me, I should have done well, but I was anxious to
get up the breach, that is, my mind was so bent; but
as soon as I got on my legs, confound them if they
didn’t run away with me, and then I was found
half a mile from the fort with a pretended wound.
That was enough; I had a hint that the sooner I went
home the better. On account of the family I was
permitted to sell out, and I then walked the streets
as a private gentleman, but no one would speak to
me. I argued the point with several, but they
were obstinate, and would not be convinced; they said
that it was no use talking about being brave, if I
ran away.”
“They were not philosophers, Talbot.”
“No; they could not comprehend how the mind
and the body could be at variance. It was no
use arguing—they would have it that the
movements of the body depended upon the mind, and
that I had made a mistake—and that I was
a coward in soul as well as body.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“Oh, I did nothing! I had a great mind
to knock them down, but as I knew my body would not
assist me, I thought it better to leave it alone.
However, they taunted me so, by calling me fighting
Tom, that my uncle shut his door upon me as a disgrace
to the family, saying, he wished the first bullet
had laid me dead—very kind of him;—at
last my patience was worn out, and I looked about
to find whether there were not some people who did
not consider courage as a sine quae non.
I found that the Quakers’ tenets were against
fighting, and therefore courage could not be necessary,
so I have joined them, and I find that, if not a good
soldier, I am, at all events, a very respectable Quaker;
and now you have the whole of my story—and
tell me if you are of my opinion.”
“Why, really it’s a very difficult point
to decide. I never heard such a case of disintegration
before. I must think upon it.”
“Of course, you will not say a word about it,
Newland.”
“Never fear, I will keep your secret, Talbot.
How long have you worn the dress?”
“Oh, more than a year. By-the-bye, what
a nice young person that Susannah Temple is.
I’ve a great mind to propose for her.”
“But you must first ascertain what your body
says to it, Talbot,” replied I, sternly.
“I allow no one to interfere with me, Quaker
or not.”
“My dear fellow, I beg your pardon, I shall
think no more about her,” said Talbot, rising
up, as he observed that I looked very fierce.
“I wish you a good morning. I leave Reading
to-morrow. I will call on you, and say good-bye,
if I can;” and I saw no more of Friend Talbot,
whose mind was all courage, but whose body was so
renegade.
I fall in with Timothy.
About a month after this, I heard a sailor with one
leg, and a handful of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal
tone,
“Why, what’s that to you if my eyes I’m
a wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d’ye see,
in its way”—
