believe I have the honor of shaking the
hand of Mr. Pollen, the poet,” continued the old gentleman,
“and I wish to unite with my spouse in a proper reception of
the friend of our nephew. You will oblige us, Mr. Pollen,
by protracting your stay with us to the utmost limits of your
convenience.”

“It will afford me great pleasure, sir, to gratify your
wishes, and to contribute to the general enjoyment. But I
trust I shall not be fated to encounter many such Saxons as
this in my rambles.”

“No. He is an impudent fellow, and shall be arrested.”

“Oh, don't punish him on my account,” said the poet
“They call me hard-headed, and I doubt not he feels the
effects of his temerity.”

As they passed through the orchard, the poet, who lingered
a few paces in the rear, was assaulted by a turkey-cock,
who brushed the ground with his wings, and strutted up
to him.

“I presume,” said the poet, repulsing the charge, and
listening to the gobble of his discomfited assailant, “that he
is a Mussulman.”

“I think so,” said Walter; “and I believe the boar inhabiting
the woods over yonder to the north, is in the habit of
making incursions on his territories. But I think my uncle's
most formidable enemy is John Bull, whom you may see beyond
the marshes.”

“I perceive what you are leading to, Walter,” said his
uncle, in good humor, “but I care not who hears it. Mr.
Pollen, I had an adventure — a perilous one — with my
neighbor over yonder, which, perhaps, may not have reached
your ears.”

“I have not heard it, sir,” said the poet.

“I cannot narrate the occurrence so graphically as Mr.
Lowe, who witnessed it, and, indeed, participated in the
combat. He will relate the affair to you when we return.
How now, Blore?” continued the commander, being confronted
by the sergeant, who stood under the spreading apple-tree.

“If it please your honor,” said the sergeant, touching his
cap, “the men would take it as a great favor to be permitted
to parade on the lawn, and for you to review them there.”

“Too hot, too hot, and I'm too fat, sergeant, but you
may drill them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Blore, with another military salute; and
turning away, he marched towards the garrison at Boulogne.

In due time the dinner was announced, and a magnificent
repast it was, for the mistress of the house, always fruitful in
resources, even in her days of indigence, was now possessed
of ample material to have feasted a score of lords.

The host, upon re-entering the parlor had fallen into a
most interesting conversation with Lowe, who had incidentally,
in discussing the merits of the British at Waterloo, made the
remark that it had been a mournful day for his family, inasmuch
as his father had fallen on that fatal field.

Griselda had attracted the particular attention of Pollen,
by some premeditated compliment on the merits of a certain

poem; and not being able to quote it from memory, she was
nevertheless enabled to turn to the page, and thus demonstrate
to the poet the fact that his name had not been unknown
at the mansion previous to his visit thither. So, when
they arose to proceed to the dining-room, she was escorted
by the poet, and it was the first time in her life she had ever
taken a gentleman's arm when proceeding to the dining-room.
But such was the fashionable custom, and Walter looked in
vain to discover any signs of embarrassment in his newly
elevated aunt; and he was by no means piqued to find her
not deficient in the etiquette of the table. It was at his
suggestion that Griselda purchased the book, and placed it on
her centre-table; and he had the satisfaction to learn that
the Arums and Crudles had followed her example.

And in this manner, if we may be allowed a brief digression,
were the Vicar of Wakefield, and Miss Gurney's first
novel, rescued from oblivion. A few wealthy admirers
brought them into notice by their honest commendations, or,
perhaps, they might have been lost for ever to the world. On
the slightest incidents sometimes depend the most momentous
results.

The poet, therefore—for Griselda had perused his volumes
with interest and pleasure—found an attentive listener, and
the conversation, always brilliant when he was in the vein,
became lively and contagious at the table. Walter, alone,
seemed isolated, and could only fire a random shot occasionally.
But he had contrived a stratagem in concert with
Sergeant Blore, which he did not doubt would afford some
amusement; and not knowing precisely when the expected
announcement would be made, and having a voracious appetite,
he discussed the viands heartily while the rest enjoyed
their conversation.

“And so your father fought and fell on the field of
Waterloo?” said Mr. N. Winkle to Lowe.

