by the forelock, and decided that if women must have some profession
to turn to, she would be a Professional Beauty. There are thousands
of girls, older and wiser, who yearn to be heroines, and have quite
as vague notions about it. There are countless women, with characters
still fresh and plastic, who find existence but a dull level. Life
is a narrow lane to them. They would like mountaineering. They want
adventure. They sigh to be heroines.
What are heroines, after all? Let us look for the reality, and not for
a dream, or we shall go mountaineering, and be lost among shadows
when the darkness of age begins to fall. In the real life we are all
living, how does one get to be a heroine? Are there any, and where are
they? Who shall tell us? Can the novelists? For the most part, no. The
ordinary sort of fiction is full of ambitious flecks and flaws; how
can it know and describe the most delicate and intricate, the most
minutely beautiful of human characters? There is a novel in which the
hero exclaims pathetically that he was ‘a Pariah’ until he married.
Could the inventor of the Pariah invent anything but a heroine to match
him? The fiction that excels in the highest qualities falls short here.
The best describer of life, even if his conception of this character
be perfectly just, must be content with merely hinting it, for his
space has limits. Instead of describing in half a page the colour of
eyes, hair, and dress, and afterwards ten adventures and two dozen
conversations, he could hardly be expected to write for one character
a whole shelf of detailed volumes, and to gather his notes with the
minuteness of a census-taker.
Let us look elsewhere. Several women have passed the old turnstile to
public life, and got in somehow on men’s tickets. Their insignificant
sisters peep over the wall, and observe that men who outside
were the soul of chivalry, begin to elbow the ladies within, and
ungallantly assert in self-defence that the ladies have elbows too.
The insignificant sisters will not enter; but if they tried to reason
about it, they would be ‘stumped out’ in a moment by the others on the
platforms inside. ‘When I hear a woman use intellectual arguments, I
am dismayed,’ says a wise thinker from beyond the Atlantic; and the
insignificant crowd aforesaid and the majority of the world agree with
him in this; and those outside the wall find out all at once that a
woman’s unreasoning nature is no insignificant charm. ‘Her best reason,
as it is the world’s best, is the inspiration of a pure and believing
heart. She is happiest when she devotes herself, obedient to her
patient and unselfish nature, to some loved being or high cause; and
glory itself, says Madame de Staël, would be for her only a splendid
mourning-suit for happiness denied.’
Shall we turn from the platforms, and look to intellectual culture? We
see at the outset that it cannot be necessary to heroism; for all human
nature’s highest prizes are open to all, and great intellectual culture
belongs to the few. Besides, there can be such a thing as learning too
much, and knowing nothing worth knowing. In America, where life is
lived double-quick, and where every product from a continent downwards
is of the largest size, there are crops of overtaught girlhood ripe
already for our inspection. Women of the middle classes there can
discuss the nebular hypothesis or the binomial theory, as ours talk
of lacework and the baby. Mr Hudson, in his recent _Scamper through
America_, declares that to converse in the railway cars with ladies
returning from Conventions and Conferences was a genuine pleasure, an
intellectual treat. But he adds, that though one could revere them,
almost worship them, to love them was out of the question. ‘Practical
passionless creatures, they seemed to constitute a third sex. Where
were the girls? We never saw them. We did meet with young ladies of
twelve and thirteen, with jewel-laden fingers, and with vocabularies of
ponderous dictionary words; but, like their mothers and elder sisters,
they were such superior beings, that one longed for a lassie that was
not so very clever—one who had something yet unlearned that she could
ask a fellow to tell her about.’
We have failed in the novels, on the platforms, and at the learned
Conferences. Shall we carry our search to the haunts of human suffering
next? There are hundreds of women, banded together or working singly,
to whom every form of sorrow and helplessness is an attraction. They
do not deal in dry statistical philanthropy, but in loving compassion.
