military bands struck up altogether: the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and whisked their tails about in all directions: the dogs barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.
Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him, until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded.
"Can anything be finer, or more delightful?" he inquired of Mr Winkle.
"Nothing," replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on each of his feet, for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding.
"It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight," said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, "to see the gallant defenders of their country, drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens: their faces beaming—not with warlike ferocity, but with civilized gentleness: their eyes flashing—not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence."
Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burnt rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command " eyes front" had been given; and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics, staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.
'We are in a capital situation, now," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed from their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.
"Capital!" echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.
"What are they doing now?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles.
"I—I—rather think," said Mr. Winkle, changing colour—"I rather think they're going to fire."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily.
"I—I—really think they are," urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.
"Impossible," replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when the whole half dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one common object, and that object the Pickwickians; and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous discharge, that ever shook the earth to its centre, or an elderly gentleman off his.
It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to fall in, on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession, which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by
