The Red Book of Heroes

Red Book of Heroes, by Leonora
Blanche Lang

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Title: The Red Book of Heroes
Author: Leonora Blanche Lang
Editor: Andrew Lang
Release Date: August 19, 2006 [EBook #19078]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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BOOK OF HEROES ***

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[Illustration: "'Go back,' he said."]

THE RED BOOK OF HEROES
BY MRS. LANG
EDITED BY ANDREW LANG
[Illustration]
WITH 8 COLOURED PLATES AND NUMEROUS
ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. WALLIS MILLS
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1909
All rights reserved

PREFACE
'Life is not all beer and skittles,' said a reflective sportsman, and all
books are not fairy tales. In an imperfect state of existence, 'the peety of
it is that we cannot have all things as we would like them.' Undeniably
we would like all books to be fairy tales or novels, and at present most
of them are. But there is another side to things, and we must face it.
'"Life is real, life is earnest," as Tennyson tells us,' said an orator to
whom I listened lately, and though Longfellow, not Tennyson, wrote
the famous line quoted by the earnest speaker, yet there is a good deal
of truth in it. The word 'earnest,' like many other good words, has been
overdone. It is common to sneer at 'earnest workers,' yet where would
we be without them, especially in our climate?
In a Polynesian island, where the skies for ever smile, and the blacks
for ever dance, earnestness is superfluous. The bread-fruit tree delivers
its rolls punctually every morning, strawberries or other fruits, as nice,
spring beneath the feet of the dancers; the cavern in the forest provides
a roof and shelter from the sun; the sea supplies a swimming-bath, and

man, in time of peace, has only to enjoy himself, eat and drink, laugh
and love, sing songs and tell fairy tales. His drapery is woven of
fragrant flowers, nobody is poor and anxious about food, nobody is rich
and afraid of losing his money, nobody needs to think of helping others;
he has only to put forth his hand, or draw his bow or swing his
fishing-rod, and help himself. To be sure, in time of war, man has just
got to be earnest, and think out plans for catching and spearing his
enemies, and drill his troops and improve his weapons, in fact to do
some work, or have his throat cut, and be put in the oven and eaten.
Thus it is really hard for the most fortunate people to avoid being
earnest now and then.
The people whose stories are told in this book were very different from
each other in many ways. The child abbess, Mère Angélique, ruling her
convent, and at war with naughty abbesses who hated being earnest,
does not at once remind us of Hannibal. The great Montrose, with his
poems and his scented love-locks, his devotion to his cause, his
chivalry, his death, to which he went gaily clad like a bridegroom to
meet his bride, does not seem a companion for Palissy the Potter, all
black and shrunk and wrinkled, and bowed over his furnaces. It is a
long way from gentle Miss Nightingale, tending wounded dogs when a
child, and wounded soldiers when a woman, to Charles Gordon playing
wild tricks at school, leading a Chinese army, watching alone at
Khartoum, in a circle of cruel foes, for the sight of the British colours,
and the sounds of the bagpipes that never met his eyes and ears.
But these people, and all the others whose stories are told, had this in
common, that they were in earnest, though we may be sure that they
did not go about with talk of earnestness for ever in their mouths. It
came natural to them, they could not help it, they liked it, their hearts
were set on two things: to do their very best, and to keep their honour.
The Constant Prince suffered hunger and cold and long imprisonment
all 'to keep the bird in his bosom,' as the old Cavalier said, to be true to
honour. 'I will carry with me honour and fidelity to the grave,' said
Montrose; and he kept his word, though his enemies gave him no grave,
but placed his head and limbs on spikes in various towns