Self Help by Samuel Smiles (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖
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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,
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