Part 49 (2/2)
”Most undoubtedly so. It was like a Talbot.”
”We were at the foot of the breach; when the shot flew about me, I kicked and wrestled so, that the two men who carried me were obliged to let me go, and my rascally body was at liberty. I say unfortunately, for only conceive, if they had carried me wounded up the breach, what an heroic act it would have been considered on my part; but fate decided it otherwise. If I had lain still when they dropped 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 then I 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 a.s.sist 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 qua 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-by, 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.
PART THREE, CHAPTER TWELVE.
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 is that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way--
”Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who's lost his leg in the sarvice. Thanky, your honour,” and he continued,--
”It's nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they who can't pity--why I pities they.
Says the captain, says he, I shall never forget it, Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham.
”Back your main-topsail, your wors.h.i.+p, for half a minute, and just a.s.sist a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars.--''Tis a furious lion.' Long life to your honour.--'In battle so let it--'
”'Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; But duty appeased--but duty appeased--
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