Adelphi, June 13,1859.
Surrey, June 17, 1859.
Standard, June 13, 1859.
Muffins sir ?
Presently.
I meant it for the tea, sir—it's weak.
What's that?
Soldiers, sir, come down from London, by the train. Miss Kate says they're to fight for the lion and unicorn, if wanted.
What does she know about it, pray ?
A great deal, sir—she reads the news, so do I—and my first cousin's in the militia, beats the big drum.
You admire red coats, of course then ?
I adores 'em, 'specially sergeants and corporals.
Like all the silly women, they think soldiers—
Sugar, sir ?
If you please, sir, my next holiday out, you won't be angry if I go to hear the band play—my cousin's great on the drum, and when he twists the drum sticks in the air— oh, la!
Go, with all my heart, Jane.
Thank you, sir.
Our heads are all turned more or less with this military fever. Our quiet town is turned upside down with it. Ah, wars like inoculation, it rapidly extends. Heaven keep us out of it, say I—peace and commerce are the natural bulwarks of Britain—not that we ever objected to a taste of war when forced on us—the blood of the old Sea Kings flows in our veins clear and strong as ever.
Mr. Somerton wishes to speak to you on private business, if you can see him, sir.
Show Mr. Somerton here immediately
Yes, sir.
A very respectable, painstaking young man that—one of the best I ever had in my employ—first rate accountant— no blots or blunders in his sum totals.
Master, sir.
Take a chair, my friend.
I must apologise for intruding at this early hour, sir.
Not at all—business must be attended to.
My business is of a delicate nature. I searcely know how to—to—
Out with it, man—never hesitate. Is it assistance you require ?—young men are very improvident at times—is it so ? You want a cheque ?
No, sir. Sir, your repeated acts of kindness to myself and mother can never be repaid.
My good friend, all that I have done you deserve— your energy and strict attention to my interest more than repays any little obligation conferred ; so no more about that matter now—your business, what is it ?
You have a daughter, sir.
And she makes me know it, the plague.
She is an angel.
Allow me to differ with you slightly on that subject. But pray what has she done to entitle her to such lofty admiration on your part ?
Ah, I guess it, young man—the old—old story over again ! Love—admiration—moonshine ! I
expected as much
Mr. Lawrence, I should ill repay the confidence you have been pleased to place in me, if I continue the indulgence of a hopeless passion without your approval. It is true that I love your daughter fervently and devotedly—but, sir, it is with honour.
I believe you, on my word.
I am fully aware that the position I am placed in renders all chances of your consent futile—without it I will never seek to plunge one that I love more than life into penury and distress.
To quit your employ, sir, for ever, or to return so rich that my pretensions to Miss Lawrence's hand may not be totally disregarded.
They never shall, young man—
Are you assured the girl loves you in return ?
I rather think he is, papa.
A very pretty confession to make to your father, miss.
Silence, miss—endeavour to take a lesson from Mr. Somerton's conduct.
I have, dear papa, and hope my endeavours may be crowned with success.
I don't doubt that for a moment. Perhaps you will leave us, as I am speaking to Mr. Somerton privately.
How horribly selfish you are to-day, papa. Mind, I won't be shut up in a convent.
Gipsy! It is but fair, having explained yourself to me, that I in return should do the same.
The fortune that I have made was gained by daily labour, strict economy and prudence. Whoever
marries my Kate, must have something towards
I bow to your decision, and will leave to-morrow.
Fine fellow, open and high spirited, worthy of any woman's hand
Yes, pa—oh!
This is very weak, child, very!
I know it, but can't avoid it, papa.
You must be guided by reason in this.
Women are not reasonable creatures you always said.
What is it you desire?
Matrimony, if you please.
Somerton's too poor.
You are rich enough for both.
Nonsense! in twelve months I should have you returning home for assistance.
Permit us to try the twelve months, dear papa.
No, no ! I know what the world is too well—no money, no peace or comfort—talk of marrying at such a time, too— Europe bristling with war—no one can tell where it may drift to in a few months.
