In the Track of the Troops by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

was over—after the “Congress” had closed its labours, and my friend had settled—if such a term could be applied to one who never settled—near London. Nicholas and I were sitting in a bower at the end of our garden, conversing on the war which had been happily brought to a close. Bella and my mother were seated opposite to us, the latter knitting a piece of worsted-work, the size of whose stitches and needles was suited to the weakness of her eyes, and the former busy with a pencil sketch of the superb view of undulating woodland which stretched away for miles in front of our house.

“No doubt it is as you state, Jeff,” said Nicholas, in reply to my last remark; “war is a miserable method of settling a dispute, quite unworthy of civilised, to say nothing of Christian, men; but, then, how are we to get along without it? It’s of no use saying that an evil must be put down—put a stop to—until you are able to show how it is to be stopped.”

“That does not follow,” said I, quickly; “it may be quite possible for me to see, point out, and condemn an evil although I cannot suggest a remedy and my earnest remonstrances regarding it may be useful in the way of helping to raise a general outcry of condemnation, which may have the effect of turning more capable minds than my own to the devising of a remedy. Sea-sickness is a horrible malady; I perceive it, I know it to be so. I loudly draw attention to the fact; I won’t be silenced. Hundreds, thousands, of other miserables take heart and join me. We can’t stand it! we shan’t! is the general cry. The attention of an able engineer is attracted by the noise we make, and the Calais-Douvre steamboat springs into being, a vessel which is supposed to render sea-sickness an impossibility. Whether it accomplishes this end or not is beside the question. The point is, that, by the vigorous use of our tongues and pens in condemnation of an admitted evil, we have drawn forth a vigorous attempt to get the better of it.”

“But you don’t expect to do away with war altogether?” said Nicholas.

“Certainly not; I am not mad, I am only hopeful. As long as sin reigns in this world we shall have more or less of war, and I don’t expect universal peace until the Prince of Peace reigns. Nevertheless, it is my duty to ‘seek peace,’ and in every way to promote it.”

“Come, now, let us have this matter out,” said Nicholas, lighting a cigar.

“You are as fond of argument as a Scotsman, Nic,” murmured Bella, putting a powerful touch in the foreground of her sketch.

“Suppose, now,” continued Nicholas, “that you had the power to influence nations, what would you suggest instead of war?”

“Arbitration,” said I, promptly; “I would have the nations of Europe to band together and agree never to fight but always to appeal to reason, in the settlement of disputes. I would have them reduce standing armies to the condition of peace establishments—that is, just enough to garrison our strongholds, and be ready to back up our police in keeping ruffians in order. This small army would form a nucleus round which the young men of the nation would rally in the event of unavoidable war.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Nicholas, with a smile of sarcasm, “you would then have us all disarm, beat our swords into reaping-hooks, and melt our bayonets and cannon into pots and pans. A charming idea! Now, suppose there was one of the nations—say Russia or Turkey—that declined to join this peaceful alliance, and, when she saw England in her disarmed condition, took it into her head to pay off old scores, and sent ironclads and thousands of well-trained and well-appointed troops to invade you, what would you do?”

“Defend myself,” said I.

“What! with your peace-nucleus, surrounded by your rabble of untrained young men?”

“Nicholas,” said my mother, in a mild voice, pausing in her work, “you may be as fond of argument as a Scotsman, but you are not quite as fair. You have put into Jeff’s mouth sentiments which he did not express, and made assumptions which his words do not warrant. He made no reference to swords, reaping-hooks, bayonets, cannon, pots or pans, and did not recommend that the young men of nations should remain untrained.”

“Bravo! mother; thank you,” said I, as the dear old creature dropped her mild eyes once more on her work; “you have done me nothing but justice. There is one point, however, on which I and those who are opposed to me coincide exactly; it is this, that the best way to maintain peace is to make yourself thoroughly capable and ready for war.”

“With your peculiar views, that would be rather difficult, I should fancy,” said Nicholas, with a puzzled look.

“You fancy so, because you misunderstand my views,” said I; “besides, I have not yet fully explained them—but here comes one who will explain them better than I can do myself.”

As I spoke a man was seen to approach, with a smart free-and-easy air.

“It is my friend U. Biquitous,” said I, rising and hastening to meet him.

“Ah, Jeff, my boy, glad I’ve found you all together,” cried my friend, wringing my hand and raising his hat to the ladies. “Just come over to say good-bye. I’m engaged again on the Evergreen Isle—same salary and privileges as before—freer scope, if possible, than ever.”

“And where are you going to, Mr Biquitous?” asked my mother.

“To Cyprus, madam,—the land of the—of the—the something or other; not got coached up yet, but you shall have it all in extenso ere long in the Evergreen, with sketches of the scenery and natives. I’ll order a copy to be sent you.”

“Very kind, thank you,” said my mother; “you are fond of travelling, I think?”

“Fond of it!” exclaimed my friend; “yes, but that feebly expresses my sentiments,—I revel in travelling, I am mad about it. To roam over the world, by land and sea, gathering information, recording it, collating it, extending it, condensing it, and publishing it, for the benefit of the readers of the Evergreen Isle, is my chief terrestrial joy.”

