the highest joy of him who claims a kindred with the gods?

Let us say, then, that true heroism must involve self-sacrifice.
Those stories certainly involve it, whether ancient or modern,
which the hearts, not of philosophers merely, or poets, but of the
poorest and the most ignorant, have accepted instinctively as the
highest form of moral beauty--the highest form, and yet one
possible to all.

Grace Darling rowing out into the storm towards the wreck. The
"drunken private of the Buffs," who, prisoner among the Chinese,
and commanded to prostrate himself and kotoo, refused in the name
of his country's honour: "He would not bow to any China-man on
earth:" and so was knocked on the head, and died surely a hero's
death. Those soldiers of the Birkenhead, keeping their ranks to
let the women and children escape, while they watched the sharks
who in a few minutes would be tearing them limb from limb. Or, to
go across the Atlantic--for there are heroes in the Far West--Mr.
Bret Harte's "Flynn of Virginia," on the Central Pacific Railway--
the place is shown to travellers--who sacrificed his life for his
married comrade:


There, in the drift,
Back to the wall,
He held the timbers
Ready to fall.
Then in the darkness
I heard him call:
"Run for your life, Jake!