TRAITS OF TRAVEL.*

EITERARY SPECTATOR.

MR. GRATTAN- could not have tua•ivel at the degree of popularity wlich he enjoys, without being distinguished ii*OBI the vulgar herd of welters liv sonie peculiar merits. It is, however, difficult to say wilat they are: probably the chief is that of adapting himself to the level of the neueral capacity., His fame undoubtedly flourishes most luxuriantly amuee• the female order of readers and tnese of the younnere. 1

C.SS heilee Ire

raey under:land that his writingsare not only plain, but sweet—they speelt oi'love and romance, and range between the years of age teen with twenty-seven. Traits of Travel (a title given hy Mr, 'omone, I he author having declined the delicate task of nanon his offs:oilmen area collection of little anecdotic sketches and souvenirs, the expanded manneteidace-book of a story-monger; and probably" form flit: :;;• 1•-; -Inways of the different series of High-Ii70p. and Ili, -Way -11 into the wmid to clear the ground for the building of a re n:,;••:• ;yel by the same author, which is to appear no long time. \V., e ternen over 'SC, loose Laves though they be, ihn without (f nisi if Ali is light reaclinl; which amuses

for the moneto , ea: e,:;; •!1 :• '• consequenees grave or gay, then 11:-, • „Leh •1 H ohs a place in all ilbreries of

light reedin_. t• age, lees; tie ' met sketches in the work are the shia- of forced cenfinement mailer pretence of mildness ; " Lailet Peemeei," the history of a perfectly viii mats kept- * Traits of Travel; or Tale, and Cities. By the Author of iLg1.14Vays

By-Ways. 3 vol. London, 1e.2:). Camp..

mistress, who was bought when a child from her mother in the pasto- ral mountains of Sicily ; and the " Veteran," with his " Military Sketches." All these, and numerous other pieces, have merit in their way : they sometimes present pleasing pictures ; sometimes they are mawkish and overstrained; sometimes, but rarely, they are animated and just. The author's fault is over-colouring—he will not let nature alone ; • and then he pretends to be witty and to pun !—failings which would a far better work than this. But people are not all so fas- tidious as we are ; they are happily pleased with what is short of per- fection.

The jewel of these volumes, if they are jewelled at all, is the character of the Veteran, Phil Hartigan ; a broken-down half-pay officer, who has been a hard liver, a hard fighter, and a great store-teller. We call this picture, and the history of his domestication in Flanders, and his drunken noodling with Tobias Underwood, R. N., also on half-pay at the same place, capital: few things have been drawn with a nicer pen- cil than the contrast of Phil Hartigan in a morning, breaking, feeble, memoryless as well as spiritless, and Phil Hartigan in the evening, warming over his repeated tumblers of grog into his former high- mettled spirited self—the reanimation of the 'dry-bones. If we were partial to Mr. GRATTAN, and wished to place him well with all the world, we should quote the whole of the " The Veteran." We will make as ample an extract as our limits will permit ; and, omitting the history of our author's previous acquaintance with the subject of his pencil, proceed to the point where he accidentally meets him again, after ten years estrangement, on the very spot on which he had parted with him.

" I was more surprised at first view of him, than i was on the closer scru- tiny on which I entered. I could not convince myself, for a moment or two, that I was not looking at Phil Hartigan's father, or his uncle, or an elder, a much elder brother, or I scarcely knew to whom or what—but could this be Phil Hartigan himself ? Could ten years have so completely changed, so broken, so decomposed him? Where were his black curls, and his black whiskers ? Tile first were cut away by the scythe of Time, which sorrow had sharpened ; the latter were shaved oil' by Phil's -own razors, because they had grown gray. And his florid complexion ? Disease and dissipation had first faded and then dyed it a yellow ground, with purple spots; his eyes were sunk, his forehead wrinkled, his checks hollow ; and if I had grown fat, how had poor Phil grown thin ! He was the mere shadow of his former self. A blue frock, of military cut (plainly a turn-coat, the first that Phil ever suf- fered to embrace him,) was tightly buttoned up to his chin, and the reverted cape was fastened even higher, with a hook and eye. Heaven knows what was the quality or colour a-his shirt ; but his rusty black handkerchief was surmounted by a stiff white collar, flanking his countenance on either side, and silencing any battery which inquisitiveness might direct against him. A brown cloth foraging cap covered his head, without concealing the baldness of his temples ; and a pair of threadbare pantaloons, gray worsted stockings, and well-worn shoes, brought the picture down as far as it could go.

