Amid such innocent joys, drinking in poetry at its very fount, several days were passed, each shorter than the one preceding. Their hunger was satisfied with delicious fruits; and when weary, a natural couch of moss received them, and the trees locked their arms together, and bent over them, as if to keep off all harm, if harm could have existed in that place. It seemed that life could glide away in perfect bliss in those gardens of beauty, where naught repulsive or annoying could enter, and delight succeeded delight. Could glide away, did I say?—not there; for in the centre of that Paradise flowed the fountain of eternal youth, and over its brink hung the bush whose magic roses were famed abroad.

The sight of them awoke the sleeping energies of the noble and resolute knight. "And shall I falsify my motto?" said he. "Shall the bliss of the present satisfy me, while so much remains unaccomplished—while might is triumphant over right, innocence is oppressed, and brute force bears rule upon the earth? Shall I lap my soul in indolent ease while the work of life is before me? Not so: still must I seek what is higher, purer, nobler; still must my heart pant for excellence; still must I learn bravely to endure."

Speaking thus, he plucked three roses from the magic tree, and placed them upon his breast, and as the sun approached the western horizon, the comrades drew near to the gate which separated them from the world of common life. The stony barrier opened before the charmed words, and when they had emerged from its gloom, closed again with a clap of thunder. Never since has mortal man profaned those regions of unclouded happiness.

Their little fairy skiff speedily conveyed them to the cave, and with the early morning they resumed their journey. Their route lay, as before, through an attractive country, and the peasants, in picturesque costumes, were engaged in the various labors of rural life: but how changed did all at first appear! It seemed as if scales had fallen off their eyes, showing coarseness and deformity, where previously none had appeared. They had tasted the rapture of a more beautiful life; and now the ordinary toils of humanity appeared "stale, flat, and unprofitable," and common men and women tedious, rude, and mean. But the brave knight struggled against this feeling. "Shall we be so ungrateful, because a glimpse of the earthly paradise has been vouchsafed us, as to sink into idle, repining dreamers? Shall we allow the visions of fancy, or the charms of nature, to steal away our hearts from human sympathy? Rather let these remembered joys excite us to fresh effort; let the useful and the good be ever clad with beauty, in our eyes; let us act as men, strive and be strong in our rightful purposes, sure that in the end the true will ever prove to be the beautiful." He might have said, in the language of a modern poet,

"I slept, and dream'd that Life was Beauty; I woke, and found that Life was Duty: Was then thy dream a shadowy lie? Toil on, sad heart, courageously, And thou shall find thy dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee."

In due time, they arrived at the imperial court. Some important events had taken place during their absence. The splendors of royalty had not been able to preserve the Emperor from a loathsome disease, from which his attendants fled away in horror. The Princess Clotilda could not endanger her beauty by approaching his side; neither did the cares and toils of a sick-bed comport with her views of life. But Edith now took her rightful position, and by her fearless example recalled those around her to a sense of duty. She was her father's gentle, untiring nurse: his wishes were forestalled, his fretfulness soothed, and his thoughts directed to higher things. She rose in her father's love day by day, as he felt her worth; and bitterly did he now think of the undeserved slight with which she had been treated, while the ungrateful Clotilda had been his pride. He was at present recovering from his illness; but he felt himself unequal to the labors of his position, and had seriously resolved to lay down the crown and sceptre, that he might end his days in peace. He had announced the day when his daughters should fix upon one of the suitors for their hands, and when the assembly of barons and knights should decide upon the successor to his throne.

The Knight of the Blooming Rose was gladly welcomed back to court. In the Emperor's presence, he presented the magic flower to each of his fair daughters,—his own bloomed sweetly upon his breast, proving the purity and fidelity of his heart. Edith's cheek was pale, from her late watchings; but never had she looked more lovely than when she placed the rose upon her bosom; her face was glorified by its expression. And Clotilda's ill-concealed scorn and jealousy not only detracted from her queenly beauty, but the flower paled as it touched her breast—pride and worldliness, and every selfish passion, had swayed her being too long, to be repressed at a moment's notice—like the fumes of poison, they were taking away the life of the precious rose. It was impossible that the contrast should not be noticed: comparisons were made which filled the mind of the despotic Clotilda with rage against her unoffending sister; and the more violent her evil passions became, the fainter grew the perfume of her flower, and the more fading its hue. Not all the flattery of her adorers could restore her equanimity; and her face showed, only too plainly, the workings of the evil spirit within.

At last the day approached when the fate of the empire and of so many individuals was to be decided. Clotilda, meantime, consistent in her desire for universal sway, received the homage of all her admirers, but refused to declare her preference until the day of public betrothal—the day when she proudly expected to be hailed as Empress. Her numerous suitors indulged in flattering hopes, each for himself; while all agreed in pitying the delusion of the rest. The electors met in the audience-chamber, which was splendidly decorated for the occasion: all the dignitaries of the State, and the great nobility were assembled, presenting a very imposing spectacle. The Emperor was seated upon a throne, but the crown and sceptre, whose weight he felt himself unequal longer to endure, lay upon a cushion at his side. The people, in a dense mass, thronged the courtyard of the palace, anxious to know the result of the election, and to hail the new lord of the land.

At the appointed hour, the doors were flung open, and the two royal brides entered, followed by their maids of honor. Clotilda, self-possessed in her proud beauty, looked like a queen indeed. She was magnificently dressed, and the pale, scentless rose upon her breast was almost hidden by diamonds. But many there turned their eyes from her handsome, haughty face, to gaze upon young Edith, who leaned upon the arm of her betrothed, the unknown knight. They wondered that they had never before remarked the exquisite delicacy and sensibility of her countenance, the very exponent of the beautiful soul within, which flashed out brightly as if through a transparent covering. When in repose, the calm and happy expression reminded the beholder of the deep purity and peace of the sunny sky—when moved by passing thoughts and feelings, of the same heavens, ever heavenly, over which the fleecy clouds are driven by the wind, in varying shapes and hues. Edith's dress, though elegant, was as simple as consisted with her rank. The pearls and white jasmine in her hair well became her, and the magic rose upon her breast adorned her as no jewels could, and filled the chamber with its rich, refreshing fragrance. As the sisters stood, one on each side of their father, they might well have passed for types of spiritual and sensual beauty—of heaven and earth.

