“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 civilised 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 reecho its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burned 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 in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.