HONOUR, a testimony of esteem or submission, expressed by words, actions, and an exterior behaviour, by which we make known the veneration and respect we entertain for any one on account of his dignity or merit. The word honour is also used in general for the esteem due to virtue, glory, and reputation. It is also used for virtue and probity themselves, and for an exactness in performing whatever we have promised; and in this last sense we use the term, a man of honour. But honour is more particularly applied to two different kinds of virtue: bravery in men, and chastity in women.—Virtue and Honour were deified among the ancient Greeks and Romans, and had a joint temple consecrated to them at Rome: but afterwards each of them had separate temples, which were so placed, that no one could enter the temple of Honour without passing through that of Virtue; by which the Romans were continually put in mind, that virtue is the only direct path to true glory. Plutarch tells us, that the Romans, contrary to their usual custom, sacrificed to Honour uncovered; perhaps to denote, that wherever honour is, it wants no covering, but shows itself openly to the world.
The Spanish historians relate a memorable instance of honour and regard to truth. A Spanish cavalier in a sudden quarrel slew a Moorish gentleman, and fled. His pursuers soon lost sight of him, for he had unperceived thrown himself over a garden wall. The owner, a Moor, happening to be in his garden, was addressed by the Spaniard on his knees, who acquainted him with his case, and implored concealment. "Eat this," said the Moor (giving him half a peach), "you now know that you may confide in my protection." He then locked him up in his garden apartment, telling him as soon as it was night he would provide for his
escape to a place of greater safety. The Moor then went into his house, where he had but just seated himself, when a great crowd, with loud lamentations, came to his gate, bringing the corpse of his son, who had just been killed by a Spaniard. When the first shock of surprise was a little over, he learnt from the description given, that the fatal deed was done by the very person then in his power. He mentioned this to no one; but as soon as it was dark retired to his garden, as if to grieve alone, giving orders that none should follow him. Then according the Spaniard, he said, "Christian, the person you have killed is my son, his body is now in my house. You ought to suffer; but you have eaten with me, and I have given you my faith, which must not be broken." He then led the astonished Spaniard to his stables, mounted him on one of his fleetest horses, and said, "Fly far while the night can cover you; you will be safe in the morning. You are indeed guilty of my son's blood: but God is just and good; and I thank him I am innocent of yours, and that my faith given is preserved."
This point of honour is most religiously observed by the Arabs and Saracens, from whom it was adopted by the Moors of Africa, and by them was brought into Spain. The following instance of Spanish honour may still dwell in the memory of many living, and deserves to be handed down to the latest posterity. In the year 1746, when we were in hot war with Spain, the Elizabeth of London, captain William Edwards, coming through the Gulph from Jamaica, richly laden, met with a most violent storm, in which the ship sprung a leak, that obliged them, for the saving of their lives, to run into the Havannah, a Spanish port. The captain went on shore, and directly waited on the governor, told the occasion of his putting in, and that he surrendered the ship as a prize, and himself and his men as prisoners of war, only requesting good quarter. "No, Sir," replied the Spanish governor, "if we had taken you in fair war at sea, or approaching our coast with hostile intentions, your ship would then have been a prize, and your people prisoners; but when, distressed by a tempest, you come into our ports for the safety of your lives, we, the enemies, being men, are bound as such by the laws of humanity to afford relief to distressed men who ask it of us. We cannot even against our enemies take advantage of an act of God. You have leave therefore to unload your ship, if that be necessary, to stop the leak; you may rest here, and traffic so far as shall be necessary to pay the charges; you may then depart, and I will give you a pass to be in force till you are beyond Bermuda; if after that you are taken, you will then be a lawful prize; but now you are only a stranger, and have a stranger's right to safety and protection." The ship accordingly departed, and arrived safe in London.
A remarkable instance of the like honour is recorded of a poor unenlightened African negro, in Captain Snellgrave's account of his voyage to Guinea. A New England sloop, trading there in 1752, left a second mate, William Murray, sick on shore, and failed without him. Murray was at the house of a black named Cudjoe, with whom he had contracted an acquaintance during their trade. He recovered; and the sloop being gone, he continued with his black friend till some other opportunity should offer of his getting home.
Honour. In the mean time a Dutch ship came into the road, and some of the blacks coming on board her, were treacherously seized and carried off as their slaves. The relations and friends, transported with sudden rage, ran into the house of Cudjoe, to take revenge by killing Murray. Cudjoe stopped them at the door, and demanded what they wanted. "The white men," said they, "have carried away our brothers and sons, and we will kill all white men. Give us the white man you have in your house, for we will kill him." "Nay," said Cudjoe, "the white men that carried away your relations are bad men, kill them when you can take them; but this white man is a good man, and you must not kill him." "But he is a white man," they cried; "and the white men are all bad men, we will kill them all." "Nay," says he, "you must not kill a man that has done no harm, only for being white. This man is my friend, my house is his post, I am his soldier, and must fight for him; you must kill me before you can kill him. What good man will ever come again under my roof, if I let my floor be stained with a good man's blood?" The negroes seeing his resolution, and being convinced by his discourse that they were wrong, went away ashamed. In a few days Murray ventured abroad again with his friend Cudjoe, when several of them took him by the hand, and told him, "They were glad they had not killed him; for as he was a good (meaning innocent) man, their God would have been very angry, and would have spoiled their fishing."