Part 5

I have more than once had reason to admire the British soldier in battle, but never was there such good ground for admiration as in watching him prepare. All the blare and tumult, the death and disaster of actual conflict have no such tense, dramatic, nerve-trying moments as when a regiment is making ready for some great enterprise. The fight is a medley of mixed impressions, jostling each other for a moment's existence ere passing away, but the getting ready is unforgetable. Everything is clear-cut and within the sum of human emotions--eternal. So it was with that last grand charge of the Devons, which swept the Boers from their fringe of the little plateau and finished the long seventeen hours' ordeal. The enemy were on one side of the Table, we on the other. A tropical hailstorm howled across it, and beat heavily in our faces, as Colonel Park led his men up the sheltered face of the hill, and halted a moment within five yards of the crest, to make ready. The men knew exactly what they had to do, and the solemnity of a great and tragic undertaking was upon and about them. All the world for them--the too brief past with its consequences, the fast-flying present, and the mysterious beyond--might concentrate in a short desperate dash across a storm-swept African hilltop. It was the sublimity of life--the anticipation of death. The Devons were making ready for it, and how unready a man might feel at such a moment! The line of brown riflemen stretched away to the left of us, and it seemed that every trivial action of every man there had become an epic. One noticed most of all the constant moistening of the dry lips, and the frequent raising of the water-bottles for a last hurried mouthful. One man tightened a belt, another brought his cartridges handier to his right hand, though he was not to use them. It was something to ease the strain of watching. Every little thing fixed itself on the mind as a photograph. There was no need of mental effort to remember. One could not see and forget, and would not, for his patriotism and his pride of kinship, forget if he could. Then the low clinking, quivering sound of the steel which died away from us in a trickle down the ranks as the bayonets were fixed--and a dry, harsh, artificial laugh, in strong contrast to the quiet of the scene--everything heard easily somehow above the rush and clatter of the storm, and lost only for an instant in the sudden bursts of thunder. A bit of quiet tragedy wedged into the turmoil of the great play, and all unspeakably solemn and awe-inspiring. One must see to understand it. One may have seen yet can never describe it. The situation was not for ordinary language; it was Homeric, over-mastering.

"Now, then, Devons, get ready." There was a dry catch in the colonel's voice as he gave the word--and the short sentence was punctuated by the zip-zip of the Mauser bullets, that for a few precious seconds would still be flying overhead. There was a quick panting of the breath, a stiffening of the lines of the faces, that with so many of them was but the prelude to the rigidity of death. It was waiting for them only a few yards up, and their manhood was being sorely tried. But the Devons squared their shoulders, gripped their rifles--bringing them up with the quick whip of the drill, that was too well ground into them to be forgotten even then. A prompt dressing by the left, and, as though eager to get it over, the Devons sprang forward to the word into the double storm of hail and nickel-plated bullets. The killing suspense was over--they were in action at last, one's whole heart went with them, and just for one moment, as they stood fully exposed upon the plateau, it seemed to the watchers that there might be disaster. They had slightly miscalculated the enemy's strongest point, and had to wheel by the left. As they did so the line faltered for a moment. A shiver, a pendulum-like swaying seemed to run down it; that was the history-making moment, when the regiment might either do something that ever afterwards they would try to forget, or that all their countrymen would be proud to remember--the moment in men's lives which, measured by emotion only, stretch out into centuries. It was the moment of a life, too, for the commander of men. His chance had come.

"Steady, Devons, steady," came the clear ringing call, and then, with one great surging rush, that gathered momentum even as it lost in fallen units, the regiment went on.

Boldly though they had taken and held that hill, prudence came to the Boer riflemen as these eager bayonets bore down upon them. For a moment they shot the Devons through and through, and then they ran. At that moment not a man amongst our common-place, drinking, swearing Tommies but was exalted, deified--but so many of them were something less of interest on earth than even a common soldier. Where the regiment had gone seventy of its dead and wounded littered the hilltop, but still it was the moment of victory, not of lamentations. It may sound strange to say that the prelude to a battle, like the preface to a book, can be greater than the actual battle or the book. But so it seemed to me. Others might view it differently, but challenge our impressions as we may in the light of riper history, we shall never alter them. They are indelible. Overhaul the plates again and again as we please, it will always be the same picture.

