Self Help, Samuel Smiles [good romance books to read .txt] 📗

refused a present of 100,000l. proposed to be given him

by the Directors of the East India Company on the conquest of

Mysore. “It is not necessary,” said he, “for me to allude to the

independence of my character, and the proper dignity attaching to

my office; other reasons besides these important considerations

lead me to decline this testimony, which is not suitable to me. I

THINK OF NOTHING BUT OUR ARMY. I should be much distressed to

curtail the share of those brave soldiers.” And the Marquis’s

resolution to refuse the present remained unalterable.

 

Sir Charles Napier exhibited the same noble self-denial in the

course of his Indian career. He rejected all the costly gifts

which barbaric princes were ready to lay at his feet, and said with

truth, “Certainly I could have got 30,000l. since my coming to

Scinde, but my hands do not want washing yet. Our dear father’s

sword which I wore in both battles (Meanee and Hyderabad) is

unstained.”

 

Riches and rank have no necessary connexion with genuine

gentlemanly qualities. The poor man may be a true gentleman,—in

spirit and in daily life. He may be honest, truthful, upright,

polite, temperate, courageous, self-respecting, and self-helping,—

that is, be a true gentleman. The poor man with a rich spirit is

in all ways superior to the rich man with a poor spirit. To borrow

St. Paul’s words, the former is as “having nothing, yet possessing

all things,” while the other, though possessing all things, has

nothing. The first hopes everything, and fears nothing; the last

hopes nothing, and fears everything. Only the poor in spirit are

really poor. He who has lost all, but retains his courage,

cheerfulness, hope, virtue, and self-respect, is still rich. For

such a man, the world is, as it were, held in trust; his spirit

dominating over its grosser cares, he can still walk erect, a true

gentleman.

 

Occasionally, the brave and gentle character may be found under the

humblest garb. Here is an old illustration, but a fine one. Once

on a time, when the Adige suddenly overflowed its banks, the bridge

of Verona was carried away, with the exception of the centre arch,

on which stood a house, whose inhabitants supplicated help from the

windows, while the foundations were visibly giving way. “I will

give a hundred French louis,” said the Count Spolverini, who stood

by, “to any person who will venture to deliver these unfortunate

people.” A young peasant came forth from the crowd, seized a boat,

and pushed into the stream. He gained the pier, received the whole

family into the boat, and made for the shore, where he landed them

in safety. “Here is your money, my brave young fellow,” said the

count. “No,” was the answer of the young man, “I do not sell my

life; give the money to this poor family, who have need of it.”

Here spoke the true spirit of the gentleman, though he was but in

the garb of a peasant.

 

Not less touching was the heroic conduct of a party of Deal boatmen

in rescuing the crew of a collier-brig in the Downs but a short

time ago. {36} A sudden storm which set in from the north-east

drove several ships from their anchors, and it being low water, one

of them struck the ground at a considerable distance from the

shore, when the sea made a clean breach over her. There was not a

vestige of hope for the vessel, such was the fury of the wind and

the violence of the waves. There was nothing to tempt the boatmen

on shore to risk their lives in saving either ship or crew, for not

a farthing of salvage was to be looked for. But the daring

intrepidity of the Deal boatmen was not wanting at this critical

moment. No sooner had the brig grounded than Simon Pritchard, one

of the many persons assembled along the beach, threw off his coat

and called out, “Who will come with me and try to save that crew?”

Instantly twenty men sprang forward, with “I will,” “and I.” But

seven only were wanted; and running down a galley punt into the

surf, they leaped in and dashed through the breakers, amidst the

cheers of those on shore. How the boat lived in such a sea seemed

a miracle; but in a few minutes, impelled by the strong arms of

these gallant men, she flew on and reached the stranded ship,

“catching her on the top of a wave”; and in less than a quarter of

an hour from the time the boat left the shore, the six men who

composed the crew of the collier were landed safe on Walmer Beach.

A nobler instance of indomitable courage and disinterested heroism

on the part of the Deal boatmen—brave though they are always known

to be—perhaps cannot be cited; and we have pleasure in here

placing it on record.

 

Mr. Turnbull, in his work on ‘Austria,’ relates an anecdote of the

late Emperor Francis, in illustration of the manner in which the

Government of that country has been indebted, for its hold upon the

people, to the personal qualities of its princes. “At the time

when the cholera was raging at Vienna, the emperor, with an aide-de-camp, was strolling about the streets of the city and suburbs,

when a corpse was dragged past on a litter unaccompanied by a

single mourner. The unusual circumstance attracted his attention,

and he learnt, on inquiry, that the deceased was a poor person who

had died of cholera, and that the relatives had not ventured on

what was then considered the very dangerous office of attending the

body to the grave. ‘Then,’ said Francis, ‘we will supply their

place, for none of my poor people should go to the grave without

that last mark of respect;’ and he followed the body to the distant

place of interment, and, bare-headed, stood to see every rite and

observance respectfully performed.”

