ce. He died a hundred deaths in his time, and much
of his life was passed in such misery as only cultivated poltroonery
can breed. Wicked wags knew that they could frighten him at any
moment; they would greet him cordially, and then suddenly assume an
air of deep concern. The poor plutocrat's face changed instantly, and
he would ask, "What is the matter?" The joker then made answer, "You
are a little flushed. You should rest." This was enough. The truant
imagination of the unhappy butt went far afield in search of terrors;
neither food, nor wine, nor the pleasures of the theatre could tempt
him, and he remained in a state of limpness until the natural buoyancy
of his spirits asserted itself. What a life! How much better would it
have been for this rich man had he trained himself to preserve General
Gordon's composure, even if he had bought that composure at the price
of his whole colossal fortune! Riches were useless to him, the sun
failed to cheer him, and his end was in truth a release from one
incessant torture.

Turn from this hare-hearted citizen, and think of our hero, the pride
of England, the flower of the human race--Charles Gordon. With his
exquisite simplicity, Gordon confesses in one of his letters that he
used to feel frightened when he went under fire, for the superstitious
dread of death had been grafted on his mind when he was young. But he
learned the fear of God and lost all other fear; he accustomed himself
to the idea of parting with the world and its hopes and labours, and
in all the long series of letters which he sent home from the Soudan
during his period of rule we find him constantly speaking quietly,
joyously about the event which carries horror to the hearts of weak
men--"My Master will lay me aside and use some other instrument when I
have fulfilled His purpose. I have no fear of death, for I know I
shall exchange much weariness for perfect peace." So spoke the hero,
the just and faithful Knight of God. He was simple, with the
simplicity of a flawless diamond; he was reverent, he was faithful
even to the end, and he was incredibly dauntless. Why? Because he had
faced the last great problem with all the force of his noble manhood,
and the thought of his translation to another world woke in his
gallant soul images of beauty and holiness. Why should the meanest and
most unlearned of us all not strive to follow in the footsteps of the
hero? Millions on millions have passed away, and they now kno