The Emperor arose, and addressed the assembly. He said that the cares of state weighed too heavily upon his feeble old age, and that his most earnest wishes were now directed to a tranquil retirement, in which he should enjoy the leisure he required for preparations to meet the King of kings. That his daughters were before them—he wished to see the diadem encircling the youthful brow of one, whichever they should choose. But well he knew that a firm and valiant arm was needed to sway the sceptre, and that an experienced mind must govern the nation; and therefore it was his will that the Princesses should this day make known their choice of a consort from among the many candidates for their hands. His younger daughter, Edith, had already plighted her faith, with his entire approval, to the stranger knight. No kingdom awaited her, for her betrothed was a landless exile; but the fame of his valor and wisdom had gone throughout the earth—and in the future husband of his daughter he now presented to them one whom he was proud to claim as a son—Arthur, Prince of Britain, the renowned Champion of Christendom!

At these words, shouts of enthusiastic joy rent the hall. When the tumult was hushed, the Emperor called upon the suitors of the Princess Clotilda to come forward. The rival sovereigns approached, among whom the Duke of Milan was conspicuous for dignity and knightly courtesy. All wished him success; but Clotilda passed him by, and placed her hand within that of the Czar. At that moment, a sound was heard throughout the hushed room, resembling somewhat a deep sigh and an expiring groan—it proceeded from the rose, which fell from her bosom, shrivelled and lifeless. An expression of disdainful rage rendered her face almost repulsive, as she noticed the sensation excited by the circumstance, and the cold, gloomy silence with which her choice was received.

After a short conference, the electors reported that they had chosen Arthur of Britain and the Princess Edith to be their lawful sovereigns. Hildebrand then led them to a balcony, and presented them to the people; and loud and enthusiastic were the shouts of the populace: "Long live our Emperor, Arthur the Brave! Long live the good Princess!" The plaudits were echoed far and wide. The achievements of the noble Arthur, and the kind deeds of "The Good Princess," formed the theme of the fireside-tale in the humble cottage, and of the troubadour's lay in castle and banquetting-hall. Arthur, who in Britain was mourned as dead, or as lying in enchanted sleep with his good sword Excalibar at his side, ready to start up to his country's rescue in some hour of future peril—enjoyed, instead, a happier fate. Long and glorious was his reign: the wicked fled away from his presence, like mists before the sun; the upright rejoiced under his protection, and peace reigned throughout all the borders of the Empire. Excalibar was sheathed: no foes dared to invade the land. Brightly and sweetly bloomed the magic roses, which once grew on the same tree in the earthly Paradise, and which were now seldom far asunder; flourishing, in their transplanted state, upon hearts which diffused a moral Paradise of love and purity around them.

And what became of the imperious Clotilda? Enraged at the decision of the electors, and at her father's acquiescence, she soon left the Imperial court to accompany her lord to his distant empire. There her life passed unhappily enough amid the rude magnificence and brutal amusements of the palace. She did not find that Ivan was easily managed, as she had hoped: fools seldom are—it requires a portion of good sense to perceive our deficiencies, and to allow the superiority of others. They became more and more estranged, both giving way to the evil passions most natural to them. Ivan, indulging in sensual pleasures, became more and more brutified; and Clotilda, yielding up her soul to the dominion of pride, hatred, and violence, became so embittered against her unfortunate husband that she compassed his death by violence, and seized the crown, reigning in the name of her infant son, Constantine. And never, under the most despotic sovereigns, had the iron rule been exercised with more unrelenting vigor than during the reign of Clotilda the Terrible. But a day of vengeance was at hand. A secret conspiracy was formed, at the head of which her young son was placed: the palace was seized in the night, and the murderess was hurried away to a distant fortress, where she spent the remainder of her unhappy life—the victim of her own ungoverned passions.

"How I wish that I possessed such a magic rose!" said Alice Bolton. "It might cure my unfortunate pug nose—I should so love to be beautiful!"

"You own such a rose, my dear girl," said her uncle. "It is invisible, but I often perceive its fragrance. Each one of you carries such an indicator of character and feeling about with you, wherever you go. We may as well call it a rose as any thing else."

"But what can you mean, Uncle? do you mean our tell-tale faces?"

"Nothing else. It is one of the many proofs of beneficent design in the formation of our frame, than we can scarcely help giving a timely warning to others of the evil passions which may fill our breasts. The angry man becomes inflamed or livid with rage before his arm is raised to strike—just as the rattle-snake is heard before he darts upon his victim. And so with the gentle and kind emotions. Friendly feeling softens the eye and soothes the heart before the tongue utters a sound. Then take my advice, my dear nephews and nieces, if you wish to be attractive now, seek moral beauty, and the external will follow, in some degree here below, and completely in a better world. You can afford to wait."



CHAPTER IX.

NEW-YEAR'S DAY.—CHARACTERS, OR WHO AM I?—QUOTATIONS.—ACTING CHARADES.—RIDDLES.

"A very happy New-Year to you, Aunt and Uncle!" "The same to you, dear children! and may each one in your lives be happier than the last!" "As the Spaniards say, 'May you live a thousand years!'" cried Charlie Bolton. "I feel glad that wish is an impossible one," answered Mr. Wyndham, with a smile. "How tired the world would be of seeing me, and how weary I should be of life! No, no, my boy—I hope when my season of active labor shall be closed, and I can no more be useful to my fellow-men, that my kind Father in Heaven will grant me a mansion above, where time is swallowed up in eternity."

There was service in the morning in the pretty little country church. Strange that this beautiful and appropriate mode of commencing the New-Year, which is so general in continental Europe, should be frequently neglected here! It appears so very natural, upon entering upon a new division of time, to consecrate its commencement by acknowledgments of our dependence upon the Great Creator. At least, so thought the family party assembled at The Grange; and they were amply rewarded for the effort it cost them by the joyful, hopeful nature of the services, which were intended to lead the soul to repose upon God with unshaken trust for all future time.

