re strung like whipcord; but it is
strange to dignify him as an athlete. If he once rises above nine stone
in weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious and
self-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means so
much to all healthy Englishmen. For some time each day the wondrous
specimen of manhood must stew in a Turkish bath or between blankets; he
tramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in the
morning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea and
toast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and then
he starves until night. To call such a famished lean fellow a follower
of "noble" sport is too much. Other British men deny themselves; but
then think of the circumstances! Far away among the sea of mountains on
our Indian frontier a gallant Englishman remains in charge of his lonely
station; his Pathans or Ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps some
brave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chat
respectfully to the Sahib. But it is all lonely--drearily lonely. The
mountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows may
play out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rush
roaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hear
the hoofs of the brigadier's horse. But what are these desert sounds and
sights for the laboriously-cultured officer? His nearest comrade is
miles off; his spirit must dwell alone. And yet such men hang on at
their dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in their
semi-humorous letters to friends at home? They often carry their lives
in their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chance
goes against them. I call those men noble. There are no excited
thousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour of
mention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out their
own destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire. When I compare them
with the bold sportsmen, I feel something like disgust. The real
high-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reap
very little. The bold man who risked everything to save the _Calliope_
will never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in two
months. That is the way we encourage our finest merit. And meantime at
the "Isthmian games" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease can
enjoy themselves to their hearts' content