Excerpt from Collection of British Authors Tauchnitz Edition
It was in the summer of 1856. The war being at an end, England began to forget the excitement and military ardour which for two years had pervaded her every nook and corner. But at the principal seaports the memory was still kept alive by reckless soldiers and sailors spending their hard-earned money, and by their less fortunate comrades wandering about pale and haggard, some on crutches, some in splints, waiting to hear the decision of pension or discharge - the only two alternatives left for them.
At the top of one of those narrow streets of the old town of Plymouth, leading from the Barbican, a crowd of sailors, fish-women, apprentices (boys and girls), had assembled to witness a fight. Through this motley crowd a soldier-like man was almost vainly endeavouring to push his way. He was pale and thin from recent illness, and his bandaged arm showed the cause of his suffering.
"Good heavens " he thought, "how sick and faint I feel I wish I had listened to the doctor, and not have been in such a hurry to come out.1 wonder if there is any place hereabout where I could sit down for a little while."
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