 

Fine though this illustration may be of the qualities of the

gentleman, we can match it by another equally good, of two English

navvies in Paris, as related in a morning paper a few years ago.

“One day a hearse was observed ascending the steep Rue de Clichy on

its way to Montmartre, bearing a coffin of poplar wood with its

cold corpse. Not a soul followed—not even the living dog of the

dead man, if he had one. The day was rainy and dismal; passers by

lifted the hat as is usual when a funeral passes, and that was all.

At length it passed two English navvies, who found themselves in

Paris on their way from Spain. A right feeling spoke from beneath

their serge jackets. ‘Poor wretch!’ said the one to the other, ‘no

one follows him; let us two follow!’ And the two took off their

hats, and walked bare-headed after the corpse of a stranger to the

cemetery of Montmartre.”

 

Above all, the gentleman is truthful. He feels that truth is the

“summit of being,” and the soul of rectitude in human affairs.

Lord Chesterfield declared that Truth made the success of a

gentleman. The Duke of Wellington, writing to Kellerman, on the

subject of prisoners on parole, when opposed to that general in the

peninsula, told him that if there was one thing on which an English

officer prided himself more than another, excepting his courage, it

was his truthfulness. “When English officers,” said he, “have

given their parole of honour not to escape, be sure they will not

break it. Believe me—trust to their word; the word of an English

officer is a surer guarantee than the vigilance of sentinels.”

 

True courage and gentleness go hand in hand. The brave man is

generous and forbearant, never unforgiving and cruel. It was

finely said of Sir John Franklin by his friend Parry, that “he was

a man who never turned his back upon a danger, yet of that

tenderness that he would not brush away a mosquito.” A fine trait

of character—truly gentle, and worthy of the spirit of Bayard—was

displayed by a French officer in the cavalry combat of El Bodon in

Spain. He had raised his sword to strike Sir Felton Harvey, but

perceiving his antagonist had only one arm, he instantly stopped,

brought down his sword before Sir Felton in the usual salute, and

rode past. To this may be added a noble and gentle deed of Ney

during the same Peninsular War. Charles Napier was taken prisoner

at Corunna, desperately wounded; and his friends at home did not

know whether he was alive or dead. A special messenger was sent

out from England with a frigate to ascertain his fate. Baron

Clouet received the flag, and informed Ney of the arrival. “Let

the prisoner see his friends,” said Ney, “and tell them he is well,

and well treated.” Clouet lingered, and Ney asked, smiling, “what

more he wanted”? “He has an old mother, a widow, and blind.” “Has

he? then let him go himself and tell her he is alive.” As the

exchange of prisoners between the countries was not then allowed,

Ney knew that he risked the displeasure of the Emperor by setting

the young officer at liberty; but Napoleon approved the generous

act.

 

Notwithstanding the wail which we occasionally hear for the

chivalry that is gone, our own age has witnessed deeds of bravery

and gentleness—of heroic self-denial and manly tenderness—which

are unsurpassed in history. The events of the last few years have

shown that our countrymen are as yet an undegenerate race. On the

bleak plateau of Sebastopol, in the dripping perilous trenches of

that twelvemonth’s leaguer, men of all classes proved themselves

worthy of the noble inheritance of character which their

forefathers have bequeathed to them. But it was in the hour of the

great trial in India that the qualities of our countrymen shone

forth the brightest. The march of Neill on Cawnpore, of Havelock

on Lucknow—officers and men alike urged on by the hope of rescuing

the women and the children—are events which the whole history of

chivalry cannot equal. Outram’s conduct to Havelock, in resigning

to him, though his inferior officer, the honour of leading the

attack on Lucknow, was a trait worthy of Sydney, and alone

justifies the title which has been awarded to him of, “the Bayard

of India.” The death of Henry Lawrence—that brave and gentle

spirit—his last words before dying, “Let there be no fuss about

me; let me be buried WITH THE MEN,”—the anxious solicitude of Sir

Colin Campbell to rescue the beleaguered of Lucknow, and to conduct

his long train of women and children by night from thence to

Cawnpore, which he reached amidst the all but overpowering assault

of the enemy,—the care with which he led them across the perilous

bridge, never ceasing his charge over them until he had seen the

precious convoy safe on the road to Allahabad, and then burst upon

the Gwalior contingent like a thunder-clap;—such things make us

feel proud of our countrymen and inspire the conviction that the

best and purest glow of chivalry is not dead, but vigorously lives

among us yet.

 

Even the common soldiers proved themselves gentlemen under their

trials. At Agra, where so many poor fellows had been scorched and

wounded in their encounter with the enemy, they were brought into

the fort, and tenderly nursed by the ladies; and the rough, gallant

fellows proved gentle as any children. During the weeks that the

ladies watched over their charge, never a word was said by any

soldier that could shock the ear of the gentlest. And when all was

over—when the mortally-wounded had died, and the sick and maimed

who survived were able to demonstrate their gratitude—they invited

their nurses and the chief people of Agra to an entertainment in

the beautiful gardens of the Taj, where,