fled front. He will not hear of compromise.

He

will stoop to no concessions. When his nephew writes him that some British officers have been entertained at Mount Vernon as a matter of policy, he writes a rebuke. Let them burn the house if they will; Mount Vernon shall not give shelter to the British!

Heroic? Yes, sublimely heroic. The world has presented no finer spectacle.

And that which is the most inspiring in the glorious example is the fact that Washington's greatness was not due so much to intellect as to character. He was great because he was brave, resolute, pure, devoted, right-minded, and righthearted. From the straight line of duty he was not to be tempted, frightened, discouraged, or misled. And from the oracle of fate he would not take No for answer. He would fight till he won, or till he died. Thus he rose above all rivals—not thinking of rivalry. He became not our greatest intellect, not our greatest statesman, not our greatest soldier, but out greatest man.

CHAPTER XVII

PAUL JONES

WE look out toward the sea, and we wonder whether any light of hope can be there, where the English have so long domineered, and the colonies have neither ships of war nor sailors trained in fight.

Who is this that starts out from his Virginia home to hold "the ocean lists" "against a world in mail"? Henry Cabot Lodge, of Massachusetts, wrote a two-volume history of the American Revolution, gave a page of text to Paul Revere, besides the pages of pictures, and to John Paul Jones he gave-how much? Just one sentence!

Woodrow Wilson wrote a five-volume book; he gaves six pages of pictures and text to "the Boston Massacre "; and to John Paul Jones he gavetwo pages, one for the picture and one for the text.

And yet it would seem that the first naval hero who ever baptized the Stars and Stripes in the fire of ocean battle and ocean triumph - doing it against the greatest sea power on earth-deserved more space in national history than the easy ride of a courier, or the doings of a street mob.

We see the small black-haired, black-eyed youngster start out from old Fredericksburg and begin his work as lieutenant. (December, 1775.)

We see him haul up to the masthead of the Providence "the first flag that ever flew from a regularly commissioned war-ship of the United Colonies of America.”

We see him rise to the command of the ship; and with her cruise for prizes in Newfoundland waters, where he takes sixteen, and wins his earli est laurels. With the Alfred, he again roams the sea for prizes, and gains them. His service to the cause is valuable, even brilliant, but he yearns for larger fields and deeds of greater daring. We see this bold Scotchman beg Congress for a sea-fighter's task; we see him get on board a little wooden tub carrying eighteen guns; and the Ranger steers for the British Isles.

In the Irish Channel she cruises fearlessly; at Whitehaven the glare of burning shipping tells the startled English that the colonies propose to carry the torch across the sea. At Carrickfergus the twenty-gun sloop of war Drake is fought and captured; and the dauntless Jones sails away to France, dragging after him in triumph the British war-vessel and a string of captured merchantmen.

In 1779 we see the colonies retaliate on Great Britain the coast ravages from which America had suffered. It is John Paul Jones who lets England

see from her own homes what war is. With an old patched-up Indianman, hastily converted into a fighting ship, and three other merchantmen turned into war-vessels-all these being furnished us by France-the coasts of Great Britain are thrown into such an excitement as they had not known since the days when Van Tromp swept the Channel with his broom.

Read the introduction to Scott's Waverley, and note how great is the terror of the natives when Jones's little fleet comes sailing into the Frith of Forth. Great, great is the relief when God seems to answer frantic prayers by sending the gale which sweeps Jones out to sea.

Only a few days later he is back again, this time in the river Humber, where again he destroys English vessels. Then comes the immortal fight with the Serapis.

In the annals of war, on land or sea, there is nothing like it—nothing that rivals it in bulldog pluck and intelligent desperation.

The Serapis is a heavier craft than the Bon Homme Richard-carries more guns, better guns, more men, and better men. The hope of the Richard is John Paul Jones. At the very first fire, two of the old guns on the Richard burst, killing a dozen men. All that part of the ship and armament is abandoned. Only the guns on the upper deck can now be used-her 12-pounders throw

ing but 204 pounds on a broadside when the Serapis hurls 300 pounds. So the fight goes on, nearly an hour. Maneuvering for position, both ships cease firing; and the British captain, Pearson, calls out, "Have you struck your colors?"

Through the darkness, for it is night, comes back the voice of Jones, "I have not yet begun to fight!"

Together come the two ships, and Jones lashes them with a rope. The head of the one lies opposite the stern of the other. Grappling-hooks reenforce the hold of the ropes. In deadly embrace the two ships are locked; and now it is such a battle as old ocean has never seen.

Yard-arms interlocked, some of the guns useless for lack of space to handle the rammers, broadsides thunder, and balls rake the decks at pointblank range. Timbers are shivered, cannon torn from carriages, the boards covered with the dying and the dead.

The September moon floods land and sea. On the coast clusters of people watch the battle. The beacon light of Flamborough Head glares across the waters; and those who are on the ships can see the fortress of Scarborough Castle and the English vessels which nestle under its guns.

The Richard seems a beaten ship. One side is blown out where the guns had burst; the decks above had been shattered; one by one the cannon are silenced; from the mainmast aft the whole