“He did,” was the laconic reply.

“On which side, Lowe?” asked Walter.

“On the side of his country.”

“You are not, I think, a Frenchman; nor did I know
before that you were not an American. But no matter,”
added Walter, with a kind smile, “a man's a man for a'
that.”

“I do not remember the name in the lists,” said Mr.
Winkle, “but, perhaps, he was not a commissioned officer.”

“But he was,” said Lowe. “The British officers, however,
often have many names, and the one by which my father
was designated differed from mine.”

“No matter for the name. The British fought like
heroes; and whatever was the grade of your father, his deeds
on that day deserve a monument.”

“He was a colonel, and has a monument.” Lowe's voice
fell, and he seemed to make a confidential communication to
his entertainer.

“It must be the most delightful of pursuits,” said Griselda
to Pollen; “and the author should be the happiest of
mortals.”

“He should be, undoubtedly,” said the poet; “but he is
the most miserable!”

“Why is it so?”

“Because, in every instance where there is genius, or
superior merit, the author is the victim of the tricks of the
trade, or the malignity of the envious, or of a combination of
critics whom he has failed to conciliate. By some means or
other, the door of the temple is barred against him, and blind
fortune is cajoled from his path.”

“Truly, I was not aware of it,” said Griselda, manifesting
much interest in the subject.

“And that is not all,” continued the poet. “The failure
to achieve success might be borne by men of genius, with
equanimity. They find enjoyment in the worlds of their own
creation. But they are often doomed to languish in neglect,
and behold others, infinitely their inferiors in every respect,
win both fame and fortune. That is the source of their
greatest unhappiness. They feel, they know, that when their
ephemeral rivals shall be forgotten; when the turf shall cover
their persecutors and enemies; when the purifications in the
lapse of time shall have dissipated the foul vapors that obscured
the stars; and—I shall not pursue the subject. Why
should I? What boots this consciousness of a literary resurrection?
It is madness! It is h—ll! It is this which
constitutes our misery! The plaudits of future generations
cannot reach us in the grave—our fleshless skulls cannot be
conscious of the sounds of praise! And those who withheld
from us a substantial reward whhile living—and who mocked

at our calamity—will be buried too deeply in oblivion to be
branded as oppressors. Their names will have been utterly
forgotten.”

At this juncture, and when Walter had completely dined,
the company were startled by the precipitate entrance of Bill
Dizzle, with open mouth and protruding eyes.

“Well? well?” said Mr. Winkle, dropping his knife and
fork, and leaning back in his chair.

“The water was down,” said Bill, “and I was arter a
snapping-turtle in the spatter docks—”

“Well? Go on.”

“I heard a great splash behind me—”

“Go on!”

“And the tarnation British John Bull was arter me, and
the whole drove of cows and heifers was following him. I
split for the shore, and they splashed arter me. I got out and
run, and they run arter me—into the meadow and out into
the pasture—and there the Saxony ram met me and gave me
a tremendous butt!”

“What? are they in the pasture?” cried the old gentleman,
rising. “Sound the alarm! Where's Blore?”

“He sent me here, while he aims the cannon. But all the
cattle are now licking some salt they found on the ground.”
This had been Walter's work.

“An invasion! I'll mount!” said Mr. Winkle.

“Hear me!” said Griselda, rising, while Mr. W.'s arm was
still upraised. “You are soon to have the Waterloo battle
over again, are you not?”

“Yes, my dear, you consented to it,” said her lord.

“Very well. You must have the British on the field before
you can engage with them; and they must come upon the
continent before they can reach the field. Let them remain
where they are, until your preparations are completed.”

“Certainly,” said her lord, lowering his arm. “Yes, let
them remain,” he continued, resuming his seat. “To-morrow
we will give them battle.”

“I hope, however,” said Griselda, “you will not injure
the poor animals.”

“The bull must be separated from the rest,” said Mr.
Winkle.

“Why? I don't believe he has harmed any of them, or
they would not have followed him to the salt. Besides, have

they not been on the island with him for several days? I do
not think the poor fellow deserves the punishment you have
been meditating.”

