of fifty gold pieces to whoever should disclose the offender. But you
may imagine Frederick's amazement when the poor colonel, in ragged
regimentals, and half perishing with hunger, obtained an interview, and
named himself as the guilty libeller.
"And now, how did the king act, when the unhappy officer begged that the
reward might be sent at once to his wife, that she might obtain medical
help for herself and bread for her children? What was such a man as
Frederick likely to do? The colonel, when he confessed his crime,
acknowledged that his life was justly forfeited, and asked no pity for
himself; and had the king acted up to his ordinary rules, he would have
at once ordered the miserable officer off to execution, or, at least,
lifelong imprisonment. But it was not thus that he punished the crushed
and miserable culprit. His heart was touched, his conscience was
pricked; he felt that he had acted wrongly to the colonel in times past,
and that he must now undo the wrong as far as was possible. But then
remember the king's character and habits, especially in military
matters. When he had once said `No,' when he had once resolved upon a
course of policy or action, he was the very last man to alter; the whole
world might go to pieces sooner than he change. And yet, in this
instance, having become thoroughly convinced that he had been treating a
deserving man with injustice, he had the moral courage to reverse his
conduct, to unsay what he had before said, and to incur the risk of
being called fickle or changeable by doing what he now believed to be
the right thing. So he at once laid the poor man on his own couch, for
the colonel had fainted after making his confession. Then he gave him
food, and sent the doctor to his wife and provisions for the children;
and then, having summoned an attendant, he bade him take the colonel's
sword, and consider the officer himself as his prisoner. After this he
sat down and wrote a letter, and, having delivered it to the attendant,
dismissed the unhappy man from his presence.
"The person who now had the colonel in charge was an old friend of his,
who had often tried to put in a kind word for him to the king, but
hitherto without any good result. And now, as he conducted him from the
palace, he said, `You are to be taken to the fortress of Spandau, but,
believe me, you have nothing to fear.' Spandau was a fortress near
Berlin, to which at that time all state prisoners were sent.
"On reaching Spandau, the officer gave his prisoner in charge to the
captain of the guard, while he himself carried the king's sealed order
and the prisoner's sword to the governor of the fortress, who, having
read the king's letter, told the colonel that, although he was his
prisoner, yet he was not forbidden to invite him for once to join
himself and his brother officers at the dinner-table.
"In due time the guests assembled, and with them the poor, half-starved
colonel. But imagine the astonishment of all when, after the dinner was
over, the governor of the fortress read out to the whole company the
king's letter, which ran thus:--`Sir Commandant, I hereby nominate and
appoint the present half-pay colonel, who was this day delivered over to
you as a prisoner, to the command of my fortress of Spandau, and I look
to receive from him in his new service proofs of the same fidelity,
bravery, and attention to duty, and strict obedience, which he so often
exhibited in the late war. The late commandant of Spandau now goes, in
reward of his faithful services, as commandant of Magdeburg.'
"Now I call this, dear Walter, real nobility of conduct, real moral
courage in such a man as Frederick, the courage of acting out his
convictions, when in so doing he was going contrary to those cherished
habits and principles which were part of his very self, and made him in
a degree what he was in the eyes of the world. This was indeed moral
courage, and not weak changeableness or fickleness, because it had a
noble object. To have adhered to his ordinary course in the colonel's
case, when he had become convinced that he had been wronging that
officer, would have been obstinacy and littleness."
"Ay, auntie," said Walter thoughtfully, "I am sure your view is the
right one. So good-bye, laurels, for this time;" saying which, he threw
the boughs among the trees of the shrubbery. As he did so, he felt the
loving arms of Miss Huntingdon drawing him closely to her, and then a
warm kiss on his fair brow.
CHAPTER TEN.
PLUCK.
"Aunt," said Walter, as he sat at her feet, where he had placed himself
after resigning his laurels, "I am afraid you are a little hard to
please--or, at any rate, that I haven't much chance of getting you to
see any moral courage in my unworthy self."
"Why not, dear boy?" she asked; "why should not you exhibit moral
courage as well as any one else?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly; but it's so hard to know precisely what moral
courage is after all, there are so many things that it is not. Now,
what do you say to `pluck,' auntie; is `pluck' the same as moral
courage?"
