Little now remains for me to add. My tale of war, and its attendant dangers and enjoyments, is told; and I have nothing left to notice, except a few of the most prominent of the adventures which befell, between the period of my quitting one scene of hostile operations, and my arrival at another. These are quickly narrated.

Early on the morning of the 28th of April, 1811, the whole of the allied troops encamped around Bayonne, drew up, in various lines, to witness the hoisting of the white flag upon the ramparts of that city. The standards of England, Spain, Portugal, and of the Bourbons, already waved together from the summit of every eminence in our camp. Up to this date, however, the tri-color still kept its place upon the flag-staff of the citadel; to-day it was to be torn down, and the “drapeau blanc” substituted in its room. To us, no doubt, the spectacle promised to be one of triumph and rejoicing; for we thought of the gigantic exertions of our country, which alone, of all the nations in Europe, had uniformly refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the usurper; but by the French, it was very differently regarded. Even among the country-people, not a spark of enthusiasm could be traced; whilst by the garrison, no secret was made of their abhorrence of the new state of things, and their undiminished attachment to their former master. But there was no help for it. “La fortune de la guerre,” said a French officer to me one day, as we talked of these matters; but be shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, and gave no proof that he was satisfied with its results.

We had stood in our ranks about an hour, dressed in our best attire, and having our muskets loaded with powder only, when a signal-gun was fired from one of the batteries of the town, and a magnificent tri-coloured flag which had hitherto waved proudly in the breeze, was gradually lowered. For perhaps half a minute the flag-staff stood bare; and then a small white standard, dirty, and, if my eyes deceived me not, a little torn, was run up. Immediately the guns from every quarter of the city fired a salute. By such of our people as kept guard at the out-posts that day, it was asserted that each gun was crammed with sand and mud, as if this turbulent garrison had been resolved to insult, as far as they could insult, an authority to which they submitted only because they were compelled to submit. On our parts, the salute was answered with a fen-de-joie, from all the infantry, artillery, and gun-boats; and then a hearty shout being raised, we filed back to our respective stations, and dismissed the parade.

From this period, till the general breaking up of the camp, nothing like friendly or familiar intercourse took place between us and our former enemies. We were suffered, indeed, by two at a time, to enter the city with passports, whilst some half-dozen French officers would occasionally wander down to Boucaut, and mingle in the crowd which filled its market-place. But they came with no kindly intention. On the contrary, all our advances were met with haughtiness, and it seemed as if they were anxious to bring on numerous private quarrels, now that the quarrel between the countries was at an end. Nor were these always refused them. More duels were fought than the world in general knows anything about; whilst vast numbers were prevented, only by a positive prohibition on the part of the two generals, and a declaration, that whoever violated the order would be placed in arrest, and tried by a court-martial.

We were still in our camp by the Adour, when various bodies of Spanish troops passed through on their return from Toulouse to their own country. Than some of these battalions, I never beheld a finer body of men; and many of them were as well clothed, armed, and appointed, as any battalions in the world. But they were, one and all, miserably officered. Their inferior officers, in particular, were mean and ungentlemanly in their appearance, and they seemed to possess little or no authority over their men. Yet they were full of boasting, and gave themselves, on all occasions, as many absurd airs, as if their valour had delivered Spain, and dethroned Napoleon; such is the foolish vanity of human nature.

Like my companions, I neglected not any opportunity which was afforded of visiting Bayonne, or of examining the nature of its works. Of the town itself, I need say no more, than that it was as clean and regularly built, as a fortified place can well be; where the utmost is to be made of a straitened boundary, and houses obtain in altitude what may be wanting in the extent of their fronts. Neither is it necessary that I should enter into a minute description of its defences, sufficient notice having been taken of them elsewhere. But of the inhabitants, I cannot avoid remarking, that I found them uncivil and unfriendly in the extreme, as if they took their tone from the troops in garrison, who sought not to disguise their chagrin and disappointment.

Besides paying occasional visits to the city, much of my time was passed in fishing, and in taking part in the public amusements which began to be instituted amongst us. The sands, for example, were converted into a race-course, upon which we tried the speed of our horses day after day. Balls were established in the village, which were attended by ladies of all classes, and from all parts of the surrounding country; and, in a word, all the expedients usually adopted by idle men, were adopted by us, to kill time, and make head against ennui.

Such was the general tenor of my life, from the 20th of April, till the 8th of May. On the latter day, the regiment struck its tents, and marched one day’s journey to the rear, where it remained in quiet, till the arrival of the order, which sent it first to the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux, and afterwards to North America.

Thus ends the narrative of the adventures of a single year in the life of a Subaltern Officer. Whatever may be thought of it by the public, it has not been compiled without considerable satisfaction by the narrator; for the year referred to is one on which I now look back, and probably shall ever look back, with the feeling of melancholy satisfaction, which invariably accompanies a retrospect of happiness gone by. If there existed an enthusiastic lover of the profession of arms, I believe that I was one; but the times were unfavourable, and he must live for very little purpose, who knows not that enthusiasm of any kind rarely survives our youth. I loved my profession, as long as it gave full occupation to my bodily and mental powers; but the peace came, and I loved it no longer. Perhaps, indeed, the kind of feeling which I had taught myself to encourage, was not such as, in the present state of society, any prudent person is justified in encouraging; for I care not to conceal, that the brightest hopes of my boyhood have all faded, and that manhood has produced none capable of taking their place. The friend who shared with me so many dangers and hardships, fell at my side, by the hand of an unworthy enemy. The walk of life which I pursued, for a while, so merrily, has been abandoned; my sabre hangs rusty upon the wall; and my poor old faithful dog is gathered to her fathers. She lies under the green sod before my window; and morning and evening as I walk past her grave, if I shed no tear to her memory, I at least pay to it the tribute of a kindly thought. Well, well, all this is as it ought to be; it is quite right that we should learn the folly of fixing our affections too strongly upon anything in a scene so shifting and uncertain as human life; and I suspect there are few persons who are not taught that lesson, at least occasionally, long before their prime be past.

Let it not, however, be supposed, that he who thus expresses himself must therefore be discontented with his lot, or that he murmurs against the Providence which has cast it for him. By no means. If in my new mode of existence there be less of excitement and of wild enjoyment than in my old, at least there is more of calm and quiet gratification. Other ties, likewise, are around me, different in kind, indeed, but not less tender, than those which time has severed; and if there be nothing in the future calculated to stir up ambitious longing, there is still sufficient to defend against discontent. At all events, I am certain that my present occupations are such as will prove more permanently and vitally beneficial to others, than those which preceded them; and let me add, that a man need not be accused of fanaticism who is convinced, that to look back upon a life, not uselessly spent, is the only thing which will bring him peace at the last.

But enough of moralizing, when, in the words of our greatest living poet, I wish to such as have honoured my tale with a perusal,

                           “To each and all, a fair good night,
                           And rosy dreams, and slumbers bright.”