" Such were the outworks of the once gay, handsome, dashing Phil Hartigan. His worn-down body was the covered way, his still open wounds the embra- sures, his gallant spirit the rampart, and his heart the citadel, of this mortal type of some strong place, which the enemy had reduced by sap, but which had been impregnable to assault.

" Having recovered from my astonishment, and suppressing it as best I could, the first burst of recognition over, we walked together towards the market-place. " Why, my dear fellow,' exclaimed Phil, it's a perfect ace since I saw you last.'

" ` It is indeed a long time,' answered I. " Why, let me see—it must he six or seven years ?' " "I en, my dear Phi!, ten this very day.'

" Ten years ! why, how can that be ? you must be wrong—it can't be more than eight at any rate ?'

" I'll easily prove it—it was in 181(1, I came over from Valenciennes here to see you, with Butler and Toni Wendburne' " By Jove, so it was !'

" And it is now 182fie " By Jove, so it is !'

" The was' and the ' is' had exactly the same emphasis, and it appeared as if the past and the present date were alike confused in my poor friend's head.

And my old comrades, Butler and Wendburne? 1-low do they get on ?' resumed he.

" Get on, poor fellows, they are dead this many a day'

" ` Indeed ! then the world's a pair of good fellows the less,' was the care- less reply, which seemed to tell that time had carried away feeling, as well as memory in its flight.

" As we walked on, I was amused by the appearance of Snap, who had too evidently moved in a parallel line to that which his master had so rapidly taken down the hill—of life, I mean. Snap, who had been originally of a youthful white, was now of a dusky gray ; his ears, and parts of his neck and hack, showed patches of flesh-coloured baldness. He was blind of one eye ; extremely deaf ; and altogether a venerable specimen of half-pay terriers, on the superannuated list. His master observed me eyeing him; and he asked me if ` I did not think poor Snap greatly altered ?'

" ` And his master !' said I to myself; but I answered Phil's question, with- out any personal reference. He had shifted his quarters from the aaboy.re to a small apartment, consisting of two chambers, in the house of an old woman called Madame Penelope, in a narrow street near the market-place. At sight of the house, I easily divined that it was poverty which gave to the unlucky veteran the route from his former comfortable sojourn. The abode into which he now ushered me was a sad contrast to the other ; quite as much so as poor Hartigan was to what he had been. Yet notwithstanding the break- ing up in health, appearance, manners, and even feelings, Phil had saved smile- thing from the wreck. His natural character was unharmed, as everything about lihn save evidence. His bed-room was neat, and his little saten adjoin- ing it, displayed some of the nicknacks of military collection, that he was formerly so fond of. In fact, the whole air of the place spoke the habits of soldier regularity, with somewhat of old bachelor precision. The articles of the veteran's scanty wardrobe were folded and laid or their shelf, snugly co- vered with a cloth, to keep off the dust ; though had it lain thickly on most of them, it would have been but nearly the same thing as ` ashes to ashes' On nails over the chimney place were arranged the old sabre, the battered breast-plate, and the gorget, which had all served so many campaigns, and given or received so many hard knocks. A pair of moccassins, or Canadian slippers, were hung one at each side of these ; and those again flanked by a South American buffalo hunter's leathern belt, and a pair of Spanish casta- nets. An Indian warrior's cap surmounted the whole; and the veteran's own old sash was festooned among them. On the mantelpiece lay several relics, picked up in the various countries where he had served ; and ti.e walls were covered with bows and arrows, snow shoes, and divers articles of 'costume or implements of warfare ; while a rusty gun and cobweb-covered fishing-rod, showed plainly that their owner had for many a day forgone all customs of exercise.'