In the evening, it was agreed that there should be no story, but that games and conversation should fill up the time. Mary proposed a new game she had heard of, "Characters, or Who am I?" While one left the room, the rest agreed upon some historical personage who was to be represented by the absentee upon his return. When he re-entered, unconscious whether he was a Nero or a Howard, they addressed him in a manner suitable to his rank and character, and he replied in such a way as to elicit further information in regard to the important question, "Who am I?" As he grew more sure of his own identity with the illustrious person whose deeds they alluded to, his answers would become more unequivocal, until at last he could announce that he had solved that difficult problem, "know thyself." An amusing state of puzzle—a dreamy feeling that you might be anybody in the world, was found to pervade the first replies. Cornelia, who led the way in assuming a character, declared that she felt like the little woman in Mother Goose's Melodies,

"If I be's I, as I suppose I be, I have a little dog at home, and he knows me!"

and that when she found out who she really was, it was as grateful to her as was the little dog's joyous bark to the unfortunate woman, doubtful of her own identity.

When Cornelia entered, Mary said to her: "Does your majesty feel very sore from your fall?"

"Very little bruised, indeed."

"Physically, I presume that you feel nothing; but you must suffer mentally," remarked Ellen. "For a queen to be so disgraced, and for a moment's pride to be brought down to the rank of a subject, and of a divorced wife, is indeed a dreadful fate."

"A lofty mind," replied Cornelia, "can bear reverses."

"True," rejoined Charlie. "I rejoice to see your majesty bear up so nobly: it is well that pride can sustain you in adversity, since it occasioned your descent. And yet, do you know, most sovereign lady, I have always entertained the idea that the reason you refused, in obedience to your royal husband's command, to unveil your beauty to the court, was not so much modesty and pride, as the fact of an unfortunate pimple upon your nose, and a sty upon your eye, which had the effect of making you look uncommonly ugly."

"Shame, ungallant sir! never, unless my silver mirror deceived me, did I look more lovely. But if the laws of the Medes and Persians cannot be changed, neither can the modest customs of their women be altered, even at the command of the King, of Ahasuerus himself. I stand here, a martyr to the rights of my sex: I, Vashti, queen of Persia, and of all the ends of the earth, have proved myself to be strong in will, and the champion of womanhood. I shall appear before all eyes as the first asserter of woman's rights. But oh! that Jewish girl! that modest, shrinking, beauteous, hateful Esther! that she should wear my crown!"

"Well done, Cornelia! you have entered into the spirit of the game. And now Charlie should go out, as you caught the idea from him."

Upon Charlie's re-entrance, Alice spoke: "Did Dante's genius inspire you, gifted mortal, or did you sit so long at the feet of Isaiah, that your harp caught up some of the tones of his?"

"Don't know, ma'am, indeed. Couldn't possibly give you any information on that subject. Scarcely knew I was much of a poet until you told me."

"A man like you," said Ellen, "did not write for the unthinking multitude, but for the select number who could appreciate. 'Fit audience, though few,' is what you ask for. How shameful is it that such worth and genius should languish in obscurity, in a pleasure-seeking age! And that, while court minions rolled in luxury, you should sell your glorious poem for the paltry sum of ten pounds!"

"It was really too bad," replied Charlie. "And the money went very fast, too."

"And yet," answered Amy, "you were never of prodigal habits. You lived simply, in the country: your supper was of bread and milk; your greatest pleasure, to play upon the organ, or to listen to the music of others. You retired early to rest: to be sure, you often awoke in the night, your brain so filled with visions of beauty that you felt obliged to arouse your daughter, that she might write them down, and so they were saved for the benefit of future ages."

"What do people think," said Charlie, "about my waking up my daughter, instead of taking the trouble to write down my poetry myself?"

"How could you, when you are stone-blind? And of what great consequence was it that one common-place girl should sleep an hour or two later in the morning, when such strains as yours were in question? A dutiful daughter would feel honored by acting as your amanuensis, even in the night season. True, the girl did grumble occasionally, being afflicted with some portion of human weakness; and those who do not love inspiring strains have called you cross, in consequence. But you should no more regard these things than Samson—your own Samson Agonistes—caved for the mockings of the Philistines."

"Of man's first disobedience"—began Charlie. "Hurrah! I feel quite elevated since I have become Miltonic. And yet, do you know, I would rather wear a strait-waistcoat than try long to sustain such a character as that. I couldn't do it, indeed."

"I think you could not," replied Tom. "Now tell us whose speech gave you the first impression of being Milton?"

"Oh, Amy's, to be sure. So go out, little Amy, and we'll try to find some very angelic character for you to fill."

When Amy returned, Anna spoke: "What remarkable worldly prosperity! And yet, though a strikingly handsome woman, with polished manners, and Italian craftiness, you do not look happy."

"I am not—my heart is not at ease."

"Nor your conscience either," rejoined Charlie. "Unless you have found some way to polish that, to make it match your face and manners, I should think your majesty might find your conscience rather a disagreeable companion."

"My majesty is not accustomed to rebuke."

"I know it—and if I were in France, I should fear that some of your Italian powders might be sprinkled in my food or wine, in consequence. But I wonder when I think of you—a simple duke's daughter—being raised to the throne; and not only that, but of your ruling so absolutely over the three kings, your sons. Mother-in-law to one of the greatest kings of France, and to the most renowned of beautiful, suffering queens, what more do you want to make you celebrated?"

"One thing only," answered Amy. "The Massacre of St. Bartholomew will carry my name down to posterity. My daughter-in-law, Mary, Queen of Scotts, was interesting, but I am great. She could kill one husband: I, Catharine de Medici, will not say how many men groaned out my name that night."

"And now," said Ellen, "let us play Quotations. One quotes a well-known passage from some book, and if another mentions the author, she is entitled to propose the next passage. It all depends for interest upon our cleverness; so brighten up your wits, cousins mine."

"As I'm a poet," said Charlie, "I'll give you this:

'The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.'"

"Shakspeare!" cried Tom. "Now where does this come from: 'the better part of valor is—discretion.'"

"Shakspeare again," replied Alice. "And in what book do you find this passage, which corroborates that noble sentiment:

'He that fights and runs away, May live to fight another day.'"

"In Butler's Hudibras, I believe," rejoined Ellen. "And where may that truth be found, which evidently is intended only for boys and men—'Use every man after his desert, and who shall escape whipping?'"

"Of course it was said by no one else than Will Shakspeare, the deer-stealer—he knew it held good of himself, and was indulgent to others. And who was it that wrote this epitaph:

'Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as can die: Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than can live.'"

