The Monastery | Page 9

devotions of a first love, because it is the only study I
ever cared a farthing for.
You shall have my history, sir, (it will not reach to three volumes,)
before that of my manuscript; and as you usually throw out a few lines
of verse (by way of skirmishers, I suppose) at the head of each division
of prose, I have had the luck to light upon a stanza in the schoolmaster's
copy of Burns which describes me exactly. I love it the better, because
it was originally designed for Captain Grose, an excellent antiquary,
though, like yourself, somewhat too apt to treat with levity his own
pursuits:
'Tis said he was a soldier bred, And ane wad rather fa'en than fled; But
now he's quit the spurtle blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en
the--antiquarian trade, I think, they call it.
I never could conceive what influenced me, when a boy, in the choice
of a profession. Military zeal and ardour it was not, which made me
stand out for a commission in the Scots Fusiliers, when my tutors and
curators wished to bind me apprentice to old David Stiles, Clerk to his
Majesty's Signet. I say, military zeal it was _not_; for I was no fighting
boy in my own person, and cared not a penny to read the history of the
heroes who turned the world upside down in former ages. As for
courage, I had, as I have since discovered, just as much of it as serve'd
my turn, and not one frain of surplus. I soon found out, indeed, that in
action there was more anger in running away than in standing fast; and
besides, I could not afford to lose my commission, which was my chief
means of support. But, as for that overboiling valour, which I have
heard many of ours talk of, though I seldom observed that it influenced
them in the actual affair---that exuberant zeal, which courts Danger as a
bride,--truly my courage was of a complexion much less ecstatical.
Again, the love of a red coat, which, in default of all other aptitudes to
the profession, has made many a bad soldier and some good ones, was
an utter stranger to my disposition. I cared not a "bodle" for the

company of the misses: Nay, though there was a boarding-school in the
village, and though we used to meet with its fair inmates at Simon
Lightfoot's weekly Practising, I cannot recollect any strong emotions
being excited on these occasions, excepting the infinite regret with
which I went through the polite ceremonial of presenting my partner
with an orange, thrust into my pocket by my aunt for this special
purpose, but which, had I dared, I certainly would have secreted for my
own personal use. As for vanity, or love of finery for itself, I was such
a stranger to it, that the difficulty was great to make me brush my coat,
and appear in proper trim upon parade. I shall never forget the rebuke
of my old Colonel on a morning when the King reviewed a brigade of
which ours made part. "I am no friend to extravagance, Ensign
Clutterbuck," said he; "but, on the day when we are to pass before the
Sovereign of the kingdom, in the name of God I would have at least
shown him an inch of clean linen."
Thus, a stranger to the ordinary motives which lead young men to make
the army their choice, and without the least desire to become either a
hero or a dandy, I really do not know what determined my thoughts that
way, unless it were the happy state of half-pay indolence enjoyed by
Captain Doolittle, who had set up his staff of rest in my native village.
Every other person had, or seemed to have, something to do, less or
more. They did not, indeed, precisely go to school and learn tasks, that
last of evils in my estimation; but it did not escape my boyish
observation, that they were all bothered with something or other like
duty or labour--all but the happy Captain Doolittle. The minister had
his parish to visit, and his preaching to prepare, though perhaps he
made more fuss than he needed about both. The laird had his farming
and improving operations to superintend; and, besides, he had to attend
trustee meetings, and lieutenancy meetings, and head-courts, and
meetings of justices, and what not--was as early up, (that I detested,)
and as much in the open air, wet and dry, as his own grieve. The
shopkeeper (the village boasted but one of eminence) stood indeed
pretty much at his ease behind his counter, for his custom was by no
means overburdensome; but still he enjoyed his _status_, as the Bailie
calls it, upon condition