“Did he not toss me into the ditch?” asked the old man.

“And I thought it was a frog as big as a ox,” said
Dizzle.

“But you had fired on him. To-morrow, or whenever you
encounter him again, remember that he is no coward,” said
Griselda, smiling.

“I will remember his conduct on the former occasion!”
said the commander.

Walter's anticipation of a boisterous episode was not realized.
Griselda had the power of controlling his uncle, and
calming his military frenzy.

The next day, however, both sides of the great pasture
were lined with men and boys. Here and there an old cannon
of small calibre was pointed from the opposing extremities of
the field towards the centre. Another mortar had been procured
from the city, so that the contending armies might be
upon an equal footing. Altogether, some fifty old muskets
and fowling-pieces were collected; but the men were forbidden
the use of lead. The mortar, to be directed by Napoleon
in person, was to throw its wooden balls; and the British beyond
the crest of the opposite hill, were to watch them, and of
course avoid them. The one which was to reply to it, was to
be aimed by Walter; but he was not to be permitted to throw
back the balls, as his uncle, not so acute of vision as himself,
might not be able to elude them. He could reply only with
wrapped paper balls, with just a sufficient weight of sand to
project them across the field.

The old gentleman was mounted on his champing steed,
and seemed to scan the armies through his glass, with the interest
and energy of a general upon the eve of a momentous
conflict.

Griselda, attended by the poet, occupied a position at a
short distance from the scene of the impending struggle, and
out of range of the missiles, where she could witness all the
transactions of the day.

The signal was given for the attack, and the cannon on
the old commander's side of the field were discharged, which
threw the flocks of sheep and cattle, occupying the intermediate
space between the contending parties, into considerable

confusion. The enemy not replying, being ensconced behind
the brow of the opposite hill, Mr. Napoleon Winkle ordered
his engineer to throw some bombs in their midst. But the
engineer, pro forma, not being skilled either in mathematics
or mechanics, had omitted to point the mortar at a sufficient
elevation, and hence the wooden ball was projected in a horizontal
direction; and tending downward by its own specific
gravity, fell among the sheep. It struck the large ram on the
tail, as that member happened to be momentarily elevated,
and broke it. The poor animal baa-ed in pain, and ran away
towards the crest of the hill occupied by the British, and was
followed by all the silly flock.

“Now's your time, Blore!” cried Napoleon. “Charge
them at the head of your column, under cover of the cloud of
dust raised by the sheep.”

Blore drew his sword and led the attack, followed by a
score of men, and preceded by the sheep. The enemy had
not discharged the first gun yet, and some of the novices following
Blore, expressed a belief that they were either killed,
or had taken to flight.

But just when the old ram and his party had reached
within a few paces of the crest, Lowe, who was with Walter,
cried out, “Up, and at them!” which was followed by the
sudden uprising of twenty men and boys, and a rattling discharge
of all their pieces that would go off.

The sheep, utterly astonished, and hopelessly panic-stricken,
turned and fled, still following their leader, who had been
completely blinded by the discharge of a fowling-piece. With
his eyes closed and his face blackened, the old ram, in the
desperation of his retrograde movement, fell upon Blore and
his advancing column. All was in confusion—leaping, tumbling,
rolling. The men were overthrown by the sheep. The
sheep, imitating the motions of their blind leader, who, supposing
obstructions were besetting every foot of the way, at
each alternate spring leaped high in the air, as if clearing the
bayonet of a soldier. It was irresistibly diverting to see the
whole flock leaping up continually when there was nothing to
leap over; they followed the example of their blind captain,
doubtless supposing he had a good reason for what he did.

The attacking party, under Blore, was completely overthrown.
Rolling over each other, and the sheep bounding
over all, while the enemy continued to pour upon them an incessant

tempest of cannon and musketry, they scampered
away in all directions, pale and covered with dust. The sheep,
still following their blind leader, rushed among the cattle
under a clump of hawthorns, near the brook, about midway
between the armies. The old bull, bellowing and throwing
up the earth with his feet, commenced an assault on the
fugitives. The poor creatures were tossed up like the balls
of a juggler. Two or three at a time were poised in the air.
They bleated distressfully. The bull bellowed, the cows lowed,
the pigs squealed, the geese squalled, and the cannon thundered.

