True heroism — Reading Companion

"TIRESOME—how tiresome! another rainy day!" cried Tom Gore, turning impatiently from the window.

"Pretty sort of holidays these are, truly," muttered Louis. "One cannot get out for five minutes for a walk, but back one is driven by a shower! Here's the last day of our Easter holidays, and not one—no, not one fair day have we enjoyed."

"Except Sunday," suggested Jessy.

"Oh! Sunday—I did not count Sunday. But what are we to make of ourselves all this long morning?"

"Let's have games," suggested merry little Julia.

"What games? We're tired of all."

"And we must have nothing that is noisy, on account of old Mrs. Presgrave! No fun! I shall almost be glad to get back to school again," cried Louis, "we are so moped up here!"

For want of something better to do, Willy, quietly seated in the corner, was cutting a round hole in his drum; a box of paints lay on the table, with which Bella had been daubing, certainly not adorning, the plates in the last book which her uncle had given her. There was a broken draughts-board under the table, but half of the draughtsmen were lost, and Tom and Louis, who had taken to chess, were beginning to quarrel over the game.

"I'll move there—check!" cried the former, putting down his queen with an air of triumph.

In a moment an ambushed red knight pounced down upon the square, and the white queen was in the hand of Louis.

"I'll take back that move. I did not see."

"Oh! But your hand was off!" shouted Louis. "That's not fair!"

"It's all fair!" cried the boy, reddening with excitement, and holding his trophy behind him. In a moment sport would have been exchanged for anger—perhaps for blows—when the door was gently opened, and an aged gentleman with silvery hair, and a stoop which told of years and weakness, but a bright cheerful smile, like sunshine in winter, entered the room and joined the party. In a moment the angry voices were stilled, young Willy pushed aside his drum, Bella sprang from the table, and all joyfully welcomed the old man.

"What are you all doing? How are you all amusing yourselves, my young friends?" he said, after a short pause, without appearing to notice the sounds of strife which had attracted him to the room.

"Doing, uncle? Why, nothing," said little Julia, running to him, and gently leading him to his armchair. It may be remarked, by the way, that all the children addressed Mr. Presgrave as uncle, though Tom and Willy alone were his nephews, the rest of the young people now at Ivy Lodge being on a visit to the family.

Perhaps my young reader would like to be introduced to the little party now assembled in the play-room together. That tall boy with the dark eyes, and nut-brown complexion, and large heavy frame, is Tom; and there is his more lithe and active brother Willy, with his great earnest eyes now open wide with attention, now sparkling with merriment and fun. Julia Merton is their cousin, an only child, but one who finds brothers and sisters in every boy and girl who knows her. Her smile tells of a light and joyous spirit, a cheerfulness not readily to be damped, a temper not easily provoked—she is the darling and plaything of all.

Bella, the young poetess, who writes sonnets on Leonidas; the fiery Louis; and quicksilver Amy, to whom the worst penance is to have to sit still—these, with blue-eyed, kind-hearted, dull-headed Jessy, delighted to escape from a schoolroom in London, had come to Ivy Lodge in the beginning of the week, for change of air and the pleasures of the country. There remains but one of the party to be mentioned, Percy Manners, a schoolfellow and companion of the Gores—a sickly youth, stunted in his growth, and supported on crutches, whose chief pleasure appeared to be a quiet corner and a book. He was buried in the recess of one of the windows, with the curtain drawn before him to screen him from view, till the entrance of Mr. Presgrave drew him from his retirement, and he gathered with the others around the old man.

Mr. Presgrave was the uncle of Tom and Willy's mother. He had been as a parent to her in the days of her youth, and now, in his old age, he and his invalid wife were the beloved inmates of her home. Mr. Presgrave had passed through a long pilgrimage in this world, with his eyes steadily fixed upon a better. Religion to him was a thing of reality, not confined to the Sabbath or the hour of prayer, but a living principle that governed his life, that was seen in his actions and known by his words—nay, that left its calm imprint even on his countenance, which few could behold without loving.

"Doing nothing!" exclaimed the old gentleman, slowly seating himself, and looking round upon the party. "Why, that is the most tedious occupation that I know of!"