"That was 'rare Ben Jonson,' I am sure," replied Alice. "If her pale ghost could have blushed, I think it would, at such lofty and exquisite praise. For my part, I could say, 'Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.'"

"That's Shakspeare again," cried Charlie. "It is surprising how many passages come into one's head from that wonderful man's works. Where is this to be found: 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'"

"In the Bible, of course—though I do not remember in what part," said Mary.

"Think again," replied Charlie, "for you are quite wrong: it can never be found in the Bible."

"Oh, but I'm sure it is there: I'll get a concordance and find the passage in a minute." Accordingly she did so, but was obliged to acknowledge herself defeated: it was nowhere to be discovered.

"Since you are at a loss, I can set you right, for once," said Mrs. Wyndham. "The passage is to be found in Sterne's works: I have myself heard it quoted in the pulpit as from the Bible, and many people really think that it is. Here's another:

'When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.'"

"That's from Shakspeare, I know," answered Tom.

"'Tis from Troilus and Cressida, I imagine—that is a Greek play."

"Then find it, my boy," said Mrs. Wyndham, handing him Mrs. Cowden Clarke's elaborate volume.

"It is not in the whole book," replied Tom, after a diligent search, laying down the volume, with a face as blank as the leaves at the end. "If it is not in Shakspeare, I give up."

"'How poor are they, that have not patience!'" cried Cornelia. "Can you tell us where that piece of wisdom may be found?"

"Yes—in Shakspeare—the same author who writes 'This was the most unkindest cut of all!'"

"I thought of that passage concerning the Greek, which seems to have baffled you all," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham, "because I was once a whole year on the watch to discover it. It happened to be quoted at a little literary gathering, and none of us could tell the author, although it was 'familiar in our mouths as household words.' We agreed to search for it, but it was full a year before I found it, in looking over the play—quite a celebrated one—entitled 'The Rival Queens,' by poor Nat. Lee, commonly called the 'crazy poet.' Alexander the Great is the hero."

"We know so many quotations at second-hand," said Mrs. Wyndham, "that I like this game: it will set us to hunting up the original passages, and seeing their connections. If people would act upon this principle, of going to head-quarters, with regard to history—and in private life too—how many mistakes might be saved."

"And now, just to keep us from becoming too wise," Cornelia chimed in, "I propose that we act charades. A group of us will arrange the plot in the library, and when we open the door, the rest of you must guess from our actions what word we intend to depict. We'll choose one of several syllables, so that there will be repeated opportunities given you to sharpen your wits. And if you should conjecture the whole word before we are through, please not to spoil sport by telling it."

"We are all obedience," was the reply: and Cornelia, Charlie, and George, after a whispered consultation, and a foraging expedition into the housekeeper's room, shut themselves up in the library. Soon the door was thrown open, and the three were seen gravely seated at a small table, sipping imaginary tea, while Cornelia, as hostess, was anxious to fill her part by replenishing their cups. "Tea," "tea," sounded from every part of the room, and the door was closed. When again opened, the three cousins were disclosed in the very height of enjoyment: Charlie's mirth-provoking face, Cornelia's gay laugh, and George's loud and long haw-haw, quite upset the gravity of the spectators, and peal after peal of laughter rewarded the trio. "How merry we are!" said Aunt Lucy. As she spoke the word, the door was shut, showing that the right expression had been used. When re-opened, Cornelia was discovered carefully arranging Charlie's cravat. "Shall I make a sailor's knot, or how shall I fix it?" "Give it a plain tie, if you please." There was little difficulty in discovering that the word was temerity; and to make "assurance doubly sure," the whole of it was acted out. George and Cornelia stood up, holding hands, while Charlie, who had in a marvellously short time metamorphosed himself into a minister, with gown, bands, and book, put to the former the question, "Will you take this woman to be your lawful wife?" "I will," responded George. "Will you take this man to be your lawful husband?" "No, I will not," answered Cornelia, hysterically. "You will not? What, madam, is the reason of this change of purpose? Have you not well considered the matter?" "No, I have not—I have been very rash—I never saw him till yesterday!" "What temerity!" exclaimed the clergyman reprovingly, and the door was closed, amid great laughter.

When it was re-opened, George was found seated in the centre of the room, under the hands of the Doctor, who was examining his eye; while Cornelia, with an appearance of great anxiety, held the light. "Is it out yet?" "No, Doctor: I feel it still—how it hurts!" Thereupon the Doctor produced a formidable instrument from his pocket, and appeared about to gouge out the eye by way of curing it; and the door was closed amid cries of "eye!" "eye!" "eye!"—quite parliamentary, as Charlie said. The second scene disclosed Cornelia apparently engaged in household avocations, which were interrupted by a rap at the door. She gave admittance to a man and boy who were peddling tin wares, and there ensued such a sounding of tin-pans, and such a chaffering about tins, that no doubt could exist in the minds of the spectators as to the word. To act out the third syllable, Cornelia and George were seated at a table, with lamp and books, when a knock was heard, and a traveller, with carpet-bag and umbrella, entered the room. He had lost his way—he was going to the town of Certainty, in the land of Theoretical Speculation, and wanted some plain directions. "Oh, I can tell you exactly how to get there," cried Cornelia. "Keep along this road, the highway of Inquiry, until you find it bends off to the left into the path of Metaphysics. The path becomes narrower and more difficult continually, and many side-walks lead off to other spots: one, to the wilderness of Atheism; another, to the populous city of Thinkasyouplease; still another, to the dangerous bog of Alldoubt. But if you follow the right road, you cannot possibly err." "Much obliged: I'll try to keep the path." Presently, the traveller returned, in a battered condition: he had wandered from the right track; his cloak of philosophical reason had been torn by the briers of difficulty; his feet pierced, through the shoes of intellectual pride, by the sharp stones of suffering: he could not hear of any town of Certainty in the whole country of Theoretical Speculation. "I believe we have all made a mistake," replied George. "We erred in giving you a wrong direction: you erred in following it. Certainty is situated in the land of Truth: follow this highway of Inquiry in the opposite direction, until it leads you to a well-trodden road formed by the juncture of Faith and Facts; and then you cannot fail to reach Certainty. My sister Fancy misled you into error." And when the company in the sitting-room cried out "err," "err," the shutting of the door showed they were not mistaken. For the last scene, Aunt Lucy was called into requisition, and formed the central object of the exhibition. But little wit was required to make, of the whole, the word Itinerant.