They are not ‘women with a mission,’ because the woman with a mission
flaunts it before the world, and gets more or less in everybody’s way;
but these desire to remain unknown, never counting the debt humanity
owes to them. The wounded soldier on the battlefield knows them well
enough; and the criminal in prison; and the sick, the poor, the aged,
the young children. Sacrificing a whole life to the common good,
they are heroines; it is beyond doubt. But not the heroines we seek,
whose sphere is to be something more homely, easy, and attainable for
all. However, these women, whose lives are compassion, have given
a light upon the track. It dawns upon us, that in womanly heroism,
self-sacrifice is the essence, and hiddenness marks it genuine.
Far different is the typical woman with a mission, whose type,
dashed off with a few strokes by the pen of Dickens, flits across
our memory from _Bleak House_, and provokes a sigh and a smile.
Again, Mrs Jellyby, with her dress laced anyhow like the lattice
of a summer-house, is writing in a room full of disorder, with her
philanthropic eye fixed upon the savages of Borrioboola, South Africa,
while her own little boy is outside, kicking and howling, with his head
stuck between the area railings. Again, Mr Jellyby employs his evenings
in leaning his head feebly against the wall; and when poor Caddy is
married, we hear him giving her all he has to give—the beseeching
advice: ‘My dear, never have a mission!’
Even Mrs Jellyby may help us in our search, by sending us flying in the
opposite direction. We have had light on our path—hiddenness is the
seal, and unselfishness is the essence, and we are searching for the
heroines of home. Their distinction does not depend, as in fiction,
upon adventures, lovers, or beauty. If it did, they could be heroines
only till the end of youth and volume three; but in the real world they
shall be heroines not only till the time of gray hairs and careworn
brow, but for ever and a day.
There is nothing in creation more beautiful than a true heroine, and
nothing so hard to find. Not that they are scarce. They crowd the world
as daisies dot the summer fields. But they are hidden, and hidden
precisely where a thing wanted is most unlikely to be found—too close
to us, just straight before our eyes. Not in the world of romance,
or in the crush of public life, or in the clear cold air of science;
but in the narrow lane where we started, in the monotonous routine of
common daily life, that seems to be hedged in from all interest—there
are the heroines to be found. Their heroism is made up of trivial
details, the shabby atoms of uneventful life. If it be objected that
the heroic means something greatly above the ordinary level, we would
answer, that their whole life is above the level; that the essence of
heroism—sacrifice—has become to them an unconsciously acting second
nature, and that all that is life-long is surely great. But sometimes
trivial incidents can become in themselves heroic. Whoever heard in a
novel of heroism with a crushed thumb? All the finest things are true.
It is told of the late Viscountess Beaconsfield, that on the night of
an important speech by her husband, then Mr Disraeli, when they were
seated in the carriage together to drive to the House of Commons, the
servant closing the door, crushed her thumb. She uttered no cry, left
the bruise untouched, and acted and spoke as if she was at ease. Hours
after, when she descended from the Ladies’ Gallery, he discovered the
agony she had been enduring, in order not to spoil his speech; and in
after-years, when the Viscountess was dead, he still told the touching
little story in her praise.
But to return to our heroines of commonplace life. Their greatness
does not even need striking incidents. Their worth makes precious
those trivial atoms of which life is composed, and what began as an
unpretending patchwork, ends as a complete and precious picture, like
the splendid mosaics of Venice or Rome. This is why one might defy the
first of novelists to describe the loveliness of such a life; its daily
parts are positively too small to pick up.
For each one of us there is some face enshrined in memory, whose
influence is lofty as an inspiration, whose power is a living power,
whose love has been stronger than death, and will light an upward path
for us even to life’s end. Why is all this but because she whom we
loved was a heroine? And what were her characteristics? One answer will
serve for all—Tenderness, gentleness, self-forgetfulness, suffering.
The last characteristic may not be universal, like the rest. But the
highest love can only exist where suffering has touched the object
loved. It is one of the compensations for the manifold sorrow of this
world of ours. The fire of trial seems to light up every beauty and
attraction. The life that not only loved much but suffered much has a
royal right of influence as long as memory lasts—an influence which
cannot belong to any life which suffering has not crowned.
