id not appeal to him. He loved nature in
her quiet moods best. He was timid and nervous, to such an extent that
the firing off of the cannon, when the colors were lowered at sundown,
would make him jump half out of his boots. It was only by the sternest
sort of self-control that he obtained the mastery of himself.

Not that Charles Gordon was ever a coward. Morally he was
ever-unflinching. He abhorred a lie, and was always ready to stand up
for his convictions. But his physical frame was made of weaker
stuff--much to his own vexation.

One of the few early stories related of him is that he had difficulty
in learning to swim. He could not get the stroke and he had a horror
of being in water over his head. So he made a practise of deliberately
throwing himself into deep water, when out with his mates, knowing that
it was "sink or swim," or a case of getting pulled out. He was then
only nine.

A few years later, another instance reveals his determination. A great
circus was advertised in London, a novelty in those days, and the
Gordon boys had been promised the treat. But just before its arrival,
Charles fell into disgrace. He was charged with some fault which he
did not think should have been laid to his door. Later he was
forgiven, and told that he might attend the circus. But his pride was
aroused, and he refused to go.

When he was ten, the first definite step toward making him a soldier
was taken--for of course, being a Gordon, he must be a soldier. He was
sent to school at Taunton, preparatory to entering, as a cadet, the
Royal Military Academy, at Woolwich. At that time, its commandant was
a veteran of Waterloo, a peppery old chap who had left one of his legs
on the soil of France, as a souvenir. He was a martinet as to
discipline, and Charles, who had become accustomed to doing a good deal
of thinking for himself, came into frequent clashes with him.

One day, the old man said, "Gordon, I am tired of fooling with you.
You are incompetent; you will never make an officer."

The young cadet, a boy of sixteen, gave him look for look, without
quailing--then by way of reply tore his epaulettes from his shoulders,
turned on his heel, and strode out of the room.

Naturally, the guardhouse was next in order, where the culprit could
cool his heels and meditate upon the sinfulness of superior officers.
In this particular case he seems to have blamed it upon the missing
leg, for he remarked, long after