" After an oft-repeated welcome, and an offer of a dram, (which, on my declining, my host took for himself,) he left me for a while to discuss with his landlady (who was also his housekeeper, chamber-maid, and cook) the preparation for dinner ; and then to step over and give notice of my arrival to his messmate and only companion in the place. This was Toby Under- wood, a half-pay lieutenant of marines, a very old ally, who had joined com- pany with Phil, and settled in this dull place, out of pure compassion, and who was, he also assured me, ' as brave mid safe a fellow as ever stood before a foe, or sat down beside a friend.'

" When I was thus left alone, I employed myself, in the usual way of killing time in a stranee room, looking at every article it contained with a listless scrutiny. Had 1 been disposed to indulge the moralizing mood, I should have stood ruminating before the different objects of )Mahn, which brought so many associations connected with days of yore. But I preferred thumbing over poor Phil's library ; which I found (without the aid of a catalogue) to consist of a copy of ' Joe Miller's Jest Book ;' one of the Rules and Regula- tions,' much torn ; • one number of Mrs. Inchbald's British Theatre,' the frontispiece stained with wine ; an Army List for November ISM, ' the red cover wanting ; and a volume of Blair's Lectures;' an old edition—but quite as good as new. There were also a ' Navy List,' of rather a later (late, a tract on the Dry Rot,' and "The Midshipman's Manual,' or some such title; but these latter had the name "Tobias Underwood' written on them, too plainly to let me mistake them for Phil Hartigan's.

"I chose the old Army List for my reading, and I saw how closely and con- stantly poor Phil had made it his study. Every page bore marginal notes. They were necessarily brief, from the narrow space which so edifyingly con- trasts these monthly records with other modern works to the full as epheme- ral. A little d, or k, or p, before many of their names, denoted ` dead,' killed,' promoted,' as was corroborated by my own knowledge of the men and their fate ; and these brief annotations formed a praiseworthy pattern of what ought to be the style of commentators in general. The p's, I was sorry to observe, bore a very small proportion to the d's and k's. I did not care to pursue the calculation, or to dwell on the probable chances of poor Phil himself becoming entitled to d and b (dead and buried) before his name, long ere the arrival of the brevet,' which he so reckoned on, as sure to put him among the vs."

We now proceed to the evening's entertainment. We pass the din- ner, and the introduction and character of Toby Underwood, for the sake of the following sketch—that we may be enabled to include the latest intelligence respectino the fate of the unlucky Phil Hartigan.

" No sooner was dinner over, and Phil's heart warmed with a couple of bumpers of strong liqueur and a bottle of burgundy, than he began to open out, like other night flowers, in full fragrance. He by degrees unfolded the leaves of recollection (in vulgar analogy, the tablet of memory') ; and by the time the wine bottles had abdicated in favour of the brandy flask, he had completely resumed possession of his old character, and burst out in as daz- zling a display of story-telling as ever shone upon a night of conviviality. This was Phil Hartigan's peculiar talent. 1 never beard him say what is

called a good thing. Ile knew nothing of repartee punning. But eive him a story ever so trilling, and from his unique power of description, and of mi- micry, in idioms, accent, and pronunciation, he made more of it than ever may be made by another.

a On the night I speak of, he told several of his stories—they were all old ones, but not a bit the worse for wear. His memory was as good as ever, and it was all the same to him whether he handled a grave or a gay subject. Toby Underwood had heard all these stories oftener even than Chad. Still he laughed at some of them, as though they had been bran-new ; and actu- ally wept at others—but not till after his second bottle and sixth tumbler. Daylight had fairly extinguished our candles before we broke up. At length Toby departed for his lodgings, and Phil retired to bed, having first seen Inc snugly settled on the stretcher which was prepared for me iii the salon. I had drunk but little in proportion to my cumpimions; and Phil made me many' a reproach for baying become a flincher.

" "That's what a man is sure to come to by living in this damned country —isn't it Toby ?' said Phil, filling his glass.

" Indeed it is,' answered Toby, emptyitee his.

" It will be our fate too, I suppose,' added Phil, swallowing a bumper.

" Not before the Brevet,' thought I.

