the people of Calais had done him so much damage, and put him to so much expense, that it was proper they should suffer for it; and without doubt these six citizens would have been beheaded had not the queen, on her knees and with tears in her eyes, entreated him to spare them. "Ah, gentle sir," she said, "since I have crossed the sea with great danger to see you, I have never asked one favor; now I most humbly ask, as a gift, for the sake of the Son of the blessed Mary, and for your love to me, that you will be merciful to these six men." The king looked at her for some time in silence, and then said: "Ah, lady, I wish you had been anywhere else but here; you have entreated me in such a manner that I cannot refuse you; I therefore give them to you to do as you please with them." The queen conducted the six citizens to her apartments and had the halters taken from round their necks, after which she newly clothed them and served them with a plentiful dinner; she then presented each with six nobles and had them escorted out of the camp in safety.

This interesting anecdote is not recorded by any contemporary historian. The chronicle of St. Denis, even, says nothing about it. Its truth, however, need not be doubted. That Froissart fails to commend the noble self-sacrifice of the six brave citizens who were willing to give their lives, a ransom for their fellow townsmen, may be accounted for on the ground that he was at the time writing up the heroism of the English, and reserved his praise for their deeds of valor, not those of their victims.

His

Sir Aymery proved himself unworthy the trust reposed in him, for he attempted to sell the town to Sir Geoffrey de Chargny, and Edward found it necessary to again cross the channel and take other means to secure the possession of this important place. He embarked at Dover and came so secretly to Calais that no one knew of his being there. men he placed in ambuscade in the rooms and towers of the castle, and then addressing Sir Walter Manny, said, “Sir Walter, I will that you be chief in this enterprise and I and my son will fight under your banner." Sir Geoffrey was to take possession of the castle on a certain day, and when it arrived he drew up his forces near to Calais, and sent forward Sir Odoart de Rentz, with twentythousand crowns, which were to be given to Sir Aymery as the price of the surrender.

At his approach Sir Aymery let down the drawbridge of the castle and opened one of the gates, through which Sir Odoart and a small party of men, who attended him, passed unmolested. He delivered the crowns in a bag to Sir Aymery, who on receiving them, said he supposed they were all there, but there was no time then to count them. Flinging the bag into a room he locked the door, and bade Sir Odoart follow him to the great tower, that he might at once become master of the castle; on saying this he went forward and pushing back the bolt the door flew open. Now in this tower was the King of England and two hundred men, who immediately sallied forth with swords and battle axes in their hands, at the same time crying out: "Manny, Manny to the rescue! What, do these Frenchmen think to conquer the castle of Calais with such a handful of men!"

around him said: "Gentlemen, if we fly we shall lose all; it will be more advantageous for us to fight valiantly and the day may be ours." "By St. George", said some of the English who were near enough to hear him, "you speak the truth, evil befall him who thinks of flying!" and, so saying, they rushed to the combat. Fierce and bloody was the battle, but it did not last long; the result of it was that the French were quite discomfited and driven to retire. The King of England, who was incognito under the banner of Sir Walter, fought most nobly; he singled out Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont, a strong and valiant knight, who twice struck the king down on his knees, but who was at last himself overpowered and gave up his sword to King Edward, saying; "Sir Knight, I surrender myself your prisoner, for the honor of the day must fall to the English."

This occurred on the last day of December, towards the morning, in the year of grace 1348. When the engagement was over, the king returned to the castle and had his prisoners brought before him. It being the eve of the new year he agreed to entertain them at supper. This he did

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most sumptuously, and when supper was ended he still remained in the hall, among the French and English knights, bare-headed, except that he had on a chaplet of fine pearls. He conversed freely with all present, and after reproving Sir Geoffrey de Chargny for his attempt to steal from him a castle, which had given him so much trouble and cost him such sums of money to acquire, he came to Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont and said, with a smile: "Sir Eustace, you are the most valiant knight in Christendom; I never yet found any one in battle who, body to body, has given me so much to do as you have this day. I adjudge to you the prize of valor." He then took off the chaplet from his own head and, placing it on the head of Sir Eustace, said: "I present you with this chaplet, as being the best combatant this day, and I beg of you to wear it all this year for love of me. I know that you are lively and love the society of ladies and damsels, therefore, tell it wherever you go that King Edward gave this to you. You also have your liberty free of ransom, and may set out tomorrow if you please, to go whither you like." De Vallibus.

