Mr. Silas Peckham had gone a little deeper than he meant, and come
upon the "hard pan," as the well-diggers call it, of the Colonel's
character, before he thought of it. A militia-colonel standing on his
sentiments is not to be despised. That was shown pretty well in New
England two or three generations ago. There were a good many plain
officers that talked about their "rigiment" and their "caounty" who
knew very well how to say "Make ready!" "Take aim!" "Fire!"--in the
face of a line of grenadiers with bullets in their guns and bayonets on
them. And though a rustic uniform is not always unexceptionable in its
cut and trimmings, yet there was many an ill-made coat in those old
times that was good enough to be shown to the enemy's front rank, too
often to be left on the field with a round hole in its left lapel that
matched another going right through the brave heart of the plain
country captain or major or colonel who was buried in it under the
crimson turf.
Mr. Silas Peckham said little or nothing. His sensibilities were not
acute, but he perceived that he had made a miscalculation. He hoped
that there was no offence,--thought it might have been mutooally
agreeable, conclooded he would give up the idee of a colation, and
backed himself out as if unwilling to expose the less guarded aspect of
his person to the risk of accelerating impulses.
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