This is a cheerful carol for Christmas, is it not? You see, in regard to these Roundabout discourses, I never know whether they are to be merry or dismal.My hobby has the bit in his mouth; goes his own way; and sometimes trots through a park, and sometimes paces by a cemetery.Two days since came the printer's little emissary, with a note saying, "We are waiting for the Roundabout Paper!" ARoundabout Paper about what or whom? How stale it has become, that printed jollity about Christmas! Carols, and wassail-bowls, and holly, and mistletoe, and yule-logs de commande--what heaps of these have we not had for years past! Well, year after year the season comes.Come frost, come thaw, come snow, come rain, year after year my neighbor the parson has to make his sermons.They are getting together the bonbons, iced cakes, Christmas trees at Fortnum and Mason's now.The genii of the theatres are composing the Christmas pantomime, which our young folks will see and note anon in their little diaries.
And now, brethren, may I conclude this discourse with an extract out of that great diary, the newspaper? I read it but yesterday, and it has mingled with all my thoughts since then.Here are the two paragraphs, which appeared following each other:--"Mr.R., the Advocate-General of Calcutta, has been appointed to the post of Legislative Member of the Council of the Governor-General.""Sir R.S., Agent to the Governor-General for Central India, died on the 29th of October, of bronchitis."These two men, whose different fates are recorded in two paragraphs and half a dozen lines of the same newspaper, were sisters' sons.
In one of the stories by the present writer, a man is described tottering "up the steps of the ghaut," having just parted with his child, whom he is despatching to England from India.I wrote this, remembering in long, long distant days, such a ghaut, or river-stair, at Calcutta; and a day when, down those steps, to a boat which was in waiting, came two children, whose mothers remained on the shore.One of those ladies was never to see her boy more; and he, too, is just dead in India, "of bronchitis, on the 29th October." We were first-cousins; had been little playmates and friends from the time of our birth; and the first house in London to which I was taken, was that of our aunt, the mother of his Honor the Member of Council.His Honor was even then a gentleman of the long robe, being, in truth, a baby in arms.We Indian children were consigned to a school of which our deluded parents had heard a favorable report, but which was governed by a horrible little tyrant, who made our young lives so miserable that I remember kneeling by my little bed of a night, and saying, "Pray God, I may dream of my mother!" Thence we went to a public school; and my cousin to Addiscombe and to India.
"For thirty-two years," the paper says, "Sir Richmond Shakespear faithfully and devotedly served the Government of India, and during that period but once visited England, for a few months and on public duty.In his military capacity he saw much service, was present in eight general engagements, and was badly wounded in the last.In 1840, when a young lieutenant, he had the rare good fortune to be the means of rescuing from almost hopeless slavery in Khiva 416subjects of the Emperor of Russia; and, but two years later, greatly contributed to the happy recovery of our own prisoners from a similar fate in Cabul.Throughout his career this officer was ever ready and zealous for the public service, and freely risked life and liberty in the discharge of his duties.Lord Canning, to mark his high sense of Sir Richmond Shakespear's public services, had lately offered him the Chief Commissionership of Mysore, which he had accepted, and was about to undertake, when death terminated his career."When he came to London the cousins and playfellows of early Indian days met once again, and shook hands."Can I do anything for you?"I remember the kind fellow asking.He was always asking that question: of all kinsmen; of all widows and orphans; of all the poor; of young men who might need his purse or his service.I saw a young officer yesterday to whom the first words Sir Richmond Shakespear wrote on his arrival in India were, "Can I do anything for you?" His purse was at the command of all.His kind hand was always open.It was a gracious fate which sent him to rescue widows and captives.Where could they have had a champion more chivalrous, a protector more loving and tender?
I write down his name in my little book, among those of others dearly loved, who, too, have been summoned hence.And so we meet and part; we struggle and succeed; or we fail and drop unknown on the way.As we leave the fond mother's knee, the rough trials of childhood and boyhood begin; and then manhood is upon us, and the battle of life, with its chances, perils, wounds, defeats, distinctions.And Fort William guns are saluting in one man's honor, while the troops are firing the last volleys over the other's grave--over the grave of the brave, the gentle, the faithful Christian soldier.
W.R.obiit March 22, 1862.
