Sword and Gown | Page 4

stern old lady told her once
that such condonation of offenses was unprincipled and immoral. It
may be so, but I can not think the example is likely to be dangerously
contagious. Whatever happens, there will always remain a sufficiency
of matronly Dicæarchs, over whose judgment-seats the legend is very

plainly inscribed, Nescia flecti.
These Ember days formed the only exceptions to the remarkably easy
way in which Molyneux took every thing; there seemed to be no rough
places about his disposition for trouble or care to take hold of. Hunting
four days a week through the winter; six weeks in town during the
season, with incidentals of Epsom, Goodwood, saumon à la Trafalgar,
bouquets, and opera-stalls; living all the rest of the year at a mess
curious as to the quality of its dry Champagne--these simple pleasures
involve a certain expenditure hardly "fairly warranted by our
regimental rate of pay." To accomplish all this on about £500 a year,
and yet to steer clear of ruin, is an ingenious process doubtless, but a
sum not to be wrought out (most soldiers will tell you) without some
anxiety and travail of mind. Now, in the very tightest state of the
money-market, Harry was never known to disquiet himself in vain. He
would not borrow from any of his comrades, refusing all such proffers
of assistance gratefully but consistently. No Mussulman ever equaled
his contented reliance on the resources of futurity, and his implicit
belief in the same. He would anchor his hopes on some such
improbability as "a long shot coming off," or "his Aunt Agnes coming
down" (a proverbially awful widow, who had forgiven him seven times
already; and, after each fresh offense, had sworn unrelenting enmity to
him and his heirs forever). Strong in this faith, he met condoling friends
with a pleasant, reassuring smile: with the same demeanor he
confronted threatening creditors. He used no arts, and condescended to
no subterfuge in dealing with these last; but, as one of them observed,
retreating from the barracks moneyless but gratified, "Mr. Molyneux
seems to feel for one, at all events." So he did. He sympathized with his
tailor, not in the least because he owed him money, but because he was
a fellow-creature in difficulties, regretting heartily it was not in his own
power to relieve them; just as a very charitable but improvident person
might feel on reading a case of real distress in the Times. Strange to say,
hitherto he had always pulled through. Either the outsider did win, or
the aunt, touched in the soft place of her heart through her ruffled
feathers, was brought down by a "wild shot," when considered quite out
of distance, and "parted" freely.

The last and hardest trial of all--long debility and frequent illness--had
failed to shake this intense serenity. He was never cross or
unreasonable, and tried to give as little trouble as possible; but was
grateful to a degree for every thing that was done for him: he could
even manage to thank people for their advice, whether he took it not.
So far as one could make out, he was nearly as much interested in the
state of his own health, as one would be about that of any pleasant
casual acquaintance.
It must be confessed, that poor Harry and his like are by no means
strong-minded, or large-brained, or persevering men; they seldom or
never rise to eminence, and rarely have greatness thrust upon them.
They do not often volunteer to lead the vanguard of any great
movement, shouting out on the slightest provocation the war-cry of
"life is earnest;" for they are the natural subalterns of the world's
mighty battalia, and could hardly manoeuvre one of its companies,
without hopelessly entangling it, and exposing themselves: indeed, if
they are useful at all in their generation, it is in a singularly modest and
unobtrusive way. Yet there is an attraction about them, a power of
attachment, that the great and wise ones of the earth have appreciated
and envied, ere now. It is curious, too, to see what an apparent
contradiction to themselves the extremes of the class--those who
exaggerate nonchalance into insensibility, and softness into
effeminacy--have shown, when brought face to face with imminent
peril or certain destruction. France held few more terrible ferrailleurs
than the curled painted minions of her third Henry: the sun never
looked down on a more desperate duel than that in which Quélus,
Schomberg, and Maugiron did their devoir manfully to the last. Nay,
though he came delicately to his doom, the King of Amalek met it, I
fancy, gallantly and gracefully enough, when once he read his sentence
in the eyes of the pitiless Seer, who ordained that he "should be hewn
in pieces before the Lord in Gilgal."
R.