L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage.  It means courage of the nerve; vital courage.  That first syllable of it, if you look in Max Muller, you will find really means “nerve,” and from it come “vis,” and “vir,” and “virgin” (through vireo), and the connected word “virga”—­“a rod;”—­the green rod, or springing bough of a tree, being the type of perfect human strength, both in the use of. it in the Mosaic story, when it becomes a serpent, or strikes the rock; or when Aaron’s bears its almonds; and in the metaphorical expressions, the “Rod out of the stem of Jesse,” and the “Man whose name is the Branch,” and so on.  And the essential idea of real virtue is that of a vital human strength, which instinctively, constantly, and without motive, does what is right.  You must train men to this by habit, as you would the branch of a tree; and give them instincts and manners (or morals) of purity, justice, kindness, and courage.  Once rightly trained, they act as they should, irrespectively of all motive, of fear, or of reward.  It is the blackest sign of putrescence in a national religion, when men speak as if it were the only safeguard of conduct; and assume that, but for the fear of being burned, or for the hope of being rewarded, everybody would pass their lives in lying, stealing, and murdering.  I think quite one of the notablest historical events of this century (perhaps the very notablest), was that council of clergymen, horror-struck at the idea of any diminution in our dread of hell, at which the last of English clergymen whom one would have expected to see in such a function, rose as the devil’s advocate; to tell us how impossible it was we could get on without him.

Violet (after a pause).  But, surely, if people weren’t afraid—­ (hesitates again).

L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, and of that only, my dear.  Otherwise, if they only don’t do wrong for fear of being punished, they have done wrong in their hearts already.

Violet.  Well, but surely, at least one ought to be afraid of displeasing God; and one’s desire to please Him should be one’s first motive?

L. He never would be pleased with us, if it were, my dear.  When a father sends his son out into the world—­suppose as an apprentice —­fancy the boy’s coming home at night, and saying, “Father, I could have robbed the till to-day; but I didn’t, because I thought you wouldn’t like it.”  Do you think the father would be particularly pleased?

(Violet is silent.)

He would answer, would he not, if he were wise and good, “My boy, though you had no father, you must not rob tills”?  And nothing is ever done so as really to please our Great Father, unless we would also have done it, though we had had no Father to know of it.

Violet (after long pause).  But, then, what continual threatenings, and promises of reward there are!