"Yes," continued he, bursting into laughter, "such is the fact. You
have thought, perhaps, that you were the only man of fashion who had
ever been transformed into a Quaker; now you behold another, so no
longer imagine yourself the Phoenix of your tribe."
"I do certainly recollect that name," replied I; "but although, as you
must be acquainted with my history, it is very easy to conceive why I
have joined the society, yet upon what grounds you can have so done is
to me inexplicable."
"Newland, it certainly does require explanation: it has been, I assert,
my misfortune, and not my fault. Not that I am not happy. On the
contrary, I feel that I am now in my proper situation. I ought to have
been born of Quaker parents--at all events, I was born a Quaker in
disposition; but I will come to-morrow early, and then, if you will give
your man something to do out of the way, I will tell you my history. I
know that you will keep my secret."
The next morning he came, and as soon as we were alone he imparted to me
what follows.
"I recollect well, Newland, when you were one of the leaders of fashion,
I was then in the Dragoon Guards, and although not very intimate with
you, had the honour of a recognition when we met at parties. I cannot
help laughing, upon my soul, when I look at us both now; but never mind.
I was of course a great deal with my regiment, and at the club. My
father, as you may not perhaps be aware, was highly connected, and all
the family have been brought up in the army: the question of profession
has never been mooted by us; and every Talbot has turned out a soldier
as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. Well, I entered the
army, admired my uniform, and was admired by the young ladies. Before I
received my lieutenant's commission, my father, the old gentleman, died,
and left me a younger brother's fortune, of four hundred per annum; but,
as my uncle said, `It was quite enough for a Talbot, who would push
himself forward in his profession, as the Talbots had ever done before
him.' I soon found out that my income was not sufficient to enable me
to continue in the Guards, and my uncle was very anxious that I should
exchange into a regiment on service. I therefore, by purchase, obtained
a company in the 23rd, ordered out to reduce the French colonies in the
West Indies; and I sailed with all the expectation of covering myself
with as much glory as the Talbots had done from time immemorial. We
landed, and in a short time the bullets and grape were flying in all
directions, and then I discovered, what I declare never for a moment
came into my head before, to wit--that I had mistaken my profession."
"How do you mean, Talbot?"
"Mean! why, that I was deficient in a certain qualification, which never
was before denied to a Talbot--courage."
"And you never knew that before?"
"Never, upon my honour; my mind was always full of courage. In my
mind's eye I built castles of feats of bravery which should eclipse all
the Talbots, from him who burnt Joan of Arc down to the present day. I
assure you, that surprised as other people were, no one was more
surprised than myself. Our regiment was ordered to advance, and I led
on my company; the bullets flew like hail. I tried to go on, but I
could not; at last, notwithstanding all my endeavours to the contrary, I
fairly took to my heels. I was met by the commanding officer--in fact,
I ran right against him. He ordered me back, and I returned to my
regiment, not feeling at all afraid. Again I was in the fire, again I
resisted the impulse, but it was of no use; and at last, just before the
assault took place, I ran away as if the devil was after me. Wasn't it
odd?"
"Very odd, indeed," replied I, laughing.
"Yes, but you do not exactly understand why it was odd.--You know what
philosophers tell you about volition; and that the body is governed by
the mind, consequently obeys it; now, you see, in my case, it was
exactly reversed. I tell you, that it is a fact, that in mind I am as
brave as any man in existence; but I had a cowardly carcass, and what is
still worse, it proved the master of my mind, and ran away with it. I
had no mind to run away; on the contrary, I wished to have been of the
forlorn hope, and had volunteered, but was refused. Surely, if I had
not courage I should have avoided such a post of danger. Is it not so?"
"It certainly appears strange, that you should volunteer for the forlorn
hope, and then run away."
"That's just what I say. I have the soul of the Talbots, but a body
which don't belong to the family, and too powerful for the soul."
"So it appears. Well, go on."
"It was go off, instead of going on. I tried again that day to mount
the breach, and as the fire was over, I succeeded; but there was a mark
against me, and it was intimated that I should have an opportunity of
redeeming my character."
"Well?"
"There was a fort to be stormed the next day, and I requested to lead my
company in advance. Surely that was no proof of want of courage?
Permission was granted. We were warmly received, and I felt that my
legs refused to advance; so what did I do--I tied my sash round my
thigh, and telling the men that I was wounded, requested they would
carry me to the attack. Surely that was courage?"
"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 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 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.