“Why, Mr Biquitous,” said Bella, looking up from her drawing, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, “I thought you were a married man.”

“Ah! Mrs Naranovitsch, I understand your reproofs; but that, madam, I call a celestial joy. Looking into my wife’s blue eyes is what I call star-gazing, and that is a celestial, not a terrestrial, occupation. Next to making the stars twinkle, I take pleasure in travelling—flying through space,—

“Crashing on the railroads,

    Skimming on the seas,

Bounding on the mountain-tops,

    Battling with the breeze.

Roaming through the forest,

    Scampering on the plain,

Never stopping, always going,

    Round and round again.”

“How very beautiful,—so poetical!” said Bella.

“So suggestively peaceful,” murmured Nicholas.

“Your own composition?” asked my mother.

“A mere morceau,” replied my friend, modestly, “tossed off to fill up a gap in the Evergreen.”

“You should write poetry,” said I.

“Think so? Well, I’ve had some notion at times, of trying my hand at an ode, or an epic, but, man, I find too many difficulties in the way. As to ‘feet,’ now, I can’t manage feet in poetry. If it were inches or yards, one might get along, but feet are neither one thing nor another. Then, rhyme bothers me. I’ve often to run over every letter in the alphabet to get hold of a rhyme—click, thick, pick, rick, chick, brick—that sort of thing, you know. Sentiment, too, is very troublesome. Either I put too much or too little sentiment into my verses; sometimes they are all sentiment together; not unfrequently they have none at all; or the sentiment is false, which spoils them, you know. Yes, much though I should like to be a poet, I must content myself with prose. Just fancy, now, my attempting a poem on Cyprus! What rhymes with Cyprus? Fyprus, gyprus, highprus, kyprus, lyprus, tryprus, and so on to the end. It’s all the same; nothing will do. No doubt Hook would have managed it; Theodore could do anything in that way, but I can’t.”

“Most unfortunate! But for these difficulties you might have been a second Milton. You leave your wife behind, I suppose,” said Bella, completing her sketch and shutting the book.

“What!” exclaimed my volatile friend, becoming suddenly grave, “leave Blue-eyes behind me! leave the mitigator of my woes, the doubler of my joys, the light of my life behind me! No, Mrs Naranovitsch, Blue-eyes is necessary to my existence; she inspires my pen and corrects my spelling; she lifts my soul, when required, above the petty cares of life, and enables me to take flights of genius, which, without her, were impossible, and you know that flights of genius are required, occasionally, of the correspondent of a weekly—at least of an Irish weekly. Yes, Blue-eyes goes with me. We shall levant together.”

“Are bad puns allowed in the Evergreen?” I asked.

“Not unless excessively bad,” returned my friend; “they won’t tolerate anything lukewarm.”

“Well, now, Biquitous,” said I, “sit down and give Nicholas, who is hard to convince, your opinion as to the mode in which this and other countries ought to prepare for self-defence.”

“In earnest, do you mean?”

“In earnest,” said I.

“Well, then,” said my friend, “if I were in power I would make every man in Great Britain a trained soldier.”

“Humph!” said Nicholas, “that has been tried by other nations without giving satisfaction.”

“But,” continued U. Biquitous, impressively, “I would do so without taking a single man away from his home, or interfering with his duties as a civilian. I would have all the males of the land trained to arms in boyhood—during school-days—at that period of life when boys are best fitted to receive such instruction, when they would ‘go in’ for military drill, as they now go in for foot-ball, cricket, or gymnastics—at that period when they have a good deal of leisure time, when they would regard the thing more as play than work—when their memories are strong and powerfully retentive, and when the principles and practice of military drill would be as thoroughly implanted in them as the power to swim or skate, so that, once acquired, they’d never quite lose it. I speak from experience, for I learned to skate and swim when a boy, and I feel that nothing—no amount of disuse—can ever rob me of these attainments. Still further, in early manhood I joined the great volunteer movement, and, though I have now been out of the force for many years, I know that I could ‘fall in’ and behave tolerably well at a moment’s notice, while a week’s drill would brush me up into as good a soldier as I ever was or am likely to be. Remember, I speak only of rank and file, and the power to carry arms and use them intelligently. I would compel boys to undergo this training, but would make it easy, on doctor’s certificate, or otherwise, for anxious parents to get off the duty, feeling assured that the fraction of trained men thus lost to the nation would be quite insignificant. Afterwards, a few days of drill each year would keep men well up to the mark; and even in regard to this brushing-up drill I would make things very easy, and would readily accept every reasonable excuse for absence, in the firm belief that the willing men would be amply sufficient to maintain our ‘reserve force.’ As to the volunteers, I would encourage them as heretofore, and give them more honour and privileges than they possess at present. Thus would an army be ever ready to spring into being at a day’s notice, and be thoroughly capable of defending hearths and homes in a few weeks.

“For our colonies and our authority at home, I would have a very small, well-paid, and thoroughly efficient standing army, which would form a perfect model in military matters, and a splendid skeleton on which the muscle and