Blore was the last of the assaulting party that returned.
Whether it was attributable to his surpassing contempt of
danger, or the difficulty of traversing the field with his wooden
leg, no one seemed curious to know.

“That was a bad business, Blore,” said Napoleon. “I am
ashamed of you.”

“It was not possible to do more, sir,” said the sergeant,
deprecatingly; “we charged up to their guns—”

“Why didn't you spike them?”

“Because they had reserved their fire, and then discharged
their pieces in our faces, sir; and when the smoke cleared
away, we had not a man on his feet, sir. Every one had fallen,
sir!”

“Very well, Blore. Rally the men, and form another
assaulting column. Have them in readiness out of range of
the enemy's guns. I will pour another shower of shells among
the rascals ensconced behind the crest of the hill.”

The mortar was worked with surprising energy, and the
balls were now thrown in the right direction, and gave employment
to Walter and Lowe, and their party, in watching and
eluding them.

But the one of all others the most severely exercised, was
Bill Dizzle. He was mounted on a wild colt, carrying a large
basket in his hand. It was his duty to watch the wooden
balls when they fell, and return them to the battery from
which they had been thrown, to be used again. Thus was he
kept flying from one side of the field to the other.

The cannon and mortars were discharged incessantly.
The ground was canopied with smoke, and the pasture really
smelt like a field of battle.

Walter and Lowe aimed to blow up the old gentleman's

ammunition wagon, standing in the vicinity of his mortar.
By inserting more sand in their paper balls, and by experimenting
with their charges of powder, they were enabled to
calculate with some accuracy where their burning missives
might be made to fall; and soon it required the constant
attention of several men to extinguish the sparks that were
scattered in the near vicinity of the powder.

During all this time the bull was tossing the sheep about,
and trampling on the pigs and geese, while several dogs, belonging
to the neighboring farms, were barking at his heels.

“Bring up your reserves!” cried Napoleon. “We have
silenced their guns. March in the shape of a wedge, or a
triangular flock of wild geese, and penetrate to their rear.
Let nothing arrest your progress this time.”

Blore advanced at the head of his geese to execute the
command, under cover of the batteries, and avoiding the
ground occupied by the cattle. When they had ascended the
opposite hill nearly to the summit, the fire from the swivels
and the mortar ceased, for fear of injuring friend as well as
enemy. An ominous silence prevailed in the ranks of the
assaulted party, which lay concealed behind the crest of the
hill.

“Now, lads!” cried Blore, when within a few paces of
the crouching enemy, “remember there is no lead in their
cartridges; and, for the honor of our commander, and in revenge
for being run over by the sheep, let us seize their guns,
and drive them from the field. Down with your bayonets!
Charge!”

Then Walter and Lowe, with all their men, rose up and
poured a volley in their faces. If they did not have lead in
their guns, still they peppered their assailants; for an ounce
of pulverized pepper had been inserted in every cartridge.

“Fury!” cried Blore. “What the d—l's this? Never
mind it, soldiers! Shut your eyes and rush upon them!”

But it so happened that each one, and the sergeant among
the rest, had involuntarily faced about upon being peppered;
and now, in the supposed execution of the valorous command,
the whole party charged in the opposite direction, amid the
shouts of the enemy and the loud laughter of the hundreds of
spectators, who had been attracted to the scene by the continuous
discharges of guns.

“On, soldiers, on!” cried Blore, slashing the air with his

sword, and urging his blinded column down the hill, unconsciously
retreating before the enemy, and yet under the supposition
that they had surmounted the crest of the ravine and
were descending on the opposite side.

In vain did Napoleon shout to them to return to the
assault. No order could be distinguished in the confused
roar of mingled sounds. In vain was Dizzle despatched over
the field with a written order. The sergeant could not open
his eye to read it; and in reply to Dizzle's repetition of the
order which had been uttered by the commander-in-chief,
Blore only urged his men the more furiously downward.
When they reached the brook, they fell headlong in it. They
scrambled out unhurt, wondering they had never observed the
stream before in the rear of the enemy's position. But now
the line was broken, and the discomfited party were irretrievably
scattered in different directions, and about one half of
them were made prisoners and conducted to the rear of the
hostile army.

