“But this book has mostly struck upon the chord
in my own heart in that characteristic which my father
indicated as belonging to all biography. Here
is a life of remarkable fulness, great study, great
thought, and great action; and yet,” said I,
coloring, “how small a place those feelings
which have tyrannized over me and made all else seem
blank and void, hold in that life! It is not
as if the man were a cold and hard ascetic it is easy
to see in him, not only remarkable tenderness and
warm affections, but strong self-will, and the passion
of all vigorous natures. Yes; I understand better
now what existence in a true man should be.”
“All that is very well said,” quoth the
Captain, “but it did not strike me. What
I have seen in this book is courage. Here is
a poor creature rolling on the carpet with agony;
from childhood to death tortured by a mysterious incurable
malady,—a malady that is described as ’an
internal apparatus of torture;’ and who does,
by his heroism, more than bear it, —he
puts it out of power to affect him; and though (here
is the passage) ’his appointment by day and
by night was incessant pain, yet high enjoyment was,
notwithstanding, the law of his existence.’
Robert Hall reads me a lesson,—me, an
old soldier, who thought myself above taking lessons,—in
courage, at least. And as I came to that passage
when, in the sharp paroxysms before death, he says,
’I have not complained, have I, sir? And
I won’t complain!’—when I came
to that passage I started up and cried, ’Roland
de Caxton, thou hast been a coward! and an thou hadst
had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered, broken,
and drummed out of the regiment long ago!’”
“After all, then, my father was not so wrong,—he
placed his guns right, and fired a good shot.”
“He must have been from six to nine degrees
above the crest of the parapet,” said my uncle,
thoughtfully,—“which, I take it, is
the best elevation, both for shot and shells in enfilading
a work.”
“What say you then, Captain,—up with
our knapsacks, and on with the march?”
“Right about—face!” cried my
uncle, as erect as a column.
“No looking back, if we can help it.”
“Full in the front of the enemy. ’Up,
Guards, and at ’em!’”
“‘England expects every man to do his
duty!’”
“Cypress or laurel!” cried my uncle, waving
the book over his head.
CHAPTER VII.
I went out, and to see Francis Vivian; for on leaving
Mr. Trevanion I was not without anxiety for my new
friend’s future provision. But Vivian
was from home, and I strolled from his lodgings into
the suburbs on the other side of the river, and began
to meditate seriously on the best course now to pursue.
In quitting my present occupations I resigned prospects
far more brilliant and fortunes far more rapid than
I could ever hope to realize in any other entrance
into life. But I felt the necessity, if I desired
Copyrights
The Caxtons — Volume 09 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