Now we have sketched our heroine, easily recognisable, but herself
never dreaming or caring to think that she is one, or her glory would
be frail as a bubble. The poorest woman knitting on her cottage
threshold can have this glory for her own; for there is no true-hearted
woman, rich or poor, who cannot walk her simple life lovingly enough
to leave enshrined for others, as a living influence, such a memory as
we have described. And what sceptre has so sweet a power as that—an
immortal influence through the hearts we have loved most? Compared with
this, what is fame but an echo, and what is the heroism of romance but
an unreal shadow!
ARMY SCHOOLS.
The valuable advantages these institutions offer to soldiers and their
children will, we trust, be evident from the perusal of the following
short account of their organisation. With regard to children, these
schools will soon have little to do; for the new system of short
service promises to do away almost entirely with the married soldier.
A soldier is not allowed to marry till he has served seven years,
subject to certain qualifications of good conduct; but as the great
majority of men are passed into the Reserve before they reach that
length of service, the proportion of married soldiers is very small,
and rapidly becoming more and more reduced in number. It is rather with
the men themselves, therefore, that the military schoolmaster and his
assistants have now principally to deal.
Every regiment or depôt has its school. The schoolmasters are trained
at Chelsea; and though non-combatants, they are subject to the usual
army regulations. They now rank as warrant-officers, and, on the
whole, are an able and estimable body of men. Occasionally, educated
and promising young soldiers are selected from the ranks and sent to
the training college to qualify as schoolmasters. Their number is,
however, very limited; the great majority of the schoolmasters enter
the army through the college, joining it as civilians; consequently, a
schoolmaster cannot be reduced to the ranks. If he misconduct himself
seriously, he is liable to be tried by court-martial and dismissed.
Such cases are very rare. The army schoolmaster retires with a
pension on attaining twenty-one years’ service, though, under certain
conditions, it is possible for him to prolong his engagement. If of
more than ordinary ability, he is often promoted to the higher rank and
more important position of Sub-inspector of Army Schools.
Assistants are allowed in these schools according to the numbers in
attendance at them. There is usually one school-assistant to about
every twenty men or children attending. In depôts, where the soldiers
are mostly recruits, the attendance is often very large, with a
correspondingly increased number of assistants. The latter are picked
out from among the better-educated men in a regiment; they receive
extra pay, and are exempt from the ordinary drill and duty of the rank
and file, giving their time and attention to the working of the school
and the details connected with it. Many well-educated men, who are not
otherwise well suited for non-commissioned officers, are employed in
this way in imparting instruction to their more illiterate comrades.
Every recruit on joining a depôt has to attend school until he
satisfies an examiner—sub-inspector—of his familiarity with certain
elementary subjects. Examinations for this purpose are held at
intervals. There are four classes of certificates granted to candidates
on passing the necessary examinations. Supposing a man to be competent
to pass the fourth or lowest standard, he becomes exempt from further
school attendance. But if ambitious of being made a non-commissioned
officer, or of securing one of the other good berths, of which there
are many open to intelligent men, it is advisable for him to hold on
till he gains a higher certificate. For example, to be promoted to the
rank of corporal, the aspirant must be in possession of a third-class
certificate; to attain to a sergeant’s position, he must have one of
the second class. Thus, a considerable proportion of the men in a
regiment are kept under instruction; and as soon as one batch has been
passed out of the school, other candidates appear. A few unfortunates,
entirely destitute of education when they enlist, are often long in
obtaining the desired certificates. After a year or two’s attendance,
they are probably dismissed from school as ‘useless.’ Such hopeless
ignoramuses—happily not so numerous now as formerly—are a bugbear to
the school staff: they soon cease to make any attempt to learn, and
are simply in the way of the more intelligent or persevering men. Of
course, to such, the school-work is a species of punishment. But let us
glance at the quantity and quality of the learning implied in obtaining
the certificates.