"Now for a few puzzles and conundrums," cried Charlie, "I have one which I think none of you can guess. Who are the most immoral of manufacturers? Do you give it up?"

"I have heard the answer—we could not guess it, as it consists of puns," replied Mary. "Those who make you steel pens, and then say they do write."

"Here's another. Why is the clock the most humble of all things?"

"Because it covers its face with its hands, and is continually running itself down."

"When is it in a passion?"

"When it is ready to strike one."

"Pray, what can be the difference between Joan of Arc and Noah's ark?"

"One was made of gopher-wood—the other was Maid of Orleans."

"Two persons met in the street, and one of them said, 'I am your son, but you are not my father.' How could that be?"

"It could not be, Charlie!—how could it?" said Lewis.

"It might be, if the person happened to be his mother," answered Mary, with a laugh.

"It is that, of course—how silly we all are!"

"My first is on the table, and under the table; my second is a kind of grain; my third and fourth combined, form what the most romantic people cannot well dispense with; and my whole is one of the United States."

"Let us see—California? no. Massachusetts will not do, nor Connecticut. Oh, I have it: it is Matrimony—not always a united state, however!"

"You think not, Ellen? Then here is a piece of advice for you, and to make it more emphatic and intelligible, I will write it upon a card."

Be [A] meddling man family wife.



"I have it! eureka!" cried Tom Bolton. "Be above meddling in a family between man and wife."

"Why are pens, ink, and paper like the fixed stars?"

"They are stationary."

"A gentleman visited a prisoner; and, pointing to him, said to the bystanders,

"'Brothers and sisters have I none; But this man's father was my father's son.'

What relationship was there between them?"

"A slight one—only that of father and son," answered Cornelia.

"What glorious fun we have had this week!" cried George. "It will be hard work to go back again to hic, haec, hoc—I wish Christmas holidays could come once a week!"

"So do not I, much as I love them," replied Mr. Wyndham, smiling. "It is the alternation of grave and gay, of diligent study and active duty with lively social intercourse, which will make you complete men and women. I would not have you to be mere drudges, in the most useful work; nor book-worms at home, only in the library, and unfit for mingling with your fellow-men. But much less would I like to see you triflers—butterflies—living only for amusement. I hope you will become earnest men and women: choosing great and good aims in life, and working your way upward continually to greater usefulness, and to a higher moral elevation. But amusement is not wasted time: it may be so indulged as to be improving to the wits, and never to transgress the line of innocency. I have often felt the benefit of a hearty laugh, when my brain has been overtasked: it is recreation, in the strict meaning of the term—it gives new life to the exhausted spirits. Yes, I approve of entertainment, in its place."

"So do I, heartily, my dear sir!" chimed in Cornelia. "And its place is everywhere, I think. I never heard uncle make so long a speech before!"

"Beware, or I will punish you by making another!" replied Mr. Wyndham, drawing the mischievous girl towards him. "But I have news for you all, which I think will scarcely disturb your slumbers. I received a note this afternoon, informing me that the united wisdom of your parents had concluded to prolong your holiday by one day; and so your 'Week's Delight,' as Amy calls it, must be counted by Long Measure—a week and a day."

"Glorious!" cried George. "Let's pack the day as full of fun as ever it will hold. I never shall forget the jolly time we have had this year at The Grange!"

"Not even the ice-bath at the pond, George?" said Cornelia.

"No, indeed; nor my kind deliverance; nor my brave rescuer," answered George.

"That might, indeed, have turned our laughter into weeping," replied Mr. Wyndham, lighting his lamp. "And now, Good-night, and happy dreams!"



CHAPTER X.

WHISPERING GALLERY.—POTENTATES.—THREE YOUNG MEN.

The last day at The Grange had come, and well was it filled up with active exercise and sport, song, laughter, and sweet converse. In the evening all met as usual in the library, eager for whatever amusement might turn up; for everything was impromptu among our young people, and, whether story, games, or conversation, had at least the merit of spontaneity.

"I have a thought," said Alice. "There is a game I would call 'Gossip, or Whispering Gallery,' which can take in the whole of us, and possibly take us all in, in a double sense. Let Aunt Lucy sit in one corner of the room, and Uncle John in another; and we young folks can range ourselves between. Aunty can say anything she pleases in a low whisper to her next neighbor, only she must be careful to name some one; and he must repeat it to a third, and so through the line. The last person must announce distinctly what the whisper was, and settle any differences with Aunt Lucy, who originates the whisper."

"Very good," replied Mrs. Wyndham. "Only it is evident to me that I am going to be victimized!"

"O, you can stand it; you can stand it!" cried out several young voices. "Your character for truth and prudence is established; and with Uncle John at the other end of the line, you need not fear!"

And so the company was arranged, and care taken that no ear heard the "gossip," save the one for which it was designed. The mysterious message was at last announced, amid laughter and shouts from the youngest.

"Aunt Lucy says that Cornelia told her that Charlie reported that John had eaten ten slices of mince-pie to-day. He is very sick, and I'll send him home to his mother."

"But I only said, 'Cornelia and Charlie both told me John hadn't eaten one slice of mince-pie to-day. I'm afraid he is sick, and it is well he is going home to his mother!'

"Rather a difference! But who altered it? It seems to me Cornelia looks mischievous!"

"O, that's a way I have! Poor little me, all the mischief is put on my shoulders! But—honest now—Tom whispered so low, that I thought it might as well be ten slices as one!"

"And now change places," said Alice, "and put Cornelia head as a reward of merit—we'll fix her; and then we can try 'Whispering Gallery' again."

No sooner said than done, and Cornelia started the game by saying to her nearest neighbor, "How sorry I am to leave The Grange! I never was so happy in all my life; and Charlie says so too!"

But the outcome of this very innocent remark was as follows: "How sorry I am I came to The Grange! I never will be happy again in all my life, and Charlie says so, too!"

"Are you sure there was no cheating?" asked Mr. Wyndham.