"Why, uncle, we've nothing to do," replied Louis. "We had expected to have got out, and to have had cricket, and trap-ball, and kite-flying; but this horrible weather—"

"Hush! my boy," said Mr. Presgrave gently. "I never like to hear any one abuse the weather; it is the Almighty's sending, and of what He sends, man has no right to complain. But," added he in a more lively tone, "I find you all in a difficulty from which I am bound to try to relieve you, for if 'idleness is the mother of mischief,' she is also the parent of a large family of other evils. Can you name to me any of her sons and daughters?"

"Gossip," said Bella.

"Discontent," added Willy.

"Fighting and quarrelling," whispered little Julia.

"Now, knowing the evil, let us find out the remedy."

"O uncle! Do tell us one of your long stories!" At these words of Julia's there rose a little storm of entreaties, for Uncle Presgrave was famous for his tales and adventures.

He waved his hand to command silence, and replied: "By all means let us have stories, but you would not have me begin one now at ten o'clock in the morning! We will have them in the evening, and in the meanwhile, as a cure for idleness, why should you not each prepare one yourselves? You shall be given a common subject, and each shall collect an anecdote or a tale, to add to the amusement of the rest."

"A capital plan!" cried Bella and Louis, clapping their hands; the rest of the party had a more doubtful expression on their countenances, except poor Percy, who smiled at the idea of an amusement in which his infirmity would not prevent his joining.

"I should not mind trying," said Louis, "if I might have the choosing of the subject. I know a capital story of heroism—suppose that we fix upon that."

"That may suit you, Louis, as you wish to be a soldier, but what have we girls to do with it?" said Amy, who had often been laughed at for her want of the quality in question.

"I see no objection to the subject," observed Mr. Presgrave cheerfully, "if the rest of the party agree. So little is fighting a necessary mark of heroism, that we may banish it from our stories altogether, and yet have no difficulty in selecting examples. I should not be much surprised either," added he, smiling at Amy, "if some of these examples should be afforded by women."

"Are our stories to be true ones?" asked Jessy.

"Oh! I hope they are to be true!" cried Julia, "for I never could make anything out of my own head!"

"True let them be, my little lamb," said Mr. Presgrave, patting her rosy cheek. "I like everything better for being true."

"Shall we give real names? Perhaps our heroes might not like it," observed Willy thoughtfully.

"Well considered, my boy. I know few things so odious as spreading tales and reports of others; but as in this case the anecdotes will all be favourable to their heroes, I think that, without scruple, we may give their real names."

"But," said Julia, "must we keep so very close to truth in our stories, and not alter them in the very least bit? Perhaps we have heard them but once ourselves, and do not remember them quite exactly."

"Or we wish to make our story more striking, by dressing it up a little," added Bella. "We may want to say that our hero wore a purple cloak, when we do not know whether it was purple or black, or whether he wore a cloak at all."

"Oh! My poetical young lady, since you have given us fair warning, you may dress up your heroes in any way that you please, only let your facts be correct. But oh! Remember," he added very earnestly, "that when you profess to repeat exact truth, no changing should ever be permitted. The exaggerated description to heighten effect, words put into mouths that never have spoken them, these are all wanderings from the straight line of truth, and lead the mind insensibly to error and falsehood."

"Will you be present at the reading of our stories, Uncle Presgrave?" said Julia, looking up in his face.

"I will read them myself, if you will permit me, and make my observations upon them as we go along."

"Then we are sure to have profit as well as amusement," murmured Percy. They were the first words that the lame boy had uttered since breakfast, and now, seeming half-ashamed at having let his voice be heard, he retired to his recess in the window, to meditate upon the story that he was to write.

IT was a busy day to the children at Ivy Lodge; not one felt the time pass wearily. Even quicksilver Amy had been quiet for awhile, as she sat with knitted brows biting the end of her pencil.