"'Ay, and mine, no doubt, after rejoined Toby, replenishing his tumbler. " But not sooner,' thought I.

" In consequence of my abstinence I had three or four hours of sound sleep, and got up quite refreshed. There was no chance of Phil's rising, for he snored audibly in the room beside me. I was at a loss what to do. The library and the museum could afford me no novelty ; so I pried about, into every hole and corner of the .wdon, in search of some unexamined object. The only thing I discovered was a little mahogany box. It being unlocked, I was induced to open it, supposing it to contain some little token of curiosity, a wild boar's tusk, or some such matter of foreign extraction. But all the earth's collections of natural philosophy or comparative anatomy combined, could not have so surprised, so interested, or so affected me, as did the con- tents of poor Phil Hartigan's mahogany bux, and the simple inscription which labelled the papers that enfolded them. On the outer envelope was written,

" Fragments of an old soldier.'

" And on the separate little parcels within this cover, " No. 1, Bones of my leg, Monte Video' " No. 2, Bones of my Ilead, Talavera.'

" Nu. 3, Bones of my Arm, Badajus.' " A heavier paper, containing a flattened bullet wrapped in cotton, was in- scribed, " No. 4, Ball cut out at Waterloo'

" These relics of long service and long suffering, caused inc a feeling of deep melancholy, which all the efforts of their owner and his messmate could not remove. I passed the day sadly, and the succeeding night no hettcr. As soon as the bottle began to circulate after dinner, Phil acknowledged the in- spiration, and returned to the track of his natural vivacity ; but his stories seemed to have lost their pleasant flavour. Their gaiety was no longer gay, and their sadness was more sad than ever. I could not rouse myself to a tree participation in the nightly enjoyments of the Fair fellow whase days v: ere so utterly comfortless ; and I found that to prolong my visit weifld be to in- crease my discomfort. On the third morning, therenire, 1 took my leave, promising, and faithfully intending, to renew my visit ere long, with strong hopes of being able to realize a project for digging poor Phil out of his soli- tary station, and transplanting him to a more social soil. " Phil shook my hand cordially as we parted, entreated me to return soon to see him, assured me that he should not remain much longer where he was, the brevet' was sure to give him his promotion almost immediately.

" Within a month from that day I received a letter, written on coarse paper, with a broad patch of common black sealing-wax, bearing the impres- sion of an anchor, surmounted by a firelock, like a crest over a coat of arms. It was as follows:— " Dear Sir—You will regret to learn that our poor friend Phil Hartigan was buried this morning. He died two days ago, rather suddenly, of what the doctor calls a breaking up of the system. I think it was his heart that was broken. He was as brave and pleasant a fellow as ever lived or died; but you know that as well as I can tell it. Our poor friend requested me to write to you as soon as all was over. I had him buried as respectably as I could, and I thought it but right that the little box of his splintered bones, which he had so carefully preserved, should be laid in the coffin with his other remains.

" I am, Dear Sir, yours truly, " TOBIAs UNDERWOOD.'

" P.S. Snap died about a week before his master' " I was not a little shocked on reading this letter. The suddenness of the news was aggravated by the fact that I had just completed an arrangement for poor Hartigan's change of residence to the place I had contemplated. But it was, perhaps, better that he should have died where he did, where so little existed to cause a regret for the world he quitted. " His grave is marked by a small stone with his name cut on it, followed by some half dozen lines, telling truly the good qualities he possessed. How few, if any, of his many acquaintances, companions, and friends, will ever see the spot, or read his epitaph !"

In other portions of these volumes there is a mixture of facts (since as such are they vouched for) and of fiction, which is liable to lead to great error. Especially in the story of the "Maison de Sant6," it may be inferred from the whole tendency of the piece that these insti- tutions are grossly abused. Such a charge ought not to have been made in this light manner. If true, it is an abuse far too shameful not to be exposed in serious and sober terms ; if the abuse is a fancy for the purposes of effect, then is the author guilty of an inju- rious libel. His character of the doctor, the manager of the institution, is evidently a caricature ; and we confess the whole of the story, for in- cidents, dialogue, and character, has the air of gross improbability.