Pushing to the Front | Page 3

sent to explore the dreaded pass of St. Bernard.
"Perhaps," was the hesitating reply, "it is within the limits of
possibility."
"FORWARD THEN," said the Little Corporal, without heeding their
account of apparently insurmountable difficulties. England and Austria
laughed in scorn at the idea of transporting across the Alps, where "no
wheel had ever rolled, or by any possibility could roll," an army of
sixty thousand men, with ponderous artillery, tons of cannon balls and
baggage, and all the bulky munitions of war. But the besieged Massena
was starving in Genoa, and the victorious Austrians thundered at the
gates of Nice, and Napoleon was not the man to fail his former
comrades in their hour of peril.
When this "impossible" deed was accomplished, some saw that it might
have been done long before. Others excused themselves from
encountering such gigantic obstacles by calling them insuperable.
Many a commander had possessed the necessary supplies, tools, and
rugged soldiers, but lacked the grit and resolution of Bonaparte, who
did not shrink from mere difficulties, however great, but out of his very
need made and mastered his opportunity.
Grant at New Orleans had just been seriously injured by a fall from his
horse, when he received orders to take command at Chattanooga, so
sorely beset by the Confederates that its surrender seemed only a
question of a few days; for the hills around were all aglow by night
with the camp-fires of the enemy, and supplies had been cut off.

Though in great pain, he immediately gave directions for his removal to
the new scene of action.
On transports up the Mississippi, the Ohio, and one of its tributaries; on
a litter borne by horses for many miles through the wilderness; and into
the city at last on the shoulders of four men, he was taken to
Chattanooga. Things assumed a different aspect immediately. A master
had arrived who was equal to the situation. The army felt the grip of
his power. Before he could mount his horse he ordered an advance, and
although the enemy contested the ground inch by inch, the surrounding
hills were soon held by Union soldiers.
Were these things the result of chance, or were they compelled by the
indominable determination of the injured General?
Did things adjust themselves when Horatius with two companions held
ninety thousand Tuscans at bay until the bridge across the Tiber had
been destroyed?--when Leonidas at Thermopylae checked the mighty
march of Xerxes?--when Themistocles, off the coast of Greece,
shattered the Persian's Armada?--when Caesar, finding his army hard
pressed, seized spear and buckler, fought while he reorganized his men,
and snatched victory from defeat?--when Winkelried gathered to his
heart a sheaf of Austrian spears, thus opening a path through which his
comrades pressed to freedom?--when for years Napoleon did not lose a
single battle in which he was personally engaged?--when Wellington
fought in many climes without ever being conquered?--when Ney, on a
hundred fields, changed apparent disaster into brilliant triumph?--when
Perry left the disabled Lawrence, rowed to the Niagara, and silenced
the British guns?--when Sheridan arrived from Winchester just as the
Union retreat was becoming a rout, and turned the tide by riding along
the line?--when Sherman, though sorely pressed, signaled his men to
hold the fort, and they, knowing that their leader was coming, held it?
History furnishes thousands of examples of men who have seized
occasions to accomplish results deemed impossible by those less
resolute. Prompt decision and whole-souled action sweep the world
before them.

True, there has been but one Napoleon; but, on the other hand, the Alps
that oppose the progress of the average American youth are not as high
or dangerous as the summits crossed by the great Corsican.
Don't wait for extraordinary opportunities. Seize common occasions
and make them great.
On the morning of September 6, 1838, a young woman in the
Longstone Lighthouse, between England and Scotland, was awakened
by shrieks of agony rising above the roar of wind and wave. A storm of
unwonted fury was raging, and her parents could not hear the cries; but
a telescope showed nine human beings clinging to the windlass of a
wrecked vessel whose bow was hanging on the rocks half a mile away.
"We can do nothing," said William Darling, the light-keeper. "Ah, yes,
we must go to the rescue," exclaimed his daughter, pleading tearfully
with both father and mother, until the former replied: "Very well, Grace,
I will let you persuade me, though it is against my better judgment."
Like a feather in a whirlwind the little boat was tossed on the
tumultuous sea, but, borne on the blast that swept the cruel surge, the
shrieks of those shipwrecked sailors seemed to change her weak sinews
into cords of steel. Strength hitherto unsuspected came from
somewhere, and the