Evening at Home 66

Evening at Home 66

He ceased—_Linnetta_ thus replied,

With cool contempt and decent pride:—

“’Tis pity, sir, a youth so sweet,

In form and manners so complete,

Should do an humble maid the honour

To waste his precious time upon her.

A poor forsaken she, you know,

Can do no credit to a beau;

And worse would be the case

If meeting one whose faith was plighted,

He should incur the sad disgrace

Of being slighted.

 

“Now, sir, the _sober-suited youth_.

Whom you were pleased to mention,

To those small merits, sense and truth,

And generous love, has some pretension;

And then, to give him all his due,

He sings, sir, full as well as you,

And sometimes can be silent too.

In short, my taste is so perverse,

And such my wayward fate,

That it would be my greatest curse

To have a _coxcomb_ to my mate.”

This said, away she scuds,

And leaves _Beau Goldfinch_ in the suds.

 

[Illustration:

 

The Wanderer’s Return, p. 304.

 

EVENING XXV.

]

 

 

 

 

THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.

 

 

“Good news! great news! glorious news!” cried young Oswald, as he

entered his father’s house. “We have got a complete victory, and have

killed I don’t know how many thousands of the enemy; and we are to have

bonfires and illuminations!”

 

“And so,” said his father, “you think that killing a great many

thousands of human creatures is a thing to be very glad about?”

 

_Oswald._ No—I do not quite think so, neither: but surely it is right to

be glad that our country has gained a great advantage.

 

_Father._ No doubt, it is right to wish well to our country, as far as

its prosperity can be promoted without injuring the rest of mankind. But

wars are very seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when they

are ever so useful or necessary, so many dreadful evils attend them,

that a humane man will scarcely rejoice in them, if he considers at all

on the subject.

 

_Os._ But if our enemies would do us a great deal of mischief, and we

prevent it by beating them, have we not a right to be glad of it?

 

_Fa._ Alas! we are in general little judges which of the parties has the

most mischievous intentions. Commonly, they are both in the wrong, and

success will make both of them unjust and unreasonable. But putting this

out of the question, he who rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices

in the misery of many thousands of his species; and the thought of that

should make him pause a little. Suppose a surgeon were to come with a

smiling countenance, and tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half a

dozen legs to day, what would you think of him?

 

_Os._ I should think him very hard-hearted.

 

_Fa._ And yet those operations are done for the benefit of the

sufferers, and by their own desire. But in a battle, the probability is,

that none of those engaged on either side have any interest at all in

the cause they are fighting for, and most of them come there because

they cannot help it. In this battle that you are so rejoiced about,

there have been ten thousand men killed on the spot, and nearly as many

wounded.

 

_Os._ On both sides?

 

_Fa._ Yes—but they are _men_ on both sides. Consider now, that the ten

thousand sent out of the world in this morning’s work, though they are

past feeling themselves, have left probably two persons each, on an

average, to lament their loss, parents, wives, or children. Here are

then twenty thousand people made unhappy, at one stroke on their

account. This, however, is hardly so dreadful to think of, as the

condition of the wounded. At the moment we are talking, eight or ten

thousand more are lying in agony, torn with shot, or gashed with cuts,

their wounds all festering, some hourly to die a most excruciating

death, others to linger in torture weeks and months, and many doomed to

drag on a miserable existence for the rest of their lives, with diseased

and mutilated bodies.

 

_Os._ This is shocking to think of, indeed!

 

_Fa._ When you light your candles, then, this evening, _think what they

cost_.

 

_Os._ But everybody else is glad, and seems to think nothing of these

things.

 

_Fa._ True—they do _not_ think of them. If they did, I cannot suppose

they would be so void of feeling as to enjoy themselves in merriment

when so many of their fellow-creatures are made miserable. Do you not

remember, when poor Dickens had his legs broken to pieces by a loaded

wagon, how all the town pitied him?

 

_Os._ Yes, very well. I could not sleep the night after for thinking of

him.

 

_Fa._ But here are thousands suffering as much as he, and we scarce

bestow a single thought on them. If any one of these poor creatures were

before our eyes, we should probably feel much more than we do now for

them altogether. Shall I tell you a story of a soldier’s fortune, that

came to my own knowledge?

 

_Os._ Yes; pray, do.

 

_Fa._ In the village where I went to school, there was an honest

industrious weaver and his wife, who had an only son, named Walter, just

come to man’s estate. Walter was a good and dutiful lad, and a clever

workman, so that he was a great help to his parents. One unlucky day,

having gone to the next market-town with some work, he met with a

companion, who took him to the alehouse and treated him. As he was

coming away, a recruiting sergeant entered the room, who seeing Walter

to be a likely young fellow, had a great mind to entrap him. He

persuaded him to sit down again and take a glass with him; and kept him

in talk with fine stories about a soldier’s life, till Walter got

fuddled before he was aware. The sergeant then clapped a shilling into

his hand to drink his majesty’s health, and told him he was enlisted. He

was kept there all night, and next morning was taken before a magistrate

to be sworn in. Walter had now become sober, and was very sorry for what

he had done: but he was told that he could not get off without paying a

guinea smart money. This he knew not how to raise; and being likewise

afraid and ashamed to face his friends, he took the oath and

bounty-money, and marched away with the sergeant, without ever returning

home. His poor father and mother, when they heard of the affair, were

almost heart-broken; and a young woman in the village, who was his

sweetheart, had like to have gone distracted. Walter sent them a line

from the first stage, to bid them farewell, and comfort them. He joined

his regiment, which soon embarked for Germany, where it continued till

the peace. Walter once or twice sent word home of his welfare, but for

the last year nothing was heard of him.

 

_Os._ Where was he then?

 

_Fa._ You shall hear. One summer’s evening, a man in an old red coat,

hobbling on crutches, was seen to enter the village. His countenance was

pale and sickly, his cheeks hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke

extreme wretchedness. Several people gathered round him, looking

earnestly in his face. Among these a young woman having gazed at him a

while, cried out, “My Walter!” and fainted away. Walter fell on the

ground beside her. His father and mother being fetched by some of the

spectators, came and took him in their arms, weeping bitterly. I saw the

whole scene, and shall never forget it. At length, the neighbours helped

them into the house, where Walter told them the following story:—

 

“At the last great battle that our troops gained in Germany, I was among

the first engaged, and received a shot that broke my thigh. I fell, and

presently after our regiment was forced to retreat. A squadron of the

enemy’s horse came galloping down upon us. A trooper making a blow at me

with his sabre as I lay, I lifted up my arm to save my head, and got a

cut which divided all the sinews at the back of my wrist. Soon after the

enemy were driven back, and came across us again. A horse set his foot

on my side, and broke three of my ribs. The action was long and bloody,

and the wounded on both sides were left on the field all night. A

dreadful night it was to me you may think! I had fainted through loss of

blood, and when I recovered, I was tormented with thirst, and the cold

air made my wounds smart intolerably. About noon next day wagons came to

carry away those who remained alive; and I, with a number of others, was

put into one to be conveyed to the next town. The motion of the carriage

was terrible for my broken bones—every jolt went to my heart. We were

taken to an hospital, which was crammed as full as it could hold; and we

should all have been suffocated with the heat and stench, had not a

fever broke out, which soon thinned our numbers. I took it, and was

twice given over; however, I struggled through. But my wounds proved so

difficult to heal, that it was almost a twelvemonth before I could be

discharged. A great deal of the bone in my thigh came away in splinters,

and left the limb crooked and useless as you see. I entirely lost the

use of three fingers of my right hand; and my broken ribs made me spit