Heaven As make the angels weep, who, with our spleens, Would all
themselves laugh mortal.
—Measure for Measure
“Abe, you remember how that man who made the speech when our colors were presented to us talked of 'the swelling hearts of our volunteers,' don't you?” said Kent Edwards, as he and Abe Bolton lounged near the parade-ground one fine afternoon, shortly after the arrival of the regiment in camp of instruction. “You remember that that was his favorite figure of rhetoric, and he repeated it several times?”
“Don't know anything about figger of retterick,” growled Abe, who, his comrades said, had the evenest temper in the regiment, “for he was always mad. But I do remember that he said that over several times, with a lot o' other things without much pint to 'em, until I thought I'd drop, I was so thirsty and tired.”
“Yes? Well, now if you want to get a good idea of what that expression meant, look over there. Not only his heart swells, but he swells all over.”
“I should think he did,” replied Abe, after a moment's inspection. “Unless his hat has an Injy-rubber band, he'll have to git it cut offen his head, which ought to be hooped, for it can't swell no more without busting.”
It was Jacob Alspaugh crossing the parade ground in more than Solomonic splendor of uniform. His inflated form bore upon it all the blue and tinsel prescribed by the Army Regulations for the raiment and insignia of a First Lieutenant of Infantry, with such additions as had been suggested by his exuberant fancy. His blue broadcloth was the finest and shiniest. Buttons and bugles seemed masses of barbric gold. From broad-brimmed hat floated the longest ostrich feather procurable in the shops. Shining leather boots, field-marshal pattern, came above his knees. Yellow gauntlets covered his massive hands and reached nearly to his elbows, and on his broad shoulders were great glittering epaulets—then seldom worn by anyone, and still more rarely by volunteer officers. He evidently disdained to hide the crimson glories of his sash in the customary modest way, by folding it under his belt, but had made of it a broad bandage for his abdominal regions, which gae him the appearance of some gigantic crimson-breasted blue-bird. Behind him trailing, clanking on the ground as he walked, not the modest little sword of his rank, but a long cavalry saber, with glittering steel scabbard. But the sheen of gold and steel was dimmed beside the glow of intense satisfaction with his make-up that shone in his face. There might be alloy in his gleaming buttons and bullion epaulets; there was none in his happiness.
“I feel sorry for the poor lilies of the field that he comes near,” sighed Kent, sympathetically. “He is like them now, in neither toiling nor spinning, and yet how ashamed he must make them of their inferior rainment.”
“Faugh! it makes me sick to see a dunghill like that strutting around in feathers that belong to game birds.”
“O, no; no game bird ever wore such plumage as that. You must be thinking of a peacock, or a bird-of-paradise.”
“Well, then, blast it, I hate to see a peacock hatched all at once out of a slinking, roupy, barnyard rooster.”