"That depends upon what you mean by `pluck,' Walter."
"Oh! you must admire pluck. Every true-born Englishman and Englishwoman
admires pluck."
"That may be, my clear nephew. I believe I do admire pluck, as far as I
understand what it is. But you must give me your idea of it, that I may
be able to answer your question about its being the same as moral
courage."
"Well, dear aunt, it is a thoroughly English, or perhaps I ought to say
British, thing, you know. It isn't mere brute courage. It will keep a
man who has it going steadily on with what he has undertaken. There is
a great deal of self-denial, and perseverance, and steady effort about
it. Persons of high refinement, and of very little physical strength,
often show great pluck. It is by no means mere dash. There are plucky
women too--plucky ladies also as well as plucky men. Indeed I think
that, as a rule, there is more true pluck among the weak than the
strong, among the refined than the coarse-grained. Thus you will find
high-bred officers show more pluck and sustained endurance in sieges and
fatigue parties than most of the common soldiers; and so it is with
travellers through difficult unexplored countries. Those who have had
the least of rough training at home, but have given their mind more
thoroughly to the work, will hold out and hold on pluckily when the big
fellows with limbs and muscles like giants give in and knock up. It's
pluck that carries them through. Now, isn't that pretty much the same
as moral courage?"
"Hardly, I think, my dear boy."
"Well, where's the difference?"
"I think the difference lies in this, that, if I understand rightly what
you mean, and what I suppose is commonly meant by pluck, it may be
found, and often is found, where there is no moral element in it at
all."
"I don't quite see it, auntie."
"Do you not? then I must go to examples to show what I mean. I heard
you tell a story the other day at breakfast of what you called a very
`plucky' thing on the part of your friend Saunders."
"What! the fight he had with some bargees? Oh yes, I remember."
"Now, Walter, what were the circumstances of that fight?"
"Ah, I remember; and I think I see what you are driving at, Aunt Kate.
Saunders, who is only a slightly-built fellow, and almost as thin as a
whipping post, got into a row with some of those canal men; he wanted
them to turn out of his way, or to let him pass and go through a lock
before them, and they wouldn't."
"And did he ask them civilly?"
"Nay, Aunt Kate, not he. No, I'm sorry to say he swore at them; for
he's a very hasty fellow with his tongue is Saunders."
"And were the bargemen unreasonably hindering him?"
"I can't say that. They were just going into the lock when he rowed up,
and he wanted them to get out of his way and let him go into the lock
first. I don't think myself that he was right."
"And what happened then?"
"Oh, he abused them, and they wanted to throw him into the canal; at
least they threatened to do so. And then he challenged the biggest of
them to a stand-up fight, and a ring was made and they fought; and
certainly it was a strange thing to see Saunders, with his bare arms
looking no thicker than a hop-pole, tackling that great fellow, whose
right arm was nearly as thick as Saunders's body. Nevertheless,
Saunders didn't shrink; he stood up to the bargee, and, being a capital
boxer, he managed to win the day, and to leave the man he was fighting
with nearly blind with two swollen black eyes. And every one said what
`pluck' little Saunders showed."
"Had the bargeman a wife and children?" asked Miss Huntingdon quietly,
after a few moments' silence.
"What a strange question, auntie!" cried her nephew laughing. "Oh, I'm
sure I don't know. I daresay he had."
"But I suppose, Walter, he was a plain working-man, who got bread for
himself and his family by his work on the canal."
"Oh, of course, auntie; but what has that to do with it?"
"A very great deal, dear boy. There may have been plenty of pluck shown
by your friend Saunders on that occasion, but certainly no moral
courage. Indeed _I_ should call his conduct decidedly immoral and
cowardly."
"Cowardly, aunt!"
"Yes, cowardly, and mean. What right had he to use, or rather abuse,
his superior skill as a pugilist for the purpose of carrying out an act
of wrong-doing, and so to give pain and inflict loss on a plain working-
man who had done him no harm, and had not had the same advantages of
education as himself?"
