Amos Huntingdon | Page 7

his noble and unwavering moral courage. Just think of what he had to contend with. It was enough to daunt the stoutest heart and wear out the most enduring patience. Convinced that somewhere across the ocean to the west there must be a new and undiscovered world, and that it would be the most glorious of enterprises to find that new world and plant the standard of the Cross among its people, he never wavered in his one all-absorbing purpose of voyaging to those unknown shores and winning them for Christ. And yet, from the very first, he met with every possible discouragement, and had obstacle upon obstacle piled up in his path. He was laughed to scorn as a half-mad enthusiast; denounced as a blasphemer and gainsayer of Scripture truth; cried down as an ignoramus, unworthy of the slightest attention from men of science; tantalised by half promises; wearied by vexatious delays: and yet never did his courage fail nor his purpose waver. At last, after years of hope deferred and anxieties which made him grey while still in the prime of life, he was permitted to set sail on what was generally believed to be a desperate crusade, with no probable issue but death. And just picture him to yourself, Walter, as he set out on that voyage amidst the sullen murmurs and tears of the people. His ships were three `caravels,' as they were called,--that is, something the same as our coasting colliers, or barges,--and there was no deck in two of them. Besides, they were crazy, leaky, and scarcely seaworthy; and the crews numbered only one hundred and twenty men, most of them pressed, and all hating the service. Nevertheless, he ventured with these into an ocean without any known shore; and on he went with one fixed, unalterable purpose, and that was to sail westward, westward, westward till he came to land. Days and weeks went by, but no land was seen. Provisions ran short, and every day's course made return home more hopeless. But still his mind never changed; still he plunged on across that trackless waste of waters. The men mutinied--and one can hardly blame them; but he subdued them by his force of character,--they saw in his eye that which told them that their leader was no common man, but one who would die rather than abandon his marvellous enterprise. And you remember the end? The very day after the mutiny, a branch of thorn with berries on it floats by them. They are all excitement. Then a small board appears; then a rudely-carved stick; then at night Columbus sees a light, and next day lands on the shores of his new world, after a voyage of more than two months over seas hitherto unexplored by man, and in vessels which nothing but a special providence could have kept from foundering in the mighty waters. The man who could carry out such a purpose in the teeth of such overwhelming opposition, discouragement, and difficulty, may well claim our admiration for courage of the highest and noblest order."
No one spoke for a moment, and then Mr Huntingdon said, "Well, Kate, Columbus was a brave man, no doubt, and deserves the best you can say of him; and I think I see what you mean, from his case, about the greatness and superiority of moral courage."
"I am glad, Walter, that I have satisfied you on that point," was her reply. "You see there was no sudden excitement to call out or sustain his courage. It was the bravery of principle, not of mere impulse. It was so grand because it stood the strain, a daily-increasing strain, of troubles, trials, and hindrances, which kept multiplying in front of him every day and hour as he pressed forward; and it never for a moment gave way under that strain."
"It was grand indeed, aunt," said Walter. "I am afraid my courage would have oozed out of every part of me before I had been a week on board one of those caravels. So all honour to Christopher Columbus and moral courage."
That same morning, when Miss Huntingdon was at work in her own private sitting-room, there came a knock at the door, followed by the head of Walter peeping round it.
"May I come in, auntie? I've a favour to ask of you."
"Come in, dear boy."
"Well, Aunt Kate, I've been thinking over what you said at breakfast about moral courage, and I begin to see that I am uncommonly short of it, and that Amos has got my share of it as well as his own."
"But that need not be, Walter," said his aunt; "at least it need not continue to be so."
"I don't know, auntie; perhaps not. But, at any rate, what father calls old-fashioned courage is more