are we pale faces, that we should claim a rival capacity with theirs for heroic deeds?  What matter, if none, below the throne of God, can now identify that nameless negro in the Tennessee iron-works, who, during the last insurrection, said “he knew all about the plot, but would die before he would tell?  He received seven hundred and fifty lashes and died.”  Yet where, amid the mausoleums of the world, is there carved an epitaph like that?

The courage of blood, of habit, or of imitation is not necessarily a very exalted thing.  But the courage of self-devotion cannot be otherwise than noble, however wasted on fanaticism or delusion.  It enters the domain of conscience.  Yet, although the sublimest, it is not necessarily the most undaunted form of courage.  It is vain to measure merit by martyrdom, without reference to the temperament, the occasion, and the aim.  There is no passion in the mind of man so weak, said Lord Bacon, but it mates and masters the fear of death.  Sinner, as well as saint, may be guillotined or lynched, and endure it well.  A red Indian or a Chinese robber will dare the stake as composedly as an early Christian or an abolitionist.  One of the bravest of all death-scenes was the execution of Simon, Lord Lovat, who was unquestionably one of the greatest scoundrels that ever burdened the earth.  We must look deeper.  The test of a man is not in the amount of his endurance, but in its motive; does he love the right, he may die in glory on a bed of down; is he false and base, these things thrust discord into his hymn of dying anguish, and no crown of thorns can sanctify his drooping head.  Physical courage is, after all, but a secondary quality, and needs a sublime motive to make it thoroughly sublime.

Among all these different forms of courage it is almost equally true that it is the hardest of all qualities to predict or identify, in an individual case, before the actual trial.  Many a man has been unable to discover, till the critical moment, whether he himself possessed it or not.  It is often denied to the healthy and strong, and given to the weak.  The pugilist may be a poltroon, and the bookworm a hero.  We have seen the most purely ideal philosopher in this country face the black muzzles of a dozen loaded revolvers with his usual serene composure.  And on the other hand, we have known a black-bearded backwoodsman, whose mere voice and presence would quell any riot among the lumberers,—­yet this man, nicknamed by his employees “the black devil,” confessed himself to be in secret the most timid of lambs.

One reason of this difficulty of estimate lies in the fact, that courage and cowardice often complicate themselves with other qualifies, and so show false colors.  For instance, the presence or absence of modesty may disguise the genuine character.  The unpretending are not always timid, nor always brave.  The boaster is not always, but only commonly, a coward.  Were it otherwise, how could we explain the existence of courage in Frenchmen or Indians?  Barking dogs sometimes bite, as many a small boy, too trustful of the proverb, has found to his cost.  “If that be a friend of yours,” says Branteme’s brave Spanish Cavalier, “pray for his soul, for he has quarrelled with me.”  Indeed, the Gascons, whose name is identified with boasting, (gasconade,) were always among the bravest races in Europe.