Drawn from Life. By Archibald Forbes. 3 vols. (Hurst and
Blackett.) —Mr. Forbes describes himself as "Special Military Correspondent of the Daily News." This is no inconsiderable recommendation for an author who claims to "draw from life." We began, therefore, with high ex- pectations, which were so grievously disappointed by the earlier chapters, that we looked back to the title-page to assure ourselves that we had not misread it. Nothing in truth could be less like life than the former half of the first volume. The very details which Mr. Forbes' nationality, if we may judge from his name, should enable him to give with correctness are wrong. We speak with diffidence about Scotch dialects still we put it to any man who knows them whether a well- born Highland gentleman would talk in this fashion—" Hout fie, my leddy, you'll please to mm' that when I said that I had been marriet a dizzen years, an' had twa or three bullets through antrant pairts o' my mild carcase," or "that's richt, laddie, that's richt, I kent there was fechting in that e'e o' yours." Anyhow, we feel pretty sure that the "Laird of Macdonald" is an impossible Highland title, and that, if it were possible, he could not be addressed without taking dire offence as Mr. Macdonald ; yet the well- born Highland gentleman aforesaid does so address him. And we own to a doubt as to whether the "Laird of Macdonald" could drink off a tumbler of whisky without drawing breath. Happily the whisky-drink- ing old laird quarrels wisely with his son, who leaves his house and enlists. Then we get to something really "drawn from life." Mr. Forbes' power asserts itself, and his readers, we are bold to say, change their opinion of his work. The miseries of a recruit's life are described with an unusual vividness and force, and when the recruit embarks, reaches India, and still more when ho plunges into the thick of the fighting in the Indian Mutiny, the writer is evidently thoroughly at home with his work, and does it in a masterly fashion. We have read nothing better in its way than the account of Havelock's advance. The sombre shadows of this part of the story are well relieved by the humours of a certain Michael O'Sullivan. Michael is particularly amusing when, having been transferred to a Highland regiment, he is induced to believe that he is to wear the kilt. This is how, after a not altogether auccessful attempt to put on that garment, he apostrophizes himself :—"Share, an' it's a beautiful dress, an' the hoight of free vintilation I Supposin' I was sit- ting down in an ant-hill! Oeb, =mho, an' hwhat would Tipperary say if she were to see me this day 7° "Fail," he went on, after a long scrutinizing stare, "it's meself is doubtful whether I'm hwhat you would call dacent,—but the devil a happorth care I," with a sudden burst of reassurance. "Shure, if I'm ondacent, that's the Quane's look-out; may the heavins be her bed !"
Previous page