What has war to do with Mr. Somerton, or our shores—no enemy will ever attempt to come here.
Why not, pray miss? Where's steam, rail, electric telegraph, and sudden surprises. Egad! nothing would surprise me now- a-days.
Justice and moderation on our part ought to prevent it; but if that fails, our brave
soldiers and sailors, our love for Queen and Country, backed by the cry that now resounds
throughout the land, passing from lip to lip, filling every heart with enthusiasm—
Say it again, say it again, my darling; those words recal the ardour of youth—a Field Marshal could not have spoken better. My sentiments to a letter.
It is every right thinking person's sentiment. Peace
That's it, that's it—as we were in George the Third's time—year 1800—four hundred thousand volunteers, armed and disciplined, ready to fight for King and Country. I was one of the gallant heroes. Ah, those were days of hardship for us quiet citizens—campaign, and in bivouacing in Brentford, Bow, and Ealing—actually living in tents at Turnham Green, for a whole week, on cold meat. I was a mere boy, only seventeen. No such boys now—all premature men—too fast by half, in these times.
Papa, you are in error; the boys of the present are as good and brave as the boys of the past were. For example, witness the Volunteer Rifle Corps, how eagerly they enrolled themselves.
Not young fellows—steady, family men—housekeepers.
Tradesmen's sons—Cousin James amongst the best.
That scapegrace fight ? He'd run away at the first shot.
Not he, papa! he's a corporal already in our Town Corps, and looks charming in his uniform. He brought it to show me on Saturday, and it is in the house now. Will you look at it?
No, no ; I know the calf too well, without wishing to see the skin. Convince me our youth are what you think, and I'd willingly give half my fortune to support the cause, in fact I'd give anything in the world.
What would you give me, dear papa, if I proved it to you ?
Eh, what ?—give you—
Your consent to my marrying Harry Somerton within this year, if I succeed in convincing you that the same patriotism exists now that did in 1800.
Willingly ; always providing he makes money—do nothing without that article.
You'll lose, papa. Harry will become your son-in-law, or my name's not saucy Kate.
Bless her little merry heart! she'd coax a blind man to see !—but it will take a great deal
to persuade me out of my fixed, immovable, determined opinion. I shall give her something
handsome at my death in the three per cents. Young Somerton will do something, I feel
assured—he's made of the right material.
Oh, did you see 'em, sir?
See—who—who—what?
The rifles, sir, in grey and green, black shiny belts, glistening like parlour grates just black-leaded, lively as grasshoppers in June. Oh, I wish I could give up crinoline, and join 'em!
You do, do you, Miss Jane?
Yes, sir. Who could help it—they're all townsfolk, too, formed into a corps.
Won't believe it—when—when, pray ?
Ever since you went over to Holland, sir. This is a field day for shooting. Please might I go and see 'em for an hour?
Willingly I'd go myself, but for the plaguy gout.
And what are you doing, pray ?
It's only cousin, and the big drum, sir.
Throw open the gates—tell Jem to tap a barrel of ale, the largest in the cellar—the rogues shall drink the queen's health in strong Saxon drink—rare stuff to fight on, Jane.
Yes, sir.
Halt! attention !
What are you doing now ?
Attention, sir, you told me.
Won't I though.
There appears to be something in Kate's statement. The boys don't forget their breeding—my promise must be modified a trifle as to time. Jane!
Tell your mistress I wish to speak with her directly.
Yes, sir. Please, there's one of the rifles wants to thank you in the name of his extinguished corps.
Oh, ain't he a shiny beauty, neither !
Glad to see you—your name is—
Sampson Strong, in Grenadier Company Volunteer Rifles.
You are welcome—sit down, make yourself at home, my fine fellow—every true Englishman's house ought to be a home for our brave defenders.
Thank you, sir, going on duty—field day, but took the liberty of thanking you for the treat you've offered to myself and gallant comrades.
Not at all, my fine fellow. I'm an old soldier myself —know what thirsty days—field ones were in 1800.