DONALD MACDONALD ("How we Kept the Flag Flying").

_THE GAME OF LIFE._

There's a game much in fashion--I think it's called _Euchre_ (Though I never have played for pleasure or lucre), In which, when the cards are in certain conditions, The players appear to have changed their positions, And one of them cries in a confident tone, "I think I may venture to 'go it alone!'"

While watching the game, 'tis a whim of the bard's A moral to draw from that skirmish of cards, And to fancy he finds in the trivial strife Some excellent hints for the battle of Life; Where--whether the prize be a ribbon or throne-- The winner is he who can "go it alone!"

When great Galileo proclaimed that the world In a regular orbit was ceaselessly whirled, And got--not a convert--for all of his pains, But only derision and prison and chains, "It moves, _for all that!_" was his answering tone, For he knew, like the earth, he could "go it alone!" When Kepler, with intellect piercing afar, Discovered the laws of each planet and star, And doctors, who ought to have lauded his name, Derided his learning and blackened his fame, "I can wait," he replied, "till the truth you shall own;" For he felt in his heart he could "go it alone!"

Alas! for the player who idly depends, In the struggle of life, upon kindred or friends; Whatever the value of blessings like these, They can never atone for inglorious ease, Nor comfort the coward who finds, with a groan, That his clutches have left him to "go it alone!"

There's something, no doubt, in the hand you may hold: Wealth, family, culture, wit, beauty and gold, The fortunate owner may fairly regard As, each in its way, a most excellent card; Yet the game may be lost, with all these for your own, Unless you've the courage to "go it alone!"

In battle or business, whatever the game, In law or love, it is ever the same; In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf, Let this be your motto, "RELY ON YOURSELF!" For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne, The victor is he who can "go it alone!"

JOHN G. SAXE.

_PREJUDICE._

I was climbing up a mountain path, With many things to do, Important business of my own, And other people's too, When I ran against a Prejudice That quite cut off the view.

My work was such as could not wait, My path quite clearly showed; My strength and time were limited; I carried quite a load, And there that bulking Prejudice Sat all along the road.

So I spoke to him politely, For he was huge and high, And begged that he would move a bit, And let me travel by-- He smiled, but as for moving-- He didn't even try.

And then I reasoned quietly With that colossal mule; The time was short, no other path, The mountain winds were cool-- I argued like a Solomon, He sat there like a fool.

Then I flew into a passion, I danced and howled and swore; I pelted and belaboured him Till I was stiff and sore; He got as mad as I did-- But he sat there as before.

And then I begged him on my knees-- I might be kneeling still, If so I hoped to move that mass Of obdurate ill-will-- As well invite the monument To vacate Bunker's Hill!

So I sat before him helpless, In an ecstasy of woe-- The mountain mists were rising fast, The sun was sinking slow-- When a sudden inspiration came, As sudden winds do blow.

I took my hat, I took my stick, My load I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus, With an absent-minded air-- And I walked directly through him, As if he wasn't there!

CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON.

_THE POOR AND THE RICH._

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone and gold, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares. The bank may break, the factory burn, Some breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands would scarcely earn A living that would suit his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, Content that from enjoyment springs, A heart that in his labour sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it; A fellow feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

Oh! rich man's son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whitens, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state, There is worse weariness than thine-- In being merely rich and great; Work only makes the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last-- Both, children of the same dear God. Prove title to your heirship vast, By record of a well-filled past! A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_THE ENGINEER'S STORY._

(_From the "Denver Post."_)

Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story-- I would it could not be recalled. The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured night Is the cause of my head bein' bald. I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir, On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line. An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear, As the growth of a field pumpkin vine. My run was a night one, an' nights on the Yank War as black as the coal piled back there on the tank.

