Punch (7.1844)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

75

unutterable. Yes, sir—to know that in such an hour we are lessen-
o r--rr- CTTrn \fj niyD : lne anguish of a fellow-creature must for a time elevate us

PUNCH'S COMPLETE. LEI ltK-WKIlLK. beyond the common impulses of poor humanity.

- Anxiously awaiting your reply—and »vitn it, as I fondly believe,

LETTER XIII. | your consent—

I remain, your affectionate ward,

Arthur Baytwig.

from a young gentleman, desirous of entering the army,

to his guardian.

P. S. Do not think, my dear sir, that the opinions of a certain
young lady, who has always declared she would marry no one but
a soldier, have had the least influence upon my determination.
No3 sir ; not the least, I assure you.

LETTER XIV.

answer of the guardian to the young gentleman.

My Deaj Arthur,

I thou&ht more highly of your discrimination. I believed
that you knew me better than to make so foolish a proposition.
My opinions on war and its instruments are, I know, not the opinions
of the -world ; it would save the world—I am vain enough to think—
much guilt, much misery, if they were so.

You, doubtless, believe your letter the result of an honest en-
thusiasm ; and yet, to my fancy it is nothing more than the folly
of a boy, who, unconscious of his prompter, writes with a fiend
My dear Sir, dictating at his elbow. Yes, my boy, a fiend ; he is too often

In our last conversation, you more than hinted at the
necessity of my making choice of a profession. I have again and
again considered the important subject, and am at length resolved.
Yes ; I have made my election—I will become a soldier. I have
looked about me, I trust dispassionately ; I have weighed and
counterweighed all other things with the sword, and found them as
nothing to the glorifying steel. Do not believe, sir, that lam biassed
in my judgment by the outward show and ceremonious parade of
military life ; no, sir, although I can well believe that they have a
false influence on the youthful mind, I nevertheless trust that I have
too well benefited by your philosophy to confound the noble profes-
sion of arms with its holiday blazonry—its review-day splendour.
The mere human clod may turn from the plough, beckoned by the
fluttering ribands of the recruiting-sergeant—the clown's heart may,
to his astonishment, beat to the beating sheepskin, and so beguile
him into the ranks—but, sir, I trust that education has taught me a
truer valuation of things, enabling me to consider the profession of a
soldier in its abstract glory, in its naked loveliness. I look only
at the wreath of (Lesar, and care not for the outward splendour
of his legions.

Oh, sir, when Lread the career of conquerors, I have a strange
belief that I was born to be a soldier ! I feel such a sympathising
throb of heart at the achievements of an Alexander, that
all other pursuits, save that of arms, seem to me poor, frivolous,
and unworthy of the highest dignity of human nature. To me, sol-
diers appear the true lords of the earth; and other men, however
rich, but as mere greasy serfs—creatures with their souls dwelling
darkly in money-bags. The game of war is a pastime for gods, and
man is sublimated by its exercise. And then death—death in the
bed of glory—with a whole country weeping over our ashes ! is not
that a prospect, sir, to quicken the blood of youth, and intoxicate
the brain with the sweetest, the noblest draughts of ambition ? And
then, sir, the laurel, flourishing in everlasting green, and circling our
memory for ever !

Nevertheless, should you wish me to delay the purchase of a com-
mission for a few months, I trust you will permit me to visit Germany
this autumn to witness the reviews. It is said that the troops ex-
pected to assemble will be the flower of the world. I know not, too,
how many thousands. "What a sublime spectacle ! In their different
uniforms—with their banners, their artillery, and their leaders—
many of them with the history of the last wars cut in scars upon
their bodies ! I do not think the world can show a nobler sight. So
superhuman in its power—so awful in its beauty !

And now, sir, having freely communicated to you my desire to en-
ter the army, permit me to assure you that I shall devote my entire
soul to the study of my duties as a soldier. They have I know their
severity : but have they not also their rewarding sweetness f Yes,
sir, for how delicious must it be—the heat and fury of the battle
over—to solace the wounded, to protect the helpless ! In those
moments the noblest emotions of our common nature must be

busy among us—one of the vilest and most mischievous demons
of all the brood of wickedness. To be sure, he visits men not in
his own name—oh no ! he comes to them in the finest clothes
and under the prettiest alias. He is clothed in gay colours—
has yards of gold trimming about him—a fine feather in his cap
—silken flags fluttering over him—music at his heels—and his
lying, swindling name is—Glory. Strip the thing so called, and
how often will you find the abhorred nakedness of a demon. Be
assured of it, fife and drum make the devil's choicest music. He
blows and beats—for, being a devil, he can do this at the same time
—and makes the destructive passions of men twist and wriggle in
the hearts of even peaceful folk, and with the magic of his tattoo
drives them on to mischief. You know, people say I have strange,
violent thoughts. Well! I think every sheep whose skin is turned
into drum-parchment, has been sacrificed not to the gods but devils.

You tell me that you are smitten with glory in the abstract—with
its naked honour. Pooh ! like a poor-souled footman, you are
content to take the blows for the fineness of the livery.

You say, that when you read the history of conquerors, you yearn
to become a soldier. Well, I dispute it not ; there have been men
made soldiers by tyranny and wrong, whose memories may, like
the eternal stars, shine down upon us ; these men may be envied.
But I, too, have read the lives of conquerors; and, as I live, they
no more tempted me to emulate them, than the reading of the
Newgate Calendar would make me yearn to turn foot-pad or
house-breaker.

At best, soldiers are the evils of the earth. The children of human
wrong, and human weakness. Understand me, I would not have
men ground arms, and, with quaker-like submission, cry " frieud " to
the invader. Nevertheless, do not let us prank up a dire necessity
with all sorts of false ornament, and glorify wholesale homicide. You
say war is the pastime of gods. Hosier tells us as much. And pretty
gods they were who played at the sport! In my time, I have known
many men who, for very humbly imitating them in some of their
amusements, have died on the gallows or withered on board the
hulks. I trust the time will come when it will bring as great shame
to men to mimic Mars, as it now deals upon the other sex to imitate
Venus.

You talk glibly enough of the bed of glory. What is it] A battle-field,
with thousands blaspheming in agony about you ? Your last moments
sweetened, it may be, with the thought that somewhere on the field
lies a bleeding piece of your handiwork—a poor wretch in the death
grasp of torture I Truly, that is a bed of greater glory which is
surrounded by loving hearts—by hands uplifted in deep, yet cheerful
prayer. There are thoughts, too—it is my belief—better, sweeter far
than thoughts of recent slaying, to help the struggling soul from out
its tenement.

You talk, too, of the nation's tears 1 In what museum does the
nation keep her pocket-handkerchiefs ? Depend upon it, nations that
love to fight, are not the nations that love to weep. I grant it; many

awakened; they must repay the warrior for toil} privation^ suffering j a Huej simple fellow^ lias died in tlie belief of being wept over by bis