Another book which shows the romance and the heroism which still linger upon earth is that large copy of the “Voyage of the Discovery in the Antarctic” by Captain Scott.  Written in plain sailor fashion with no attempt at over-statement or colour, it none the less (or perhaps all the more) leaves a deep impression upon the mind.  As one reads it, and reflects on what one reads, one seems to get a clear view of just those qualities which make the best kind of Briton.  Every nation produces brave men.  Every nation has men of energy.  But there is a certain type which mixes its bravery and its energy with a gentle modesty and a boyish good-humour, and it is just this type which is the highest.  Here the whole expedition seem to have been imbued with the spirit of their commander.  No flinching, no grumbling, every discomfort taken as a jest, no thought of self, each working only for the success of the enterprise.  When you have read of such privations so endured and so chronicled, it makes one ashamed to show emotion over the small annoyances of daily life.  Read of Scott’s blinded, scurvy-struck party staggering on to their goal, and then complain, if you can, of the heat of a northern sun, or the dust of a country road.

That is one of the weaknesses of modern life.  We complain too much.  We are not ashamed of complaining.  Time was when it was otherwise—­when it was thought effeminate to complain.  The Gentleman should always be the Stoic, with his soul too great to be affected by the small troubles of life.  “You look cold, sir,” said an English sympathizer to a French emigre.  The fallen noble drew himself up in his threadbare coat.  “Sir,” said he, “a gentleman is never cold.”  One’s consideration for others as well as one’s own self-respect should check the grumble.  This self-suppression, and also the concealment of pain are two of the old noblesse oblige characteristics which are now little more than a tradition.  Public opinion should be firmer on the matter.  The man who must hop because his shin is hacked, or wring his hand because his knuckles are bruised should be made to feel that he is an object not of pity, but of contempt.

The tradition of Arctic exploration is a noble one among Americans as well as ourselves.  The next book is a case in point.  It is Greely’s “Arctic Service,” and it is a worthy shelf-companion to Scott’s “Account of the Voyage of the Discovery.”  There are incidents in this book which one can never forget.  The episode of those twenty-odd men lying upon that horrible bluff, and dying one a day from cold and hunger and scurvy, is one which dwarfs all our puny tragedies of romance.  And the gallant starving leader giving lectures on abstract science in an attempt to take the thoughts of the dying men away from their sufferings—­what a picture!  It is bad to suffer from cold and bad to suffer from hunger, and bad to live in the dark; but that men could do all these things for six months on end, and that some should live to tell the tale, is, indeed, a marvel.  What a world of feeling lies in the exclamation of the poor dying lieutenant:  “Well, this is wretched,” he groaned, as he turned his face to the wall.