"No, dear uncle, impossible," replied Cornelia. "I couldn't, and they wouldn't; they are all quite too good for that; every one of them, except, perhaps, Charlie, who is in a peculiar sense my own first cousin. But it seems to be a property of a whisper to be a twister; it is sure to get in a tangle, and comes out quite different from the way you started it."

"Just so," answered up Charlie. "It is like what they say happens in Cincinnati. You put in a grunter at one end of the machine, and in a few minutes it comes out in the form of bacon, hams, lard, sausages, and hair-brushes!"

"My dear Charlie," chimed in his uncle, "that is the loudest 'whisper' I've heard yet! But, seriously, boys and girls, don't you see in the game how evil reports originate, and how easy it is, by the slightest variation from the straight line, to falsify the truth?"

"That's so," said Mary. "And I have often noticed how whispers glide into gossip, and gossip into scandal, before people are aware. I've resolved many a time not to talk about people, but things, and then I'll escape doing harm with my unruly member."

"I, too," said Charlie, demurely, "have frequently written in my copy-book, 'Speak not of the absent, or speak as a friend.'"

"Now for another game," cried Gertrude. "Here is one of mine. I call it 'Potentates.' It's very simple, and you can vary it according to your taste. You visit a foreign country, and see the rulers and grandees; you can mention their names or not, as you wish. I'll begin, to show one way of playing it.

"I went to England and was presented at court. I had a superb dress made for the occasion, which I will not describe, as I see the boys are all ready to laugh. But my father had to wear a special drawing-room suit for the presentation, also, and he looked as funny and quaint as if he had stepped out of an old picture. His sword hung at his side, and he had to practice walking with it, and bowing over it, or it would have played him a trick. It was worse than my long train.

"When my turn came to be presented and the Lord Chamberlain announced my name, I felt like sinking into the ground; but I didn't. I think the dignity of my grand dress supported me. Somehow I reached the throne, where sat in state Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India, Defender of the Faith, etc. On either side were princesses of the blood, ladies of honor, and others according to rank. I had seen my predecessors kneel before Her Majesty, so I had to put my democratic feelings into my pocket and do the same. I made believe to myself that I knelt because she is a pattern woman, is the best queen England ever had, and is old enough to be my grandmother, having reigned fifty years. She graciously extended her hand. I did not shake it, as report says one fair American savage did, but humbly kissed it, and then retreated backward with eyes still fixed upon the Queen in all her glory, and scarcely knowing which gave me the most trouble, my long train or my wounded self-respect.

"I afterwards saw the Prince and Princess of Wales, the Archbishop of Canterbury, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies—a brilliant constellation. But I very much doubt if they saw me. And these are the potentates of Old England."

"As for me," said Charlie Bolton, "I saw the Dey of Algiers, and a very brilliant dey he was! By way of contrast, I determined to visit the Knights of Malta, but on inquiry found that they had not been in existence for nearly ninety years, and therefore gave it up. Instead I concluded to see the Knights of Labor, who abound in this favored land, and appear to be potentates, as they can stop railroad travel, mines, manufactories, etc., at their own sweet will."

"As Charlie was in North Africa," remarked John, "I went to Egypt to be in his neighborhood, and had the privilege of seeing the Khedive. I found the country quite demoralized, the finances in a very bad condition, and few appeared to know who was the real potentate of the land, the Khedive, the Sultan of Turkey, or the money kings of England. General Gordon had been murdered, and El Mahdi, the false prophet, was dead also. Those two men were the greatest potentates Africa has had for centuries!"

"And I crossed over into Turkey," continued Tom Green, "and had an audience with the Sultan. I saw numerous pashas in attendance of one, two, and three tails."

"O, Tom!" cried Gertrude, "that can't be! Even Darwin doesn't claim that for man in the nineteenth century!"

"My dear young friend," answered Tom, "these tails were not carried monkey-fashion, but were insignia of office, the man having three tails holding the highest rank. They are of horse-hair, placed on a long staff with a gilt ball on top, and are always carried before the Pasha on his military expeditions. Always ask for information," said he, bowing to the circle, "and I shall be happy to impart such as is suitable to juvenile minds!"

"Very condescending!" "Deeply interesting!" "Just from college, isn't he?" were some of the remarks of the girls.

"The Grand Vizier presented me," continued Tom. "We had a good deal of pleasant conversation together, the Sultan and I; and I tried to convince him that the republican form of government was the best. Strange to say, my eloquence failed in effect. But he was very friendly, and asked me to stay to tea, and he'd introduce me to his little family—"

"Tom! Tom!" cried several voices, "Do keep probability in view."

"I declined, of course, even at the risk of hurting his feelings. I don't want to see women with thick veils on; some may think it romantic—I know Alice does, for it is so mysterious—but I think it looks as if they were marked with small-pox! Just then, the muezzin sounded for prayers from the nearest minaret, and the Sultan instantly fell prostrate on his rich Turkish rug, and began his devotions. He was just saying, 'Do come, Tom, for'—but he stopped in the midst, and I'll never know what strong inducement he was going to offer; perhaps he wanted me to be Grand Vizier. I slipped out while he was at his prayers."

"O Tom, Tom!" cried John. "I didn't think you could draw so long a bow!"

"It is quite understood that we are indulging in fiction," replied he. "You know that falsehood consists in the intent to deceive. No one will be taken in by my yarns, dear Coz!"

"Nor mine, either," said Cornelia. "For I was in Paris before the French Revolution, at the same time as our philosopher, Benjamin Franklin. I was present at court on a grand occasion. The king, Louis Sixteenth, a handsome and amiable monarch, and the beautiful and graceful queen, Marie Antoinette, were there of course; the young Dauphin was, I hope, sound asleep. The ladies of the court were brilliant, and everything as gay as gay could be. But to my surprise, our plain, simple republican Dr. Franklin was the central object, the 'cynosure of all beholders.' The king was quite secondary. Philosophy was then quite the rage, and republican simplicity—in the abstract—was adored by these potentates. One of the grand, gay ladies crowned Franklin with a wreath of flowers! And he was wonderfully pleased with all the attention he received, I assure you. It was a different scene from any in the Philadelphia of those days—with our staid citizens, and sweet, gentle, modest Quaker ladies in their plain dress!"

