THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

[Enter the King alone, wrapped in a cloak.]

King. No, no, this can be no public road, that's certain. I have lost my way, undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect, I can neither see better, nor walk so well as another man. When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men? His wisdom knows not which is north, and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at, and the beggar himself would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes! Well! in losing the monarch, I have found the man. But hark! somebody is near. What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside then, and let manhood do it.

[Enter the Miller.]

Miller. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there?

King. No rogue, I assure you.

Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun? King. Not I, indeed.

Miller. You lie, I believe.

King. (Aside.) Lie, lie! how strange it seems to me to be' talked to in this style. (Aloud.) Upon my word I do not, sir. Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you?

King. No, indeed, I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off to be sure, and was afraid some robbers were near. Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray who are you? What's your name?

King. Name!

Miller. Name! aye, name.

You have a name, haven't you! Where do you come from, and what business have you here? King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest

man.

Miller. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer. So if you can give no better account

of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, till you

can.

King. With you! What authority have you to-

Miller. The king's, if I must give you an account. Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected person pass this way, unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

King. Very well, sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favor to hear it. Miller. You don't deserve it, I believe, but let's hear what you can say for yourself.

King. I have the honor to belong to the king as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

Miller. This does not sound well; if you have been hunting, pray where is your horse?

King. I have tired my horse so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him.

Miller. If I thought I might believe this now—

King. I am not used to lie, honest man.

Miller. What, live at court and not lie? that's a likely story, indeed.

King. Be that as it will, I speak the truth now, I assure you: and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble (offering money), and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

Miller. Aye, aye, now I am convinced you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in one breath. Here take it again, John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what is right without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to know more of thee.

Miller. Prithee, don't thee and thou me at this rate. I dare say I'm as good a man as yourself, at least.

King. Sir, I beg pardon.

Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only I don't love to be too familiar with you, while your honesty is suspected.

King. You are right. But what else can I do to convince you?

Miller. You may do what you please. It is twelve miles to Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the

road, and direct you as well as I can, or if you will accept of such

poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to
stay here till morning, and then I will go with you myself.
King. And cannot you go with me to-night?

Miller. No, not if you were the King himself.
King. Then I will go with you, I think.

[Enter a courtier in haste.]

Courtier. Is your majesty safe? We have hunted the forest over to find you.

Miller. How! the King! then I am undone. (Kneels.) Your majesty will pardon the ill usage you have received.

[The King draws his sword.]

His majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully.

King. No, my good fellow. So far from having anything to pardon, I am much your debtor. I cannot think but so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honorable knight. Rise up, Sir John Cockle, and receive this sword as a badge of knighthood, and a pledge of my protection; and to support your nobility, and in some measure to requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall be your revenue.

TRUE PATRIOTISM AT THE SIEGE OF CALAIS.

IN 1347, the city of Calais, in France, was besieged by Edward III., king of England, and for more than a year had resisted the utmost efforts of his forces to reduce it. The English made their approaches and attacks without remission but the citizens were as obstinate in repelling them. At length famine did more for Edward than arms. After the citizens had devoured the lean carcasses of their starved cattle, and domestic animals, they fed on boiled leather and vermin. In this extremity they boldly resolved to attack the enemy's camp. The battle was long and bloody, but the citizens who survived the slaughter were obliged again to retire within their gates, their governor having been taken prisoner. On the captivity of the governor, the command devolved upon Eustace de Saint Pierre, the mayor of the city, a man of humble birth, but of exalted virtue. Eustace, seeing the necessity of an immediate capitulation, now offered to deliver the city to Edward, with all the possessions and wealth of the inhabitants, provided he would spare their lives and permit them to depart free.

As Edward had long since expected to ascend the throne of France, he was exasperated to the last degree against the little band whose sole valor had defeated his designs. He therefore determined to take exemplary vengeance upon them, and Sir Walter Manny was sent to inform the wretched inhabitants of his final decision. Consider, replied the governor, that this is not the treatment to which brave men are entitled. If any English knight had been in my situation, Edward himself would have expected the same conduct from him. But I inform you, that if we must perish, we will not perish unrevenged, for we are not yet so reduced, but we can sell our lives at a high price to the victors. Manny was struck with the justness of the sentiment, and he at last prevailed upon Edward to mitigate the sentence. The best terms, however, which he would offer them were, that six of their

most respectable citizens should suffer death.

They were to come

to his camp, bringing the keys of the city in their hands, bare

headed and barefooted, with ropes about their necks. And on these conditions he promised to spare the lives of the remainder. All that remained of the unfortunate inhabitants, were collected in a great square, expecting with anxious hearts the sentence of their conqueror. When Sir Walter had declared his message, consternation and dismay were impressed upon every countenance. To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, when Eustace thus addressed the assembly. My friends, we must either submit to the terms of our unfeeling conqueror, or yield up our wives and daughters, and our tender infants to a bloody and brutal soldiery. Look about you, my friends, and fix your eyes on those you wish to deliver up, the victims of your own safety. Is there any here who has not watched for you, who has not fought and bled for you? Is it your preservers then whom you would destine to destruction? You will not, you cannot do it. There is but one expedient left, a gracious, a glorious, a godlike expedient. Is there any one here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himself as a sacrifice for the safety of his people.

He spoke, but a universal silence ensued. Each man looked around for an example of that virtue and magnanimity in others, which he wished to approve in himself, but had not resolution enough to put in practice. At length St. Pierre resumed: It had been base in me, my fellow-citizens, to propose any suffering to others, which I should have been unwilling to undergo in my own person; but I held it ungenerous to deprive any man of the honor which might attend the first offer on so glorious an occasion. I am willing to be the first to give my life for your sakes; I give it freely, I give it cheerfully. Who comes next? Your son, ex claimed a youth not yet come to maturity. Ah, my child, cried St. Pierre, I am then twice sacrificed. Thy years are few but full, my son, for the victim of virtue has fulfilled the great purpose of his being. Who next, my friends, this is the hour of heroes? Your kinsman! cried John d'Aire. Your kinsman! cried James Wissant. Your kinsman! cried Peter Wissant. Ah! exclaimed Sir Walter Manny, bursting into tears, why was not I a citizen of Calais? The sixth victim was still wanting, and the number of those who pressed forward was so great, that he was supplied by lot.