I liked these Irish officers
exceedingly;--not that it would be possible to live long among them
without finding existence a bore; for they have no thought, no
intellectual movement, no ideas, that I was aware of, beyond horses,
dogs, drill, garrisons, field-days, whist, wine, cigars, and all that
kind of thing; yet they were really gentlemen living on the best terms
with one another,--courteous, kind, most hospitable, with a rich Irish
humor, softened down by social refinements,--not too refined either, but
a most happy sort of behavior, as natural as that of children, and with a
safe freedom that made one feel entirely at my ease. I think well of the
Irish gentlemen, for their sakes; and I believe I might fairly attribute
to Lieutenant-Colonel Stowell (next whom I sat) a higher and finer
cultivation than the above description indicates. Indeed, many of them
may have been capable of much more intellectual intercourse than that of
the mess-table; but I suppose it would not have been in keeping with
their camp life, nor suggested by it. Several of the elder officers were
men who had been long in the army; and the Colonel--a bluff, hearty old
soldier, with a profile like an eagle's head and beak--was a veteran of
the Peninsula, and had a medal on his breast with clasps for three famous
battles besides that of Waterloo.
The regimental band played during dinner, and the Lieutenant-Colonel
apologized to me for its not playing "Hail Columbia," the tune not coning
within their musical accomplishments.
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