“Blore! It's me—it's your general!” cried Napoleon,
riding up to his second in command, regardless of the balls of
burning paper that whizzed by his head; Walter and Lowe
having renewed the fire from their batteries. “What is the
matter, Blore? Why have you returned in this manner?”

“I can't tell, sir,” said the sergeant, rubbing his eye, and
obtaining a partial view of the disastrous posture of affairs.
“It's some new invention, sir, that Walter never told me
about. They are always getting up something new to surprise
the old folks. Every one of us, sir, made stone blind! We
thought we were in the enemy's camp when we tumbled into
the water. It could not be helped, sir. But the water has
washed away some of the infernal powder!”

“Rally them once more, Blore. Bring up the old guard.
We must take their battery, and then the battle will be won.
Stand by your guns! See to the mortar!” cried Napoleon,
in great excitement, seeing the bull approaching, followed by
the cows and sheep.

A burning ball from the enemy's mortar, had lodged upon
one of the horns of the bull, and the smoke and pain from the
sparks had exasperated him to such a degree, that he resolved
to storm one of the batteries himself. That of Napoleon being
the nearest, he charged boldly upon it. The mortar was depressed
as he approached, and fired when he was within a few

paces of it. It took effect upon his massy forehead, and was
shivered to splinters. But Johnny was stunned, and brought
to his knees. He shook his head in pain, closed his eyes, and
snorted aloud. However, before the mortar could be recharged,
he had recovered his feet. He had no thought of
retreating. On the contrary, amid the shouts and yells of the
spectators, he returned to the charge, and bellowing most furiously,
with his head down and his tail erect, rushed upon
the mortar and dislodged it. The men that had served it
were overthrown and put to flight. Napoleon himself attempted
to stand his ground, and slashed away with his sword.
But his horse became ungovernable, and fled away, followed
by the bull, who kept his eye upon the well-known red sash.

“Tout à présent c'est fini! Sauvons-nous!” said Pollen,
when the flying chief paused near the platform where the poet
and Griselda were seated.

“No, sir—no! It is my sash he wants, and he shall have
it,” said Napoleon, reining in his steed, and detaching the silken
trophy from his body, which he threw upon the ground. He
then wheeled away, and returned by a circuitous route to the
battery, and was received with cheers, while the bull was
ploughing up the earth under the sash.

“What ridiculous nonsense for men to engage in,” said
Griselda. “It might do for children. I am weary of it.
Let us return to the mansion.”

“Presently,” said the poet. “Walter has something else
in reserve. He may cure his uncle of his military distemper.”

“His uncle will be killed in some of these mad enterprises.
I look for nothing else, and am prepared for it. What are
they doing now?”

Griselda observed that the mortar directed by Walter and
Lowe had ceased to throw paper balls, and they were doing execution
with another sort of missile, of a more consistent substance.
These were pumpkins, which had been obtained from
a neighboring field, and one of them had burst upon the head
of the bull, and blinded him. The furious animal, not able
to see from whence this last assault proceeded, was at length
stricken with terror, and ran away. He never paused until
he had regained his own territory on the island. The rest
of the cattle were scattered in divers directions, lowing piteously.
The sheep lay panting under the hawthorns.

“There goes another,” said Pollen. “Let us watch it.”

It made a handsome curve, and came down squash, on the bald
head of Napoleon, overwhelming him with the seeds and other
soft contents of the fruit.

“Astonishing!” said Griselda. “I thought any thing falling
from such a height on one's head, would produce instant
death. But he does not seem to be at all injured by it.”

If he was not injured, he was blinded for a time, and
ceased to take any note of the progress of the battle. Observing
this, Lowe and Walter ordered a charge, and in turn
assaulted their opponents at the point of the bayonet. The
guns and the mortar were carried; and to crown the victory,
both Napoleon and the sergeant were made prisoners.

Thus ended the day's sports, which were followed by a
sumptuous repast, which had been ordered by Griselda.