Trifles! no consideration in 1859, sir. Ten hours practice at the target, five hundred paces—a new recreation to young men of the present day—like race horses, we are all bone and muscle, eyes of hawks, hearts of iron—make ready, present, fire, and down drops our man.
No fears of anticipated danger, then ?
Fears! We honour and love the policy of your queen too much to entertain fears for anything. Why, at the cry of a foe, close columns, right shoulders forward, fire and charge.
Stop, stop—you are rather too graphic in your descriptions, Mr. Sampson.
Strong—Strong by
And
Beg pardon, I was momentarily carried away by my feelings.
Fighting, if needed, is really your intention, then ?
I believe you, and conquering when we do fight, that's more, providence permitting. Not a lane, street, or hedge, in county or town, but would swarm with us at the first bugle call—eyes like reindeer, nerves of iron, firm as rock, well disciplined and officered, what could we not do? Let who dare to try our mettle, each artillery man would be a mark for us— nothing could live within the range of our rifles—not a man of an invading force would ever leave these shores to tell the tale.
I begin to believe it, Mr. Strong. Who wouldn't glory in being a soldier to have one's name enrolled with the heroes of history. Marlboro', Wellington, Blenheim, Waterloo, Alma, and Inkermann.
Havelock, Nicholson, Clyde, Delhi, and Lucknow.
Rodney, Hood, and Jarvis, the Nile, the Baltic, and the glorious first of June.
Trafalgar and our immortal Nelson, as with him, England now expects every man to do his
duty.
And the expectation would be realized. The yew tree bows in the hands of English yeomen did good service at Cressy and Agincourt remember.
You will find their descendants do the same with the Enfield rifle, if ever needed. Yes—assail but the honour of England by word or deed, and the nation rises as one man, united in thought, will, and purpose. Oh, how our hearts would swell at the old battle cry of "Forward! for our native land!" With what dreadful cries of vengeance, plunging on the foe—pressing, crushing on—regardless of cannon's thunder, the clouds of fire and smoke! Tiger like—on, Rifles, on! strike for your flag and queen—the cry is irresistible—the enemy's quadrons are broken into a thousand fragments—our rifles dealing death and destruction on all around—steadily we advance, 'midst crush of artillery, plashing of infantry guns! Hurrah, they waver—fall back—throw down their arms—turn and fly! Hurrah ! pursue, pursue ! Baggage waggons, soldiers dying, horses running wild, the wounded without help, all fury, madness, and despair—trampled on, crushed, destroyed! Our bugles proclaim another victory for Britain's roll of fame—a laurel added to her wreath of imperishable renown.
Hurrah, hurrah! I'll join you, my lad.
'Listing, miss—same as you.
No, sir, I am the
Silence!
Oblige me by putting them through their facings, it will be a treat to an invalid.
With pleasure—we've half an hour to spare before parade.
I shall fall over this plaguy big drum,
Attention!
We seldom fail in hitting our man with our eyes.
Drum major! Discipline—attention !
Time flies, sir, we must prepare to march—duty calls.
One minute longer, show me the new style of firing, I never saw rifle practice.
If they let off their guns, I shall swoon. Hit a shilling! they might hit me on the crown.
We want a fugle, drum major, stand by that tree.
What, to be shooted at? Not for the universal globe—I couldn't miss.
Nonsense—
It's no use, miss, I can't—my heart's in my boots.
Make ready—present.
If you fire it will be manslaughter.
Our Jane a drum major !
Don't say a word about it, sir—I was led away by the music.
Not with the service, I hope.
In the
And these gentlemen are—
Rifle volunteers—lady friends of mine. Cousin James, kindly assisting me with the rifles, convincing a certain obstinate papa that ardour and patriotism consisted in the rising generation equal to the past.
Well, I begin to think it does, and am proud to acknowledge my error.
Your promise—once within two years.
And you lent your help to this masquerading, Mr. Somerton, I suppose, with Cousin James ?
He was in the thick of it, master—he told missus and them gals the nexumsise in the kitchen, but luckily they knowed it, having all been stoopidnumeries at our theatre in the Battle of the Alma.
And the band, sir—