I.

THE attempt to treat this subject is made on the request of a friend and not from choice of the writer.

Courage is defined to be that quality of the mind, which enables one to encounter danger and difficulty with resolution and firmness, and without depression or fear. In its extended sense it embraces valor, fortitude, boldness, resolution, bravery, heroism, intrepidity, gallantry, daring, hardihood and firmness.

As shown on the battlefield bravery may be exhibited by the soldier in daring acts. The motive prompting, which may be no higher than monetary reward; or it may be love of country prompted by the most exalted patriotism. Fortitude consists in courting danger and enduring pain with steadfastness. The

nobler phase of fortitude is shown in the resolute determination of the pioneer or explorer who, in the face of the most discouraging difficulties, presses forward with an undaunted spirit. The debased phase is shown by the pugilist, who endures punishment and pain for money and brutish fame.

Valor is war courage, and does not apply to single combats with or without weapons.

Intrepidity is firm and unbroken courage; and gallantry is adventurous courage, courting danger with an undaunted spirit.

True courage, embracing the best phases of all these is that firmness of soul and swell of spirit which, sensing moral or physical danger, meets them without exhibition of fear; because the

spirit in the man completely controls the faculties and masters the physical organization of the man. It is of this mastery of the spiritual over the temporal, out of which is evolved true moral conrage, I shall endeavor to write; for it has a wide field in the common, as well as in the great pursuits and affairs of life. History and observation afford numerous instances in which animals have exhibited wonderful physical courage; and man, in his most savage state, is often, in that respect, the peer of his most highly civilized brother. But that quality of mind which fully exemplifies moral courage, has at no time, of which we have knowledge, been in such general supply as to be justly esteemed an overstock.

For ages the suppression of man's best convictions, whether accomplished through physical coercion or by the adroit manipulation of public opinion, has caused perhaps more injustice and misery than almost any deliberately planned and enforced wrong. The exercise of moral courage does not always encounter physical danger, but it seldom fails to arouse agencies far more threatening in their hidden plans and more hurtful in their secret influences than open attacks could possibly be. A person of ordinary intelligence and of average courage stands some chance of successfully resisting an open, manly encroachment; but it requires great patience, backed by a firm and unbroken spirit, to resist unseen influences, the origin of which is difficult to trace to a responsible source, but which, nevertheless, are as blighting and penetrating as northern blizzards, reaching the marrow of animal life. In a thousand nameless ways the storm-beaten realizes that the chill of death is searching with icy hand his very vitals; even clutching mercilessly at the heart strings; and yet manly courage inspires hope that the smile of God may still trace a silver lining on the face of the angry storm. And thus inspired he struggles on until courage rewards his effort or death seals his mortal career.

The soldier gallantly meeting the shock of battle, gazes unmoved upon the desolations of war, as the life blood of his

comrades beats down the grasses of the field and runs in hot streams at his feet. His eye gleams fiercely amid the sulphurous smoke, rolling sullenly back from the lurid fire belching death from a hundred iron throats. No tear gathers to soften the expression of that awful, fixed, determined gaze, though beholding countrymen mangled and crushed beneath ponderous wheels and iron bound hoofs, rushing on to a resistless charge. The hiss of Minie balls, cutting away human life as hail the grainripened fields, startles his battle-ladened ear no more than the falling rain on dry forest leaves. To him the roll of artillery becomes like the roar of the sea and the wild shriek of the deadly shell is noted as little as the harmless cry of the stormbeaten gull, flying among the dark gathering clouds. At the word of command a thousand, aye! ten thousand heroes, such as he, move forward to storm entrenchments and fatal rifle pits on the hill-side. In solid column they move across the intervening plain, where the awful death-dealing cross-fire from masked batteries pile, in great heaps, the struggling, groaning, mangled mass of the slain; and yet the survivors waver not, but through that hell of fire and death push on to rout and victory. Such is war valor! Ghastly, bloody, heroism. Such valor and heroism as the soldiers of all nations have exhibited in much the same degree.