"And now," said Amy, "aren't you all tired of potentates? I am. This is our last evening, and I want dear Uncle to tell us a story—something from his own life, if he will—to finish up our pleasures."

"It would finish up your pleasures by putting you to sleep," Mr. Wyndham answered, laughing gayly. "Mine has been an unusually happy life, but not an adventurous one. I was never even in a railroad collision. Do you remember the story of Dr. Samuel Johnson, when writing his 'Lives of the Poets'?"

"Do tell us, Uncle," chimed in the young voices.

"He was trying to get information in a certain case, but could not elicit anything of interest. At last, out of patience, he burst forth: 'Tell me, didn't he break his leg?' I never broke mine; I can't get up an incident."

"And I'm very glad you didn't, Uncle mine," said little Amy. "And now I speak by permission in the name of the assembled company: You are unanimously requested to tell us your life, or something that happened to yourself."

"'Story! Why, bless you, I have none to tell, Sir,' as Canning's needy knife-grinder says. But if you all insist, as a good uncle, I must e'en obey; so prepare for those comfortable slumbers I have predicted. I will call my story

THREE YOUNG MEN.

"Now you must not expect from me," said Mr. Wyndham, "exciting tales of adventure, and hairbreadth escapes by sea and land. I have never read a dime novel in my life, and therefore couldn't undertake to rival them in highway robbery, scalping Indians, and bowie-knives and revolvers. My heroes were never left on a desert island, nor escaped with difficulty from the hands of cannibals, nor were pursued by hungry wolves; and never even saw a lion or tiger except behind the bars of a menagerie. They were not strikingly handsome nor charmingly hideous, nor had they rich uncles to die opportunely and leave them heirs to a few millions; indeed, they were very much such young men as you see every day walking the streets of your own city.

"I would gladly leave my name entirely out of the story if I could; but as it is an 'o'er true tale,' and I happened to be mixed up with the other two, whom I have known from childhood, I am very sure my dear nephews and nieces will not accuse me of egotism. It is the other two who are my heroes—not myself.

"John Howard and Mortimer Willing were my schoolmates, in the same class for years, neighbors and playfellows, so that I know them well. And I speak of them the more freely because they are now both living at a great distance from here, one being the honored Governor of a Western State, and the other residing in a remote town in the interior of Texas. Such are the changes in our land of freedom.

"But to begin with our school-days. We had not a genius in the class, neither had we a dunce; we were average boys, digging our way through the classics and mathematics, and not too familiar with science, history and geography. The world we live in was not much studied then. Such minor knowledge we were somehow expected to pick up at home, and we did after a fashion. I liked both these boys; but while Willing was the more self-possessed, showy and brilliant, I always felt Howard to be the most true; he was the very soul of honor, as transparent as glass without a flaw in it. Willing did things with a dash, and by his superior tact and ready language often appeared to know more than he really did. If he got into a scrape he was pretty sure to get out of it smoothly.

"I have sometimes known him, for example, to go unprepared to a recitation, depending upon his luck not to be called upon to recite, when, with his ready wit and retentive memory, he would gather up what it required hard study for the rest of us to put into our craniums. But it sometimes happened that Dame Fortune, wicked jade! forsook him, and Willing had to march up, as we thought, to certain disgrace. But whatever forsook him, one thing never did—invincible assurance. He would bear himself in so composed a manner, talk round the subject so ably, and bring what little he knew so prominently forward, that the professor himself was often deceived, and was sometimes entrapped into telling the very thing Willing most wanted to know.

"If any side-helps were given by sympathizing friends—for Willing was a general favorite—he availed himself of them without scruple. I remember the question was once put to him, 'What is the Latin name of the earth?' Any boy surely should know that; but for once his memory failed him. He nudged the boy next him, saying in a stage whisper, 'Tell us.' The teacher's ears were quick, and his wit also; he answered, with a quizzical look—before the boy could speak—'That's right, Tellus is one of the names; but you should direct your answer to the desk, and not to your neighbor.'

"In composition he was sometimes brilliant, but not always sustained or original, for I have more than once detected a striking likeness to Addison and other well-known worthies of our English tongue. Evidently the same Muse inspired both, for in style and sentiment they were identical; but unfortunately for Willing, they had the advantage in point of time, and made their mark in the world before he came along. The wonder to me was that the teacher did not see it; but his was not a wide range of scholarship, though thorough in what he taught. His groove was narrow but deep and well worn, I felt indignant when I heard Willing praised for what should have brought him disgrace; but he was so pleasant and ready to oblige, such a good companion and playfellow, that I soon forgot my righteous anger—until next time.

"Another trick of his I could not like. Possibly my young friends may have seen the same; for schoolboy failings are very similar throughout the ages. I don't doubt school-children cheated before the flood! They certainly have done so since. He sat at the same desk with honest Jack Howard, the most unsuspicious of mortals because himself so free from guile. Many a time have I seen him slyly glance at Howard's slate when we were solving hard problems in arithmetic or algebra. They were sure to come out even, neck and neck, as they say. But I knew that if Willing had been called upon to explain the process he couldn't have done it; and he was sure to get the praise.

"As for Howard, he plodded on, never getting all the appreciation he deserved. Always prepared, but not always ready—for he was easily abashed, and then his tongue did not do justice to his thoughts. No fellow in the class—or, as we then said, no man in the class—was so thorough as he, but the teachers did not always find it out. We boys did, however; and we knew, too, that what Jack Howard once got he kept, in the way of mental acquisition. But the best of it was, he was such a solid fellow as to worth. His word was never doubted; we could trust him in everything. 'Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus,' holds true, and the converse is also true, Faithful in one, faithful in all. Howard was true and faithful from the time I first knew him, a little shaver, 'knee-high to a grasshopper,' as children say.

"I'm the more particular in giving you an insight into the character of these boys as a key to their after-life. I know that the child is not always 'father to the man,' and that the insertion of a new and transforming principle into the soul will elevate and ennoble the meanest man. But as a general rule the mainsprings of character develop early, and the man is very much as the child has made him. The sowing then, brings forth a harvest afterwards. They tell us, that two natives of Scotland settled in the far West, and that each took with him a memorial of his fatherland—one the thistle, the national emblem, the other the honey-bee. Rather different sowing that! For while the dwellers on the Pacific coast have to keep up a continual fight with the thistle, the honey of that region is now largely exported, and is worth its millions. A little time has done it—and thistles are especially prolific, you need take no pains in the sowing.

