Hurrah for New England! / Or, The Virginia Boy's Vacation

by Cornelia L. Tuthill

I asked him what made a hero,—if it was not courage in the time of danger.

"Yes," he said, "but it must be in action, not in words."

I reminded him then of some of the Grecian orators, who made themselves immortal by their speeches, when their country was in danger, and asked if their words were not considered heroic.

This question puzzled him a little, and he was not willing to own that it was a similar case, but I defied him to find a Greek or Roman who had hazarded his life more freely for the good of others than St. Paul. Then I turned to the chapter containing Paul's speech before Agrippa, and asked him where he could match its eloquence. Then I read over the account of the sufferings of this brave Apostle, and demanded of David whether any other man could give a catalogue of so many and great evils so manfully borne. Finally, we reviewed the story of Paul's shipwreck at Melita, and David was forced to avow that my hero showed a calmness and self-possession in that hour of danger which few mariners display.

If I only had had you to help me argue the point, I should have made him own that Paul was very far superior to Alexander the Great.

You must not think, from what I say of David, that New England boys are not as piously brought up as the Virginians; for I believe the generality of them are much better instructed; but you know we have had peculiar advantages, and David has been but little at home with his mother, and his father cannot teach him what he does not himself know. David will be a good man one of these days, and would be better now if he had not the idea that there was something manly in being wicked. I am so glad that I was not brought up to think the same, for I begin to see how true it is, that, the older we grow, the more difficult it is for us to change our course.

There is poor Moody Dick! I really believe he would like to be a better man. They say that he is not more than twenty-five, but I thought that he was over thirty, for his face is wrinkled already, and there are gray hairs around his temples.

Yesterday, David and I were talking about our sisters. I told him all about Nannie, and that I thought she was the prettiest girl in the whole State of Virginia, and that was saying a great deal for her.

He allowed that this might be true, but he had a sister of his own who was a match for her, and began describing her quite like a poet, and then quoted some pretty lines from a piece addressed to a sister, by Mr. Everett, I believe.

The words seemed to touch Moody Dick, who was pacing the deck near us, for he stopped and listened to them with that same distressed expression of countenance which I had noticed before, and when they were finished he said, half unconsciously,—"A sister! I have a sister. There is none like her."