Old Mrs. Presgrave had not been startled once by the sound of a sudden shout or a heavy fall, and volumes were drawn from their corners in the bookcase by hands that seldom had opened books but from necessity. Mrs. Gore had found it difficult to proceed in her needle-work, so numerous were the interruptions from the literary juveniles. Thrice had she to rise to search for books, and ten times to stop to mend a pen, innumerable were the applications for aid in spelling; and when at last the young party assembled after dinner, Willy's story was written on cream-tinted paper, in the hand of his indulgent mother.

Jessy needed a copy-book—Julia ruled lines—every inkstand in the house was in requisition, and Louis and Tom, disputing over theirs, managed to upset it between them. At length, however, the last page was written, poor Jessy bringing up the rear; and, some neat, some blotted, some long, some short, the stories were placed in the hand of Mr. Presgrave.

Little Julia had drawn a footstool for his feet, had patted up his cushion with her plump little hands, and picked up the spectacle-case thrown down by Tom. Then slowly the "silver eyes" were adjusted in their proper place—quiet succeeded to the hum of voices, a smile of expectation was in every face, and as Julia seated herself at the old man's feet, in a clear, distinct voice he began:

"JAMES MAXWELL, a native of Stirlingshire, was pilot of a fine steam-vessel called the 'Clydesdale,' sailing between the Clyde and the west coast of Ireland. And one evening, after setting out on the voyage across the Channel, with between seventy and eighty passengers, Maxwell became sensible, at intervals, of the smell of fire, and wont about anxiously endeavouring to discover whence it originated. On communicating with the master, he found that he too had perceived it; but neither of them could form the least conjecture as to where it arose. A gentleman passenger also observed this alarming vapour, which alternately rose and passed away, leaving them in doubt of its being a reality. About eleven o'clock at night this gentleman went to bed, confident of safety; but while Maxwell was at the helm, the master ceased not an instant to search from place to place, as the air became more and more impregnated with the odour of burning timber."

"At last he sprung up on deck, exclaiming, 'Maxwell, the flames have burst out at the paddle-box!'"

"James calmly inquired, 'Then shall I put about?'"

"Turner's order was to proceed. Maxwell struck one hand upon his heart, as he flung the other above his head, and with uplifted eyes uttered, 'O God Almighty! enable me to do my duty! and O God! Provide for my wife, my mother, and my child!'"

"Whether it was the thoughts of the dreadful nature of the Galloway coast, girded as it is with perpendicular masses of rock, which influenced the master in his decision to press forwards, we cannot tell. But as there was only the wide ocean before and around them, the pilot did not long persist in this hopeless course. He put the boat about, sternly subduing every expression of emotion, and standing with his eyes fixed on the point for which he wished to steer. The fire, which the exertions of all the men could not keep under, soon raged with ungovernable fury, and keeping the engine in violent action, the vessel, at the time one of the fleetest that had ever been built, flew through the water with incredible speed. All the passengers were gathered to the bow, the rapid flight of the vessel keeping that part clear of the flames, while it carried the fire, flames, and smoke backwards to the quarter-gallery, where the self-devoted pilot stood like a martyr at the stake. Everything possible was done by the master and crew to keep the place on which he stood deluged with water; but this became every moment more difficult and more hopeless; for, in spite of all that could be done, the devouring fire seized the cabin under him, and the spot on which he stood immovable became intensely heated. Still, still the hero never flinched!"

"At intervals, the motion of the wind threw aside the intervening mass of flame and smoke for a moment, and then might be heard exclamations of hope and gratitude as the multitude on the prow got a glimpse of the brave man standing calm and fixed on his dreadful watch!"

"The blazing vessel, glaring through the darkness of night, had been observed by the people on shore, and they had assembled on the heights adjoining an opening in the rocks about twelve yards wide; and there, by waving torches and other signals, did their best to direct the crew to the spot. The signals were not misunderstood by Maxwell, whose feet were already roasted on the deck! The fierce fire still kept the engine in furious action, impelling the vessel onwards; but this could not have lasted above another minute; and during the interval, he ran her into the open space, and alongside a ledge of rock, upon which every creature got safe on shore—all unscathed, except the self-devoted one, to whom all owed their lives! Had he flinched for a minute they must all have perished."