There have been, and are now millions that could face without fear like ordeals, but who would slink away like whipped curs before a sneer from the lips of that harlot, Public Opinion-the promiscuous mistress of all ages and of most men. Love of God, respect for country, esteem of family, justice, judgment, mercy and truth have each in turn been sacrificed at her unholy, inexorable shrine. Statesmen, philosophers, soldiers and civilians, the rulers and the ruled have, in all ages and among all peoples, feared the lash of her who reigns as Queen of queens. Wherever man dwells, there hath she dominion. In the halls of parliament, congress and cabinets; in courts and councils, in houses, hamlets

filled the gullies and drifted in huge piles along fences and banks. The little log hut was banked in nearly. to the eaves, while the paths to the yard and brushpile looked like great ravines through mountains of snow. Then just before Christmas came clear cold weather. The roads were beaten into splendid sleigh tracks and the highway from the village to the city was often merry with the jingle of bells. Mary often watched from the little window stranger and acquaintance as they drove past in rude country sleighs or brightly painted cutters. Back and forth they went with clatter and laugh, but she --she could but look on from her perch on the hill above. About this time she began to get lonesome. Her father went to the city for work. George and Dick had long ago complained about "working for nothing" and had departed. Roland and little Norah were left, and as work was limited, Mary had much leisure. The nights were the worst. The children to bed, how many hours had she sat gazing into the fire thinking and thinking! It was nothing but thinking. If she had only had books to read; but they were scarce in that house and Mary had read and re-read them all. Down from their dusty shelf the old school-books came, and as she turned their old familiar leaves and recognized the many marks of happy school-days on leaf and cover, 'twas not always that the honest eye was dry.

One evening as Mary stood watching the sun leave a perfect sky, a sleigh came up the road from the city. It contained a merry group of young men and was drawn by four spirited horses. As it neared the bench, it stopped, and Mary was startled to see it leave the road and turn up the hillside path leading to the house. The horses floundered about in the deep drifts, but they were urged on by shout and whip. When it got nearer, she saw that its occupants were all strangers; all but one-Oscar Wilson. Yes, he was with them. What could it mean? The sleigh stopped at the door and Mary could hear her visitors urge someone to go in. "Hold on, fellows, hold on," he answered, "Let's go in decent. I guess I can walk as straight as

the rest of you." It was Oscar's voice. There was a knock. Mary stood perfectly still by the window. "Come in," she said.

The door opened and in stalked the company. Oscar was last. He found a chair and sat down in a corner. The others ranged themselves along the wall, while one of them addressed the figure in the fading light by the window.

"Can you get us some supper?” and the speaker threw two silver dollars on the table.

Mary looked at her visitors steadily till the fact that they were a company of tipsy young men became clear to her. The little shiver of fright had passed and she straightened to her full height. How dared they she thought, 'twas a mere pretence for some studied insult And Oscar was with them and perhaps the ringleader in it all—and the full force of the girl's strength of spirit went out into her answer:

"This is no hotel or bar room. I have no supper for you. You will please not trespass where you are not wanted!"

The one nearest the door gave a silly snicker and bestowed a glance on Oscar as he glided out. The rest followed. Oscar arose and was about to stammer some excuse or explanation when Mary interrupted him:

"Never mind; don't trouble yourself. Your companions are waiting for you outside.”

So outside he went also and the jingle of bells soon told that they were off.

Mary sank into a chair; but only for a moment. What was that commotion outside! Great heavens! The horses were running away, down the hillside! The sleigh, held up for a moment by the hard crust, would dash into the frantic horses' heels, then sink into deep drifts and gullies. In a few moments over it went, pitching some of its occupants in the snow and dragging others along, while the horses kicked and plunged till they freed themselves and disappeared down the road in a cloud of snow. It was an awful sight, and Mary, forgetting all but a desire to help, ran down the path in the gathering darkness to where a motionless