We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station, A day and almost a-half late, An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steel At a wildly extravagant rate. My fireman kept pilin' the coal in The jaws of the ol' 94, Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hose An' splashed 'round his feet on the floor, As we thundered along like a demon in flight, A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night.

As we rounded the curve on the mountain, Full sixty an hour I will swear, Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' fright Would have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair. The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin', The flames shootin' up in their glee; My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemed Like the fiery-tongued imps on a spree-- Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowed I'd make my next trip on a different road.

In frenzy I reached for the throttle, But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey. I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flight I felt that I never could stay. Then wildly I grasped the big lever, Threw her over, then held my hot breath, An' waited for what I assuredly thought Was a sure an' terrible death. Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yell Down into that great fiery chasm I fell.

When I came to myself I was lyin' On the floor of the bedroom; my wife Sat astride of my form, and was making it warm Fur her darlin', you bet your sweet life! My hair she had clutched in her fingers, An' was jammin' my head on the floor, Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my fright Was a horrible dream, nothin' more. I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said, An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed.

_SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING._

I saw her, as I fancied, fair, Yes, fairest of earth's creatures; I saw the purest red and white O'erspread her lovely features; She fainted, and I sprinkled her, Her malady relieving: I washed both rose and lily off! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I looked again, again I longed To breathe love's fond confession I saw her eyebrows formed to give Her face its arch expression; But gum is very apt to crack, And whilst my breast was heaving, It so fell out that one fell off! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the tresses on her brow So beautifully braided; I never saw in all my life Locks look so well as they did, She walked with me one windy day-- Ye zephyrs, why so thieving? The lady lost her flaxen wig! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her form, by Nature's hand So prodigally finished, She were less perfect if enlarged, Less perfect if diminished; Her toilet I surprised--the worst Of wonders then achieving; None knew the bustle I perceived! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw, when costly gems I gave, The smile with which she took them; And if she said no tender things, I've often seen her look them; I saw her my affianced bride, And then, my mansion leaving, She ran away with Colonel Jones! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw another maiden soon, And struggled to detain her; I saw her plain enough--in fact, Few women could be plainer; 'Twas said, that at her father's death A plum she'd be receiving: I saw that father's house and grounds! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her mother--she was deck'd With furbelows and feathers; I saw distinctly that she wore Silk stockings in all weathers; I saw, beneath a load of gems. The matron's bosom heaving; I saw a thousand signs of wealth! Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her father, and I spoke Of marriage in his study; But would he let her marry me Alas! alas! how could he? I saw him smile a glad consent, My anxious heart relieving, And then I saw the settlements Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the daughter, and I named My moderate finances; She spurned me not, she gave me one Of her most tender glances. I saw her father's bank--thought I, There cash is safe from thieving; I saw my money safely lodged: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the bank, the shutters up, I could not think what they meant, The old infirmity of firms, The bank had just stopped payment! I saw my future father then Was ruined past retrieving, Like me, without a single _sou_: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the banker's wife had got The fortune settled on her; What cared he, when the creditors Talked loudly of dishonour! I saw his name in the _Gazette_, But soon I stared, perceiving, He bought another house and grounds: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw--yes, as plain as could be, I saw the banker's daughter; She saw me, too, and called for sal Volatile and water. She said that she had just espoused A rich old man, conceiving That I was dead or gone to gaol: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw a friend, and freely spoke My mind on the transaction; Her brother heard it, and he called, Demanding satisfaction. We met--I fell--that brother's ball In my left leg receiving; I have two legs, true--_one is cork_: Oh! seeing's not believing!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

_CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON._

Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think--and an end of all confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still--not that I care much about it--still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion--not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason--when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason; not at all, Caudle; I daresay it's a very good thing; I daresay it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me--you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE._

There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt--what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons--and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?--Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything. All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I daresay you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_JIM BLUDSO._

Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the "Prairie Belle"?

He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike. A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never pinked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how.