"O aunt! you _are_ severe indeed."
"Not too severe, Walter. Saunders, you acknowledge, spoke and acted
hastily and improperly at first, and he must have known that he had done
so. Now the true moral courage would have been shown in his confessing
that he was wrong, and expressing sorrow for it."
"What! to a bargee!"
"Yes, to a bargee, Walter. The world might have called him mean or
cowardly for such a confession, but he would have shown true moral
courage and nobility for all that. To do what will give pain to others
rather than incur the reproach of cowardice is really acting under the
tyranny of a mean and slavish fear of man, though it may be a plucky
thing in the eyes of the World."
"Ah, well, auntie, that is certainly a new view of things to me; and I
suppose, then, you would apply the same test to duelling,--affairs of
honour, as they used to be called?"
"Most certainly so, Walter. The duellist is one of the worst of moral
cowards."
"Ah! but," cried the other, "to fight a duel used to be considered a
very plucky thing, and it really was so, auntie."
"I don't doubt it, Walter; but it was a very immoral thing also.
Happily, public opinion has quite changed on the subject of duelling in
our own country, and no doubt this has been owing indirectly to the
spread of a truer religious tone amongst us. But what could be more
monstrous than the prevailing feeling about duelling a few years ago, as
I can well remember it in my young days. Why, duelling was at that time
the highroad to a reputation for courage, and the man who refused to
fight was frowned upon in good society, and in some places scouted from
it. And--I say it with the deepest shame--my own sex greatly helped to
keep up this feeling; for the man who had fought the most duels was,
with the ladies of his own neighbourhood, for the most part, an object
of special admiration and favour.
"And yet, what nobility or moral courage was there in the man who gave
or accepted the challenge? Just think of what the consequences might
be, and what the ground of the quarrel often was. A hasty word, or even
a mere thoughtless breach of etiquette, would bring a challenge; and the
person called out must not decline to meet his challenger, and give him
`satisfaction,' as it was called, in the shape of a pistol bullet, under
pain of being cut by all his friends and acquaintances as a coward. So
a man who was a husband and father would steal away from his home early
in the morning, and go out to some lonely spot and meet the man whom he
had offended, and be murdered in cold blood, and carried back a bleeding
corpse to his miserable widow and fatherless children, just because he
could not bear to be called a coward by the world. And to call this
`satisfaction!' The devil never palmed upon his poor deluded slaves a
more transparent lie.
"Just think of two men, for instance, who had been friends for years,
and in some unguarded moment had used intemperate language towards each
other. Their companions tell them that this is a matter for giving and
receiving satisfaction. So, in perfectly cold blood, with the most
ceremonious politeness, the time and place of meeting are fixed by the
seconds, who make all arrangements for their principals; and at the time
appointed these two men stand face to face, with no malice, it may be,
in either heart, feeling rather that there were faults on both sides,
and at any rate no more wrong done or intended than a little mutual
forbearance and concession might easily set right. And yet there they
stand; at a given signal aim each at the other's heart; and, if that aim
is true, each is murdered by his brother, and hurried in a moment red-
handed into the awful presence of his Maker and Judge. And this used to
be called `satisfaction,' and the man who refused to give it was branded
as a coward. And such was the tyranny of this fashion which Satan had
imposed upon thinking and immortal men, that rarely indeed was a man
found who had the true moral courage to refuse to fight a duel when
challenged to do so."
"Ah then, auntie," said her nephew, "you would give the laurels for
moral courage to the man who declined to fight."
"Certainly I would. Yes, I should have called him a truly noble and
morally courageous man who, in those sad duelling days, should have
declined a challenge on the ground that he feared God rather than man--
that he was willing to brave any earthly scorn and loss rather than be a
cold-blooded murderer and do violence to his own conscience, and break
the laws of his Creator and Redeemer. Such courage as this would be
worth, in my eyes, a thousandfold more than all the `pluck' in the
world."
"Indeed, dear Aunt Kate," said Walter seriously, "I believe you are
right; but can you give me any example of such moral courage?"