To satisfy the examiner, the entirely uncultured youth has in the
first place to set himself resolutely to learn to read. Then he must
be able to write to the extent of transcribing a few lines from a
book. With the mysteries of the four elementary rules of arithmetic he
must display a tolerably intimate acquaintance. To men who can already
read and write, the latter does not prove an insuperable obstacle.
Having furnished a moderately good ‘paper’ on these not very exacting
subjects, he in a few days receives his fourth-class certificate,
and leaves the school in triumph. But if he aspires to a third-class
certificate, a man of this kind has yet much to do. As a matter of
fact, very few attempt more from mere love of self-improvement; an eye
to advancement in the ranks acts as the stimulus to further study.
Writing fairly well to dictation is a part of this next higher step,
and often proves a serious difficulty. Arithmetic will include the
compound rules and reduction; and on a man passing this standard, a
third-class certificate is granted. The possession of this qualifies
the holder for the rank of corporal. But to the corporal, further
promotion is necessary. No corporal would go to so much trouble,
besides having to perform the ordinary duty attached to his rank in
regimental affairs, except as a step towards the coveted chevrons of
the sergeant. To attain sergeant’s rank may be taken as the aim and
ambition of all corporals; and the latter are the men who, as we have
seen, try to get the third-class certificates. But a sergeant must, by
the regulations, have a second-class certificate. To the comparatively
untutored corporal, this object entails his continued use of the
school, and an increased demand of the schoolmaster’s instruction. In
short, to a man whose education has been more or less neglected in
early youth, this second-class test is a pretty stiff one; it requires
a considerable amount of application for a time before he can present
himself for examination with a reasonable chance of passing. He
must be able to write fluently and correctly a moderately difficult
passage to dictation; and take down military orders with due care to
arrangement and spelling. A long list of terms connected with military
matters—such as ‘commissariat,’ ‘aide-de-camp,’ ‘manœuvre’—has to be
written and spelt correctly. The arithmetical part of the examination
consists of the ordinary rules as far as and including decimals.
Besides, he must be able to work out a debt and credit account, a
military savings-bank account, and a mess account. Withal, he must read
with fluency, and write a good legible hand. Such is the necessary
scholastic attainment of the modern sergeant. The ordeal would probably
have terrified his predecessors of a quarter of a century ago.
There remains still the certificate of the First class. This is
obtained by a comparatively small number of men. It enters into
details which would be, to many, insurmountable difficulties; and as
the possession of it is not compulsory for any non-commissioned rank,
it is not much sought after. A few of the originally better-educated
men do, however, go in for it. As a passport to the higher grades of
clerkships, or even to eventual commissions, it is desirable. The
examination includes an extra subject, such as a language, or geometry;
the whole of arithmetic; and a searching test as to spelling and
composition.
The reader will see that, from the above description, the second-class
certificate is the important one to possess. Men having got it, are
available for all the higher kinds of non-commissioned officers, as
colour-sergeants, sergeant-majors, &c. The work of preparing men for
this is perhaps a very important part of the business of the school,
and is generally undertaken mainly by the schoolmaster himself.
In an army school the men are divided into classes according to their
several abilities or stages of advancement. A special class is usually
composed of men preparing themselves for the next examination for
sergeants; another lot looking forward to being made corporals are
engaged in the necessary work for third-class certificates. Then there
are still more elementary classes for men trying to get themselves
exempted from school attendance by passing the fourth class; and
lastly, are the complete ‘ignoramuses’ who are labouring at the
alphabet or assiduously making pot-hooks. The duration of the daily
attendance is from an hour to an hour and a half; but other duties
frequently break in upon this, and men are not able to be present every
successive day. As attendance is compulsory, the men are paraded and
marched to school as for any other duty; but the room is open in the
evening for those anxious to push on with their work—the latter being,
so to speak, volunteers, and nearly all non-commissioned officers.
From this it will be seen that men really desirous of picking up a
serviceable education have ample opportunity of doing so, especially
when we consider the large share of spare time which the soldier has in
ordinary circumstances on his hands.
