The Red Book of Heroes | Page 2

of his country.
But now his grave, in St. Giles's Church in Edinburgh, is the most

beautiful and honourable in Scotland, adorned with his stainless
scutcheon, and with those of Napiers and Grahams, his kindred and his
friends.
"The grave of March, the grave of Gwythar, The grave of Gugann
Gleddyvrudd, A mystery to the world, the grave of Arthur,"
says the old Welsh poem, and unknown as the grave of Arthur is the
grave of Gordon. The desert wind may mingle his dust with the sand,
the Nile may sweep it to the sea, as the Seine bore the ashes of that
martyr of honour, the Maid of France. 'The whole earth is brave men's
common sepulchre,' says the Greek, their tombs may be without mark
or monument, but 'honour comes a pilgrim grey' to the sacred places
where men cannot go in pilgrimage.
We see what honour they had of men; the head of Sir Thomas More,
the head of Montrose, were exposed to mockery in public places, the
ashes of Jeanne d'Arc were thrown into the river, Gordon's body lies
unknown; but their honour is eternal in human memory. It was really
for honour that Sir Thomas More suffered; it was not possible for him
to live without the knowledge that his shield was stainless. It was for
honour rather than for religion that the child Angélique Arnauld gave
up amusement and pleasure, and everything that is dear to a girl, young,
witty, beautiful, and gay, and put on the dress of a nun. Later she
worked for the sake of duty and religion, but honour was her first
mistress, and she could not go back from her plighted word.
These people were born to be what they were, to be examples to all of
us that are less nobly born and like a quiet, easy, merry life. We cannot
all be Gordons, Montroses, Angéliques, but if we read about them and
think about them, a touch of their nobility may come to us, and surely
our honour is in our own keeping. We may try never to do a mean thing,
or a doubtful thing, a thing that Gordon would not have been tempted
to do, though we are tempted, more tempted as we grow older and see
what the world does than are the young. I think honour is the dearest
and the most natural of virtues; in their own ways none are more loyal
than boys and girls. Later we may forget that no pleasure, no happiness,
not even the love that seems the strongest force in our natures, is worth

having at the expense of a stain on the white rose of honour. Had she
been a few years older, Angélique might have failed to keep the word
which was extorted from her as a child, but, being young, she kept it
the more easily. What we have to do is to try to be young always in this
matter, to be our natural selves and unspotted from the world. Certainly
some people are a little better, and so far a little happier, because they
have seen the light from Charles Gordon's yet living head, and been
half heart-broken by his end, so glorious to himself, so inglorious to his
fellow countrymen. For his dear sake we may all do a little, sacrifice a
little, to help the Homes for Boys which have been built to his memory,
and to help the poor boys whom he used to help, making himself poor,
and giving his time for them.
We read in the book, 'A Child's Hero,' how the brave Havelock won the
heart of a little child who never saw him. She heard the words
'Havelock is dead,' and laid her head against the wall and burst into
tears. Other children may feel the same devotion for these splendid
people, for Hannibal, so far away from us, giving his whole heart and
whole genius and his life for his wretched country, for men who would
not understand, who would not aid him:
"Their old art statesmen plied, And paltered, and evaded, and denied"
till their country was vanquished. Bad as that country was, for
Hannibal's own sake we are all on the side of Hannibal, as we are on
the side of Hector of Troy. 'Well know I this in heart and soul,' said
Hector to his wife, when she would have kept him out of the battle,
'that the day is coming when holy Ilios shall perish, and Priam, and the
people of Priam of the ashen spear, my father with my mother, and my
brothers, many and brave, dying in the dust at the hands of our foemen;
but most I sorrow for thee, my wife, when they lead thee weeping away,
a