"Yes, dear boy, I think I can. I call to mind the case of an excellent
Christian man; I rather think he was an officer in the army, and that
made his position more trying, because in the days when duelling was the
fashion, for an officer to refuse a challenge would have raised up the
whole of the service against him. However, whether he was a military
man or not, he was at any rate a true soldier of the Cross. By
something he had done, or left undone, he had grievously offended a
companion, and this friend or acquaintance of his called on him one
morning, and, being a hot-tempered man, charged him with the supposed
offence or affront, and working himself up into a violent passion,
declared that they must fight it out, and that he should send him a
formal challenge. The other listened very quietly to this outburst of
wrath, and then said calmly and deliberately, `Fight you, must it be?
certainly, I must not decline your challenge. Yes, we will fight, and
it shall be now; here, on this very spot, and with swords. I have my
weapon close at hand.' Saying which, the good man pulled a small Bible
out of his pocket, and holding it up before his companion, whose face
had turned deadly pale, said, `Here is my sword, the sword of the
Spirit, the only weapon I intend to fight you with.' Telling a friend
about it afterwards, the Christian man remarked, `Never did poor
creature look upon a Bible with more satisfaction and relief than my
adversary did on mine.' But at the time when the angry man was
speechless with astonishment, the other proceeded to say to him kindly,
`Friend, I have a dear wife and children. Now, would it have been right
in me to meet you with pistols or other deadly weapons, and to have
entailed lasting misery on those so dear to me, and so dependent on me,
by either being myself your murderer or allowing you the opportunity of
being mine?' That was true moral heroism, dear Walter, and it had its
reward there and then, for the challenger at once grasped the hand of
his companion and said, `It would not have been right on your part; you
have done just what it was your duty to do in declining my challenge,
and I honour you for it. Let us part friends.'"
"Thank you, auntie; I admire your hero immensely. Now, pray give me
another example, if you have one ready."
"I have read a curious story on this subject," replied Miss Huntingdon,
"but I am not sure that it is a true one. I read it in some book years
ago, but what the book was I cannot call to mind. However, the story
may be true, and it may be useful to repeat it, as it just illustrates
my present point about moral courage in reference to duelling. The
story is substantially this:--
"Some years ago, when a regiment was quartered for a time in one of our
county towns, one of the officers of the regiment was challenged by a
brother officer, and refused to accept the challenge. This refusal soon
flew abroad over all the town and neighbourhood, and the consequence was
that every one turned his back on the man who refused to fight. He was
avoided by all of his own rank of both sexes as a craven and a coward.
Of course, he felt this very keenly. To be shut out from houses where
he used to be welcomed; to be looked at with scorn by his brother
officers; to have not a word addressed to him by any one of them when
they met him on parade or at mess; to be the object of ill-concealed
contempt even to the common soldiers;--these things were burdens almost
intolerable to a man who had any respect for his own character as a
soldier. However, for a time he bore it patiently. At last he hit upon
an expedient to prove to the world that he was no coward, which was
undoubtedly original and convincing, though, certainly, by no means
justifiable.
"A large evening party was being given to the officers of the regiment
by some distinguished person in the town; a ball probably, for many
ladies were present. While all were in the very midst and height of
their amusement, suddenly the disgraced officer made his appearance
among them in his dress uniform. How could this be? how came he there?
Assuredly no one had invited him. As he advanced into the middle of the
brilliantly lighted room an empty space was left for him, officers and
ladies shrinking from him, as though his near approach brought
defilement with it. Looking quietly round, he deliberately produced and
held up a hand-grenade, as it was called--that is to say, a small
bombshell--and, before any one of the astonished spectators could stop
him, lighted a match at one of the wax-candles, and applied it to the
fusee of the shell. A shower of sparks came rushing from the hand-
grenade, which would explode in a minute or two or even less. The
consternation of the company was frightful, and a furious and general
rush was made to the doors. As the guests dashed out of the room, some
just caught sight of the officer who had brought in and lighted the
shell standing calmly over it with his arms folded. A few moments more,
all the company had vanished terror-stricken, and then a frightful
explosion was heard. One or two of the officers hurried back with
horror on their faces. The man who had been branded as a coward lay
outstretched on the ground. He had thrown himself flat on the floor the
instant the room was cleared; the fragments of the shell had flown over
him, and he was almost entirely uninjured.
