I have often occasion to pass through a village on the St. Alban's road,
at one end of which there is so tidy and convenient a public-house, that
I always give my horse his bait there, if I happen to be travelling in
my gig. I had frequently observed an old soldier, who having lost an
eye, a leg, and an arm in the service of his country, had pretty well
earned the privilege of idling away the rest of his life in a manner
particularly congenial with the habits of one of his calling. He would
sit on a bench, outside the door of this inn, with a pipe in his mouth,
and a can of beer by his side; and thus he would pass all the fine
months of the year. In winter, he merely changed his seat. He was
constant to his pipe and his can; he took both with him to the warm
chimney-corner: and thus he enjoyed his out-pension. During the hour of
baiting, I have often talked with this old man. He had served last in
the early part of the war on the Peninsula. He was loquacious enough on
other subjects; but if one questioned him concerning these last military
services, he became on the instant morose and uncommunicative, and one
could not but perceive, that the topic was disagreeable and painful
to him.
What most interested me about this man was his love for young children.
He was generally surrounded by a parcel of curly-headed urchins; and
often have I seen the mistress of the little inn consign her infant to
the protection of his one arm, when, by an arrival, she has been called
upon to attend to the business of the house. The old fellow never
appeared so contented as when thus employed. His pipe was laid aside,
his beer forgotten, and he would only think of amusing and caressing his
charge, or of lulling it to sleep. The bigger children would cluster
round him, clamber over him, empty his pipe, upset his can, take all
sorts of liberties with him, yet never meet with a rebuke. At times,
however, he would appear lost in uneasy thought; gazing with earnestness
upon the features of the sleeping infant, while tears would course each
other down his cheeks.
As I drove one morning up to the door of the inn, and passed the bench
on which the old soldier was, as usual, sitting, with his little flock
of children playing round him, one of them, a very young one, suddenly
backed into the road, and in another moment more would have been
crushed: but the old man sprang forward; with a vigorous and wonderful
effort he seized the child with his only arm, and threw it several feet
out of the way of danger; he fell with the exertion, and was among my
horse's feet. In suddenly drawing up, I had unwittingly done my very
worst by the poor fellow; for I had caused the animal to trample upon
him a second time, and a wheel had likewise passed over his body.
He was taken up insensible. We carried him to a bed, and after a little
time he recovered his recollection. But he was so severely injured, that
we feared every moment would be his last.
The first words he uttered were, "The child! the child!" We assured him
that the child was safe; but he would not believe us, and it became
necessary to send into the village to search for the little creature,
who had been hurried home with the others upon the confusion that the
accident had occasioned. He continued to call for the child, and was in
the greatest distress of mind till we had found it, and had taken it to
him as he lay. His delight at seeing it alive and unhurt was intense; he
wept, he laughed, he hugged it to his bosom, and it was not till he grew
very faint and weary that he would suffer us to remove it.
A surgeon arrived; and pronounced that the poor man was so much hurt,
inwardly as well as outwardly, that nothing could be done to save him;
and desired us merely to give him cordials or cooling drink, as he
should appear to wish for either. He lingered for a few days.
I had been the cause, although innocently, of the poor fellow's death:
of course I took care that all was done that could alleviate his
sufferings; and, as long as he lasted, I went everyday to pass a few
hours by his bed-side. The rescued child, too, was brought to him each
day by his own desire. From the moment he had first ascertained that it
was unhurt, he had been calm and contented. He knew he was dying, but he
could part with life without regret; and the cloud which I had so often
observed upon his weather-beaten countenance before the accident never
after returned.
The day before he died, as I was watching alone by his side, he asked me
for a cordial. Soon after he had swallowed it, he laid his hand upon my
arm, and said,--"Sir, if you will not think it too great a trouble to
listen to an old man's talk, I think it will ease my mind to say a few
words to you."
He was of course encouraged to proceed.
"I die contented," he continued; "happier than I have for some years
lived. I have had a load upon my heart, which is not quite removed, but
it is a great deal lightened. I have been the means, under Providence,
of saving a young child's life. If I have strength to tell you what I
wish, sir, you will understand the joy that blessed thought has brought
to my heart."