All the schools are furnished with maps, books, and everything
essential for carrying on their work. Where there are children, they
are supplied with these requisites. Children, however, from being at
one time the more important, have now become a secondary element in
army schools. The present writer was connected with a school having an
average attendance of two hundred men, but no children. This was in
a depôt, and the men were almost without exception recruits. A small
number of children in barracks were sent out to the Board School,
leaving the school staff to devote its whole attention to the adults.
At one time several regiments would have been required to furnish such
a numerously attended school as the above, when recruits came in at the
rate of perhaps about twenty annually. But short service has filled
regiments up with recruits, or at least with very young soldiers,
which, together with other circumstances, has given more ample
employment to the schoolmaster. If we compare the number of recruits
who join a regiment with that of the certificates of education granted
in the same corps, we speedily find that the school department has not
been asleep; and especially is this the case when we consider what is
the educational standard of most men who enlist. We hear a good deal
from time to time concerning the superior class of men that now seek to
enter the army; but, practically, from an educational point of view,
recruits are not so very different from what we have seen for many
years past. It will yet be long before the army schools are abolished.
Among some statistics, we lately noticed some figures relating to
the standard of education of soldiers. In this statement, a large
percentage—fifty-seven per cent. of the whole rank and file—was set
down as of ‘superior education.’ This probably referred to the men in
possession of the two highest kinds of certificates, as holders of the
third class could hardly be included under such a heading. The reader
may perhaps be inclined to smile at the use of such a high-sounding
term; though that such a large proportion of the ranks are educated
even to this degree appears on the whole to be very creditable indeed.
It certainly offers a marked contrast to the state of affairs at no
very remote period.
LIGHTING COLLIERIES BY ELECTRICITY.
This interesting and important experiment has just been tried with
great success at the Park Pit Ocean Collieries, South Wales. The
arrangement consists of a number of Swan incandescent lamps distributed
throughout the workings, both under and above ground, in the workshops
and engine-houses. The bottom of the mine is thus admirably lighted,
and the whole of the workings as far as the main engine roads. The
power is supplied by a six horse-power Marshall engine, fitted with
Hartnell’s patent automatic expansion gear, driving a Crompton-Bürgin
self-regulating dynamo.
We believe we are correct in stating that this is the first attempt
to illuminate the whole of the interior of a colliery pit, and its
workings and offices, by this useful medium; and it is impossible
to over-estimate the value of an incandescent light, and yet one of
extraordinary brilliancy, in such a place as a coal-mine, subject
to the escape of gases which are liable at any moment, on coming in
contact with an unprotected flame, to occasion an explosion involving
terrible and deplorable consequences. Now, this is one source of
danger which the use of this system of lighting prevents; and if this
is found to succeed, it is to be hoped that it may be adopted in all
underground works, where the advantage of a brilliant light to work
by is recognised; a marvellous contrast to the safe but gloomy and
light-obstructing ‘Davy.’ There can really be no reason why this plan
should not be universally applied to mines, unless the objection may be
on the score of expense, for when once the necessary driving-machinery
is built, the rest is simple enough, and the advantages almost untold.
A LAST ‘GOOD-NIGHT.’
Love, I see thee lowly kneeling,
Claspèd hands and drooping head,
While the moonbeams pale are stealing
Sadly round my dying bed.
Dearest, hush thy bitter weeping;
Lay thy tearful cheek to mine,
While the stars, their death-watch keeping,
Softly through the lattice shine.
Through the trees, low winds are sighing,
And my hand, so worn and white,
On thy clustering hair is lying.
Love, my only love, good-night!
Ah! I hear thy broken sobbing.
Faint and low, thy voice hath grown;
And I feel thy fond heart throbbing,
Oh, how wildly, ’gainst mine own!
Dear, my spirit still delaying,
Loves to hover near thee now,
Like the moonbeams fondly straying
O’er thy pallid cheek and brow.
Yes, my soul, to share thy sorrow,
Pauses in its heavenward flight,
And will comfort thee to-morrow.
Love, my dearest love, good-night!