Transcribed from the 1867/68 Chapman and Hall Works ofCharles Dickens, Volume 4, Christmas Books byDavid Price,
THE BATTLE OF LIFE
p. 239Partthe First
Once upon a time, it matters littlewhen, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fiercebattle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer daywhen the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower formedby the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, feltits enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinkingdropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour fromharmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dyingmen, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges ofits wings. The stream ran red. The trodden groundbecame a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in theprints of human feet and horses’ hoofs, the one prevailinghue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.
Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheldupon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distantrising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, sherose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturnedfaces that had once at mothers’ breasts soughtmothers’ eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep usfrom a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon thetainted wind that blew across the scene of that day’s workand that night’s death and suffering! Many a lonelymoon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star keptmournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of theearth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were wornaway.
They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived inlittle things; for, Nature, far above the evil passions of men,soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guiltybattle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it; the swallows skimmed and dipped andflitted to and fro; the shadows of the flying clouds pursued eachother swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, andover roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees,away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky andearth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, andgrew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had beencrimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough;gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheepand oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scareaway the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bellsrang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creaturesof the field, the simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew andwithered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce andbloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had beenkilled in the great fight. But, there were deep greenpatches in the growing corn at first, that people looked atawfully. Year after year they re-appeared; and it was knownthat underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses layburied, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. Thehusbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great wormsabounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many along year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no oneever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a HarvestHome. For