"What would not any or all of them have given, when driving over the wide sea in their flaming prison, to the man who would have promised them safety? But when this heroic man had accomplished the desperate undertaking, did the gratitude of this multitude continue beyond the minute of deliverance? We believe it did not! One man exclaimed, 'There is my trunk—I am ruined without it: five pounds to whoever will save it!' Maxwell could not hesitate in relieving any species of distress. He snatched the burning handle of the trunk, and swung it on shore, but left the skin of his hand and fingers sticking upon it—a memorial which might have roused the gratitude of the most torpid savage! But he who offered the reward forgot to pay it to one who could not and would not ask of any one on earth."

"As might have been expected, Maxwell's constitution, though very powerful, never recovered the effects of that dreadful burning. Indeed, it required all the skill and enthusiasm of an eminent physician under whose care he placed himself to save his life. Though the flames had not actually closed round him as he stood on his awful watch, yet such was the heat under him and around him, that not only, as we have said, were his feet severely burnt, but his hair, a large hair-cap, and huge dreadnought watch-coat, which he wore, were all in such a state from the intense heat, that they crumbled into powder on the least touch. His handsome athletic form was reduced to the extremest emaciation; his young face became ten years older during that appalling night, and his hair changed to gray."

"A subscription for the unfortunate pilot was set on foot among the gentlemen of Glasgow some time after the burning. On this occasion the sum of a hundred pounds was raised, of which sixty pounds were divided between the master and pilot, and the remainder given to the sailors."

"Notwithstanding his disabilities, James was fortunately able, after an interval, to pursue his occupation as a pilot; but owing to a weakness in his feet, caused by the injuries they had received, he fell, and endured a severe fracture of the ribs. The value, however, in which he was held by his employers, on account of his steady and upright character, caused them, on this occasion, to continue his ordinary pay during the period of his recovery."

"After this event, James entered the service of another company (Messrs. Thomson and McConnell), conducting a steam-shipping communication between Glasgow and Liverpool, by whom, notwithstanding the enfeebled state of his body and broken health, he was (as how could such a man be otherwise!) esteemed as a valuable servant."

"In the year 1833 the case of this hero in humble life was noticed in 'Chambers's Edinburgh Journal,' and roused a very general sympathy in his favour. The subscriptions in his behalf were at this time of material service in enabling him to support his family; but misfortunes, arising out of his enfeebled condition, afterwards pressed upon him, and another subscription was made for his relief in 1840. James did not live to reap the full benefit of this fresh act of public benevolence and respect; and shortly after his decease his wife also died. Enough of money was realised to aid in rearing and educating the younger children of this excellent individual, who deserved so well of his country."

"A very interesting story! Well done, Jessy!" cried the children.

"Oh! I deserve no credit at all," said she, colouring. "I confess that I copied every line almost out of 'Chambers's Journal.'"

"You have the credit of having chosen well," observed Willy.

"Might I suggest," said Mr. Presgrave, "that in reading our stories we should abstain from either praise or blame? The one might discourage, the other foster vanity, to which we are all but too prone."

"There is one thing in the story which I can hardly think true," exclaimed Amy; "and that is, that those whom the pilot had saved could ever be ungrateful to him!"

"Oh no!" cried Julia, clasping her hands, "after all that he had done, after all that he had suffered, when they sprang one by one on the safe firm shore, and felt the cool wind, and saw the vessel flaming upon the water, and knew themselves saved—saved! Oh! I should have thought that they would have poured out their whole hearts in thankfulness, and never have stopped showing their gratitude to their deliverer!"

"God grant that none of us may be equally ungrateful!" said Mr. Presgrave in a solemn tone of voice.

"O sir! O uncle!" exclaimed all the children at once.

"May not the burning vessel be considered as a type, an image of a world lost by sin, speeding on to death and destruction? The first spark that kindled the flames may have appeared small, but the evil spread, until the whole ship seemed destined to become a prey to the devouring element. What mattered it that the sky was clear above, what mattered it that no rocks opposed her course, how fearful was the fate of that doomed vessel, that carried the destroyer within herself with her!"

"I do not quite understand," said Julia timidly.

"Are there any here who have understood and can explain my meaning?" said the old man, glancing round him.