so filled
with the consciousness of immortality, and so strong in the link
between God and man, that, without any affected stoicism, without
being insensible to pain,--rather, perhaps, from a nervous temperament,
acutely feeling it,--he yet has a happiness wholly independent of it. It
is impossible not to be thrilled with an admiration that elevates while
it awes you, in reading that solemn 'Dedication of himself to God.' This
offering of 'soul and body, time, health, reputation, talents,' to the
divine and invisible Principle of Good, calls us suddenly to contemplate
the selfishness of our own views and hopes, and awakens us from the
egotism that exacts all and resigns nothing.

"But this book has mostly struck upon the chord in my own heart in that
characteristic which my father indicated as belonging to all biography.
Here is a life of remarkable fulness, great study, great thought, and
great action; and yet," said I, coloring, "how small a place those
feelings which have tyrannized over me and made all else seem blank and
void, hold in that life! It is not as if the man were a cold and hard
ascetic it is easy to see in him, not only remarkable tenderness and
warm affections, but strong self-will, and the passion of all vigorous
natures. Yes; I understand better now what existence in a true man
should be."

"All that is very well said," quoth the Captain, "but it did not strike
me. What I have seen in this book is courage. Here is a poor creature
rolling on the carpet with agony; from childhood to death tortured by a
mysterious incurable malady,--a malady that is described as 'an internal
apparatus of torture;' and who does, by his heroism, more than bear
it,--he puts it out of power to affect him; and though (here is the
passage) 'his appointment by day and by night was incessant pain, yet
high enjoyment was, notwithstanding, the law of his existence.' Robert
Hall reads me a lesson,--me, an old soldier, who thought myself above
taking lessons,--in courage, at least. And as I came to that passage
when, in the sharp paroxysms before death, he says, 'I have not
complained, have I, sir? And I won't complain!'--when I came to that
passage I started up and cried, 'Roland de Caxton, thou hast been a
coward! and an thou hadst had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered,
broken, and drummed out of the regiment long ago!'"

"After all, then, my father was not so wrong,--he placed his guns right,
and fired a good shot."