Morning reflections--Mrs. Oldtimes proves herself to be a great
philosopher--the departure of the recruits to be sworn in.
And as I dreamed, methought what a strange paradox is human nature. How
often the night's convivialities are followed by despondent morning
reflections! In the evening we grow valiant over the inspiriting
converse and the inspiring glass; in the morning we are tame and
calculating. The artificial gaslight disappears, and the sober, grey
morning breaks in upon our reason. If the sunshine only ripened one-half
the good resolves and high purposes formed at night over the social
glass, what a harvest of good deeds there would be! Yes, and if the
evening dissipations did not obliterate the good resolves of the morning,
which we so often form as a protection against sin and sorrow, what happy
creatures we should be!
Methought I looked into a piece of three-cornered glass, which was
resting on a ledge of the old wall in the room where Joe was sleeping,
and that I read therein the innermost thoughts of this country lad. And
I saw that he awoke to a very dreadful sense of the realities of his new
position; that, one after another, visions of other days passed before
his mind's eye as he lay gazing at the dormer window of his narrow
chamber. What a profound stillness there was! How different from the
roystering glee of the previous night! It was a stillness that seemed to
whisper of home; of his poor old mother; of the green sward lane that led
to the old farm; of the old oak tree, where the owls lived, and ghosts
were said to take up their quarters; of the stile where, of a Sunday
morning, he used to smoke his pipe with Jack, and Ned, and Charley; where
he had often stood to see Polly go by to church; and he knew that,
notwithstanding she would not so much as look at him, he loved her down
to the very sole of her boot; and would stand and contemplate the print
of her foot after she had passed; he didn't know why, for there was
nothing in it, after all. No, Joe, nothing in it--it was in you; that
makes all the difference. And the voice whispered to him of sunny days
in the bright fields, when he held the plough, and the sly old rook would
come bobbing and pecking behind him; and the little field-mouse would
flit away from its turned up nest, frightened to death, as if it were
smitten with an earthquake; and the skylark would dart up over his head,
letting fall a song upon him, as though it were Heaven's blessing. Then
the voice spoke of the noontide meal under the hedge in the warm
sunshine, or in the shade of the cool spreading tree; of the horses
feeding close up alongside the hedge; of the going home in the evening,
and the warm fireside, and the rustic song, and of the thousand and one
beloved associations that he was leaving and casting behind him for ever.
But then, again, he thought of "bettering his condition," of getting on
in the world, of the smart figure he should look in the eyes of Polly,
who would be sure now to like him better than she liked the baker. He
never could see what there was in the baker that any girl should care
for; and he thought of what the Sergeant had said about asking his
mother's leave. And then he pondered on the beef steaks and onions and
mutton chops, and other glories of a soldier's life; so he got up with a
brave, resolute heart to face the world like a man, although it was
plainly visible that sorrow struggled in his eyes.
There was just one tear for old times, the one tear that showed how very
human Joe was beneath all the rough incrustations with which ignorance
and poverty had enveloped him.
As he was sousing his head and neck in a pail of cold water in the little
backyard of the Inn, the thought occurred to him,--
"I wonder whether or no we 'gins these 'ere mutton chops for brakfast
to-day or arter we're sweared in. I expects not till arter we're sweared
in."
Then his head went into the pail with a dash, as if that was part of the
swearing-in process. As it came out he was conscious of a twofold
sensation, which it may not be out of place to describe: the sensation
produced by the water, which was refreshing in the highest degree, and
the sensation produced by what is called wind, which was also deliciously
refreshing; and it was in this wise. Borne along upon the current of air
which passed through the kitchen, there was the most odoriferous savour
of fried bacon that the most luxurious appetite could enjoy. It was so
beautifully and voluptuously fragrant that Joe actually stopped while in
the act of soaping his face that he might enjoy it. No one, I think,
will deny that it must have been an agreeable odour that kept a man
waiting with his eyes fall of soap for half a minute.
"That beant amiss," thought Joe; "I wonder whether it be for I."
The problem was soon solved, for as he entered the kitchen with a face as
bright and ruddy almost as the sun when he comes up through a mist, he
saw the table was laid out for five, and all the other recruits had
already assembled. There was not one who did not look well up to his
resolution, and I must say a better looking lot of recruits were never
seen: they were tall, well made, healthy, good-looking fellows.
Now Mrs. Oldtimes was busy at the kitchen fire; the frying-pan was doing
its best to show what could be done for Her Majesty's recruits. He was
hissing bravely, and seemed every now and then to give a louder and
heartier welcome to the company. As Joe came in I believe it fairly gave
a shout of enthusiasm, a kind of hooray. In addition to the rashers that
were frying, there was a large dish heaped up in front of the fire, so
that it was quite clear there would be no lack, however hungry the
company might be.
Then they sat down and every one was helped. Mrs. Oldtimes was a woman
of the world; let me also state she had a deep insight into human nature.
She knew the feelings of her guests at this supreme moment, and how
cheaply they could be bought off at their present state of soldiering.
She was also aware that courage, fortitude, firmness, and the higher
qualities of the soul depend so much upon a contented stomach, that she
gave every one of her guests some nice gravy from the pan.
It was a treat to see them eat. The Boardman was terrific, so was Jack.
Harry seemed to have a little more on his mind than the others, but this
did not interfere with his appetite; it simply affected his manner of
appeasing it. He seemed to be in love, for his manner was somewhat
reserved. At length the Sergeant came in, looking so cheerful and
radiant that one could hardly see him and not wish to be a soldier. Then
his cheery "Well, lads; good morning, lads," was so home-like that you
almost fancied soldiering consisted in sitting by a blazing kitchen fire
on a frosty morning and eating fried bacon. What a spirit his presence
infused into the company! He detected at a glance the down-heartedness
of Harry, and began a story about his own enlistment years ago, when the
chances for a young man of education were nothing to what they are now.
The story seemed exactly to fit the circumstances of the case and cheered
Harry up wonderfully. Breakfast was nearly finished when the Sergeant,
after filling his pipe, said:
"Comrades, what do you say; shall I wait till you've quite finished?"
"No, no, Sergeant; no, no," said all.
Oh! the fragrance of that pipe! And the multiplied fragrance of all the
pipes! Then came smiling Miss Prettyface to see if their ribbons were
all right; and the longing look of all the recruits was quite an
affecting sight; and the genial motherly good-natured best wishes of Mrs.
Oldtimes were very welcome. All these things were pleasant, and proved
Mrs. Oldtimes' philosophy to be correct--if you want to develop the
higher virtues in a man, feed him.
Then came the word of command in the tone of an invitation to a pleasure
party: "Now, lads, what do you say?" And off went Harry, upright as if
he had been drilled; off went Bill, trying to shake off the deal boards
in which he had been sandwiched for a year and a half; off went Bob as
though he had found an agreeable occupation at last; off went Devilmecare
as though the war was only just the other side of the road; off went Jack
as though it mattered nothing to him whether it was the Army or the
Church; and, just as Mr. Bumpkin looked out of the parlour window, off
went his "head witness," swaggering along in imitation of the Sergeant,
with the colours streaming from his hat as though any honest employment
was better than hanging about London for a case to "come on."