And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell?
What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,--why crown the cup with
wine?
It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine,--
A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed:
The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer?
What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?
What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear,
That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?
They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal,--
The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see
again,--
For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and
glen--
For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!
Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood
Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood:
And, though the legend does not live,--for legends lightly die--
The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by,
And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot
Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and
dangerous ford
The Passage of the Scot.
* * * * *
_Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies._
LORD HOUGHTON.--1809-1885.
LXV. THE GAMBLING PARTY.
EARL OF BEACONSFIELD.--1805-1881.
_From_ THE YOUNG DUKE.
The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for
to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and
Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The
dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet
everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual
silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone
observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely
presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and
dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particular
care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this,
as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked
consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never
addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, "Take this
to the Duke"; or asking the attendant, "whether his Grace would try the
Hermitage?"
After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding
some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to
_ecarte_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed
a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a
pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their
universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive.
Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron's
elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All
this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.
Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say, so
long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for at
present his resources were unimpared, and he was exhausted by the
constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the
delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some
cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron,
to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring
great trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to
serve him. Our hero devoured: we use the word advisedly, as fools say in
the House of Commons: he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the
Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter.
They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so
complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with
his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened.
The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace
owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the
tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but
slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the
used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the
candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a
tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened.
The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He
pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten o'clock,
owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and everyone,
perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets
and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were
opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.
They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Duke
made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were,
nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all
depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his
resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten
thousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; then
thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of
limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.
At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began
to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating,
he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery,
and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is
nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded
feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no
charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.
On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He
floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the
slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he
acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this
insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were,
that his losses were prodigious.
Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No
attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing
the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such
a Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of
everything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a
man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of
the town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless,
watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which
showed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow-beings.
All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box
handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation
of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the
all-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table:
a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time,
would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks
had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off
his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks,
straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by
lightning; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyena's. The Baron
was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand,
was as quiet as a bribed rat.
On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to
desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord
Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they
were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts.
He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.
Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us
say, at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own
ruin. As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first
time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he
had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have
fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had
pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were
the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been
the exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes
even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his
brow this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped
with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange
unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible?
it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those
unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if
he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonored his ancestry, as
if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of
his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light
appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if
it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre,
he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and
luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made this
appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom
would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for
the breath of the sweet air.
He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more.
There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done.
Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him
to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he
would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated
himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts,
Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, in
the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time
recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was
cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the
Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.
The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any
evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated,
"Pay us when we meet again," he said, "I think it very improbable that
we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had
heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a
young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion."
He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed,
and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the
torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His hands and feet
were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernatural
roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed.
In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he had recourse to
every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from
his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful
society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace; each hour he
heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal
to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length,
morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer
in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw
himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept.
LXVI. THE PICKWICKIANS DISPORT THEMSELVES ON ICE.[O]
CHARLES DICKENS.--1812-1870.
_From_ THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB.
"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had been done ample
justice to; "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty
of time."
"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out of
practice."
"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."
"Oh, it is _so_ graceful," said another young lady.
A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her
opinion that it was "swan-like."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I
have no skates."
This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and
the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs:
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy
and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had
fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described
circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon
the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant
and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick,
Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch of positive
enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they
called a reel.
All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,
had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his
skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,
who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,
with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly
screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and
show 'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching
hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it
is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up,
sir!"
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration
Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in
the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
"I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself.
"Now, sir, start off!"
"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately
to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't
want, Sam. You may have them, Sam."
"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You
needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five
shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this
afternoon, Sam."
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's
right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not
too fast."
Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like
manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite
bank:
"Sam!"
"Sir?"
"Here. I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Let
go, sir."
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonized Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable
impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of
dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman
bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when
Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.
Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell
heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his
feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in
skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile;
but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great
eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not."
"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and
said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off."
"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in
silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and
beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him,
and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these
remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined
his friends.
While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just
recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors
cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very
masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying
that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated
"knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over
the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's knock upon it
with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the
motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could
not help envying.
"It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle,
when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the
indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of
compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.
"Ah, it does indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"
"I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied
Mr. Pickwick.
"Try it now," said Wardle.
"Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies.
"I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr.
Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years."
"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the
impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here; I'll keep
you company; come along!" And away went the good tempered old fellow
down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,
and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in
his hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at
last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with
his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts
of all the spectators.
"Keep the pot a bilin', sir!" said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and
then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob
Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely
upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much
eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their
expedition.
It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in
which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the
torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon
him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually
expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round
on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;
to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had
accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round
when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor: his black gaiters
tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness
and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which
happened upon the average every third round), it was the most
invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather
up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and
resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and enthusiasm that
nothing could abate.
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the
laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There
was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a
shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water
bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were
floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody
could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned
pale, and the females fainted, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped
each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had
gone down, with frenzied eagerness: while Mr. Tupman, by way of
rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to
any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of
the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed,
screaming "Fire!" with all his might.
It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching
the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a
hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding
the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional
practice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders,
emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and
spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
"Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!" bawled Mr.
Snodgrass.
"Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!" roared Mr. Winkle, deeply
affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being,
that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's
sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for
his own.
"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle.
"Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head
and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get
on my feet at first."
The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore
testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the
spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly
recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,
prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity
of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length
fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on
dry land.
"Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily.
"Dear old thing!" said Arabella. "Let me wrap this shawl round you,
Mr. Pickwick."
"Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said Wardle; "and when you've
got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into
bed directly."