"Do you yourself think it was, dear boy?"

"Well, I don't know; I should like to think it was, but I am almost afraid. What should you call it, dear aunt, if it wasn't truly moral courage?"

"I fear, dear Walter, you will think me very hard and unfeeling if I say what I really think."

"Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie--let me hear the truth; you are never really unkind."

"Then, Walter, I should call it obstinacy, and not moral courage. You made a promise, and you would stick to it through thick and thin, let the consequences to yourself and others be what they might, just because you had said it. Was it not so?"

Walter turned red, and looked very uncomfortable, and for a little time made no reply. Then he said hastily, "And what _ought_ I to have done?"

"Well, my boy, in my judgment," replied his aunt, "you ought to have listened to your father, and to have withdrawn your offer, and to have borne patiently the shame and the annoyance this would have brought upon you from your friends Gregson, Saunders, and others."

"Ah, I see; and then I should have shown real moral courage. What's the difference, then?"

"I think, Walter, the difference is just this: in the course you took, your firmness and patience were for an _unworthy_ object; had you taken the other course, they would have been for a _worthy_ object. It seems to me that this makes all the difference. I could not myself call that moral courage which made a man carry through, spite of all hindrances, opposition, and with much personal sacrifice, a purpose which he must know to be unworthy. Now, I will give you an ill.u.s.tration of what I mean by an example. And first, I would remind you that all my heroes. .h.i.therto have been those who showed their moral courage about worthy objects; for instance, Washington, Howard, Colonel Gardiner, the young man in the American revival. But the person whose moral courage I am now going to mention was not on other occasions one of my heroes, but his conduct on one particular occasion is specially to the point just now. For I want you to see, dear boy, that true moral courage is shown, not in sticking to a thing just because you have said it, when you must know that you ought not to have said it, but in giving up what you have said, and bearing the reproach of doing so, when you have become convinced that you have said or undertaken what was wrong. It is duty, in fact, that makes all the difference."

"I see it, auntie; and who's your hero now?"

"Frederick the Great of Prussia, Walter."

"What! the man who ridiculed that good officer's religion?"

"The same; but remember that, while he ridiculed religion, he was constrained to honour that officer for his consistency. But his moral courage was exhibited on a very different occasion. Now, you must remember what sort of a man Frederick was,--he just resembled a spoiled child, who could not brook the slightest thwarting of his will or pleasure. In some things he was a miser, and in others just the reverse. He wore his uniform till it was patched and threadbare, while he gave two dollars each for cherries in the winter. He would pay enormous sums to secure a singer, and then refuse to allow the opera- house to be lighted with wax-candles, so that the pleasure of the evening was spoiled by the smell of tallow. He was, unhappily, well- known in the army for two peculiarities,--first, a temper of such iron unforgiveness that, if he had taken offence at any one, that man's career was closed, he was never employed again; and, second, a memory of such tenacity that not a hope existed of entrapping him into forgetfulness.

"Now, among his officers there was a colonel, a very brave man, and a capital soldier, who, on one occasion, had made some slight military slip or blunder. This drew on him the king's displeasure, and was never forgotten. So his pension or half-pay allowance was made the very lowest his rank would permit; for these allowances were regulated by the king himself.

"The poor colonel had a wife and a large family of children; he did not understand how to make the best of his small income, nor to improve it by other employment, so that he was at last reduced to what was little short of beggary and starvation. Day after day he placed himself in the royal ante-chamber and begged an audience; but the king would not hear him, and one day got into a towering pa.s.sion when the officer-in-waiting ventured to utter the poor man's name in the king's presence. At last the colonel grew desperate. He could not make up his mind to beg; his wife was ill, his children starving,--what was he to do? He hit upon the curious idea of getting relief for his family by putting up, un.o.bserved, in the night time, at the corners of the streets in Berlin, placards breathing the most venomous abuse of the king, in the hope that a reward would be offered to the person who should disclose who was the writer of the placard, that he might then himself claim the reward by informing against himself, and so might relieve the immediate pressing necessities of his wife and children, whatever might be the personal suffering and consequences to himself.

"The plan succeeded. The king, in a transport of rage, offered a reward 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 p.r.i.c.ked; 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 a.s.sembled, 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 n.o.bility 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 n.o.ble 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 coa.r.s.e-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 circ.u.mstances 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 ca.n.a.l men; he wanted them to turn out of his way, or to let him pa.s.s 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 ca.n.a.l; 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 ca.n.a.l."