"His object in this extraordinary proceeding was to show his brother
officers and the world generally that a man might refuse, from
conscientious motives, to fight a duel and yet be no coward. I am not
praising or approving of his conduct in taking such a dangerous course
to prove his point; for he was endangering the lives of many as well as
his own life, and nothing could justify that. But, if the story be
true, it shows at least that a man may decline to do an act from a high
sense of duty, so as to bring upon himself the reproach of cowardice,
and yet may be a man of undoubted bravery after all. But I do not at
all place this officer on my list of moral heroes. I trust, however,
dear Walter, that our conversation on this subject will strengthen in
you the conviction that the noblest and truest courage is that high
moral courage which enables a man to endure with patience any scorn, or
loss, or blame, rather than deliberately do what he knows that his
conscience and the Word of God condemn."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
AN EXPLOSION.
It must not be supposed that Walter was prepared to follow out his
brother Amos's moral courage at once and in everything. He was quite
willing to admire this high-toned courage, and was learning to be
content that his brother should enjoy the praise for it which was his
due. He also fully intended to follow in the same steps some day or
other; but then no real and radical change had taken place in his heart
and character, nor had he any deliberate desire to give up old habits
which were dear to him, and adopt new ones which would involve
considerable and sustained self-denial. So he contented himself for the
present with being more kind to his brother, and more careful not to
wound him by rash and unfeeling remarks.
One thing, however, in Amos's conduct sadly puzzled and annoyed him.
Knowing that his brother was well provided with money of his own, he
used not unfrequently to borrow from him when his own allowance ran
short, which it very often did. This borrowing from Amos used to be but
rarely followed by any repayment; for he had been so fully indulged by
his father when younger, that he had no idea, now that he was getting
more from under his father's hand, of denying himself, or going without
anything he might happen to fancy. At first he used to tell the trades-
people in the neighbouring town, when he made any purchases, to put them
down to his father; but to this after a while Mr Huntingdon decidedly
objected--finding, as he did, that expense was no consideration to
Walter in the choice of an article, provided his father had to bear the
cost. So Walter was made to understand that he must make the liberal
allowance which his father gave him _do_, and that there must be no more
running up of bills in Mr Huntingdon's name. But such an arrangement
was very galling to Walter, who had lived all his early boyhood under
the impression that, as being his father's favourite son, he had only to
express a wish, or to ask for or to order a thing, and he would have it
as a matter of course. However, the squire stood firm in the matter.
Walter, he said, was old enough now to understand something of the value
of money, and he must learn to cut his coat according to his cloth.
This coat, however, with Walter was usually of such exaggerated
dimensions that his ordinary allowance of material would go only a small
way towards completing it. Consequently he used to have recourse to
Amos, who invariably helped him through with a loan--for Walter would
never receive help from his brother except as a loan--Amos at the same
time hinting now and then at the hope of a partial repayment. To this
Walter would reply that his brother should have it all back, if he
wished it, "one of these fine days;" but when such seasons of
exceptionally fine monetary weather were likely to occur, Amos found it
difficult to conjecture. A change, however, had now come over the elder
brother, much to the annoyance and disgust of Walter. A decided refusal
of a loan of money was accompanied by Amos with a remonstrance with his
brother on his extravagance.
In a pet, Walter told Amos that he might keep his nasty sovereigns and
shillings to buy toffee for dirty little boys and girls. He was much
obliged to him for his advice, but he knew his own concerns best; and as
for extravagance, it was better to put a little money into the
tradesmen's pockets than hoard it up like a stingy old miser, just to
have the pleasure of saying, "See how rich I am."
To all this Amos made no reply at the time, but afterwards sent his
brother a portion of the sum he wished to borrow, with a kind note, in
which he said that Walter was welcome to this and to all other sums
previously lent, as a free gift, but that for the future he could not
lend him money beyond a few shillings occasionally, as he had a use for
his own funds which made him unable to do for his brother what he had
done for him in times past.