Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 4, October 1850Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 4, October 1850
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
“Well, may be; but I like to be sure of a thing of the sort. Honesty and
uprightness is my motto.”
“Hey! what’s that Mig’s saying?” said a sailor who pulled the bow oar,
with a grin, to his neighbor. “I lived near La Mécha myself, egad! and I
know there wa’n’t a lamb sure of being raised so long as _he_ was about.
May be he’s forgot my phiz, with the tip of my nose sliced off by that
turbaned chap’s cim’tar.”
So the gossip was kept up until a volley of twenty or so arquebuses, as
the fleet grounded in tolerable line, turned their thoughts too busily
in another channel to leave time for such tattling; and the old
campaigners of the later Moorish wars were out and formed in “battle”
before Capt. Bourgignon poured in his reserve fire, and fell upon the
invaders with the audacity of a hawk half as large as your hand pouncing
upon a turkey a fourth as big as your body; only that the enemy was not
in any respect like a turkey—more like a condor, I should say, in point
of ferocity and collected action. He marched up from the submerged beach
to the sands above high-water, with no more concern for the struggling
handful in front than you or I would for the whiff of sleet blown in our
faces on a windy day in the streets. To be sure, the smooth tablet left
by the last tide, was written over with a heavy stylus, and dabbled with
such ink as conquerors and others who leave their mark on the times in
which they lived, employ; moreover, there were numerous unsightly
blotches dropped about, which retained enough vitality sometimes to
scream in a manner calculated to shock our fire-eating civilians into a
wholesome distaste to civil collision and slaying. Of course, such
things are necessities, like lightning and volcanic eruptions, despite
the efforts of Mr. Burritt to show the contrary. The exception appears
strongest when one of us loses a brother or a husband, with a bullet in
the heart or head, as Amelia did George at Brussels, or more than one
acquaintance of mine, now wearing premature widow’s-weeds, in the late
Mexican war.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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