"But we didn't think much of sowing and reaping in those days, though we were sowing all the time. The years flew fast till we had seen seventeen birthdays, and our fathers thought we should learn something of business if we were ever to be business men. Willing had influential connections, excellent abilities, and popular manners; he was a general favorite. He was placed without difficulty in a large importing house, where he gave entire satisfaction, and was rapidly advanced to a position of great trust, collecting moneys and keeping the accounts. His salary was large, and he was considered a rising and prosperous young man; he moved in fashionable society, married a dashing girl, lived in a handsome house, gave elegant entertainments, and kept a horse.

"Howard and I got on more slowly. Somehow, we always kept together, so that 'the two Johns' became a by-word. We were clerks in the same commercial house, and, although self-praise is no recommendation, I may say that both of us did our whole duty. We worked hard, as was then expected; were at the store soon after sunrise, and had everything in order before our employers arrived. Young gentlemen in those days did many things that are now the porter's work, making fires, sweeping the store, etc., quite new duties to us, who were fresh from Academic shades, and from communion with Homer, Virgil, and Horace. I can't say we enjoyed it much. Neither did we like the lifting of heavy packages and being ordered about as if we were inferiors. But we did not shirk our duty, and kept our tempers. John, good fellow, came out of the ordeal sweet-tempered, kind, and obliging; and I don't doubt that we both feel the benefit of this practical training to this day. Certain it is, that we mastered all the details of the business, and knew what to expect from others, when our time came to employ them.

"'The two Johns' went into business together, and for a time everything was prosperous. We married happily, and lived in comfort and moderation, as becomes young people who have to make their way in the world. Meantime we saw less and less of Willing, for in the daytime we were busy, and our evenings were very differently employed. He and his young wife—a pretty and attractive creature she was—cultivated the society of the gay and rich, gave entertainments, or were seen in full dress at balls, concerts, the opera, and the theatre. I sometimes wondered how a clerk on a three-thousand-dollar salary could live at the rate of eight or ten thousand. And so, with all kind feeling, we drifted apart; your dear Aunt and John's wife found their style of living so different, ideas on all subjects so opposite, and friends so dissimilar, that visits were only exchanged once or twice a year.

"When we were about thirty, commercial disasters befel us. A financial crisis swept over the land, by which some houses closely connected with our own were engulfed, and could not meet their engagements. We lost heavily. We struggled through it for a time, but were compelled at last to call a meeting of our creditors, lay our statements and books before them, and offer to give up all we had to satisfy their claims. That was the best we could do, and we then could not pay more than fifty cents on the dollar.

"Our creditors behaved most nobly and generously. They expressed the utmost confidence in our integrity and business skill, uttered no word of blame but much of encouragement, and begged us to go on and retrieve our fortunes. They settled upon fifty cents in the dollar as full satisfaction for our debts, and told us to take our own time for the payment; nothing could have been kinder and more considerate. For my part, knowing we were not to blame, I bore up bravely till that point; but there I broke down. I am not ashamed to say, that I wept like a child.

"Howard was the bookkeeper of our house, and a beautiful set of books he kept. The accounts were exact, the writing clear, the figures unmistakable—not a blot or erasure in the whole. They excited great admiration, and from none more than from Stewart & Gamble, who were prominent creditors. After the meeting, they invited Howard to look over their books in the evening, remarking that although they had all confidence in their head clerk, their receipts had fallen off considerably of late, and as they wished to understand the reason, they had concluded to get the services of an expert, which Howard certainly was. John accepted the offer, although he looked grave when he remembered that Willing had been head clerk for years.

"As our business perplexity was now comparatively settled, we went on as usual, only taking in sail and trimming the boat for the storm. But in our private affairs both families resolved to retrench. Our wives came nobly to our support, proving themselves true women; they themselves proposed to double-up—the two families to occupy one house, and in several ways to reduce our expenses one-half. Such an arrangement would never have answered if we had not all thoroughly understood one another—but we did. My wife is, as you all very well know, a model of amiability and of every household virtue, and the other John thinks as well of his Rib, and I suppose is right. The old saying is, 'If a man wishes to be rich let him ask his wife;' I can add, if a man wishes to be honest and pay his debts, let him ask her counsel, aid and cooeperation also. We were determined to be honest; and our good wives helped us in this effort with all their might.

"How they managed it you can't expect a man to explain—it is a problem too deep for our limited intelligence—but certain it is, that while we always sat down to a plentiful table and maintained a respectable appearance, what had supported one family now answered for two. I don't think our wives were reduced to the straits of the Irish family, whose little boy reported to his schoolmates: 'There's a great twisting and turning going on at our house. I'm having a new shirt made out of daddy's old one, and daddy's having a new shirt made out of the old sheet, and mammy's making a new sheet out of the old table-cloth.' But 'twistings and turnings' of a marvellous kind there must have been, which the male understanding could not fathom; for while the house was always in order, and the two ladies looked as neat as if they had just stepped out of a bandbox, no bills came in, and a little money went a great way.

"One word more about this very practical thing of expense in living. We could have lived on as we had done, and no blame from any one, for we were in no respect extravagant; but we could not reconcile it to our consciences to spend a penny without necessity when we owed money. All four thought alike about that; we were thankful for health, and that we could provide the comforts of life for our young families. As you know, our dear children were then living. And I may here add, that both John and I lived to see the solid benefits accruing from the ten years of strict economy and active work in which all shared. Our boys and girls learned betimes to help themselves and one another, and were invaluable aids to their mothers. The lessons of self-denial were not lost upon them. They attended the public schools and received a solid education there; but the languages were picked up at home, and thoroughly, too. It is astonishing how much can be learned by devoting a short time every day to any study when the heart is in it; and I found that the boys were prepared for college, when our ten years were up, and we were able to spend more freely.

"But meanwhile, what about Willing, and the very mixed accounts of Stewart & Gamble? Alas, alas! how happy was our lot compared with his! We had cheerful content, hope for the future, peace in our consciences. We were respected by those around us, and by the business world, never more so than then. But poor Willing!

"Howard found it as we had feared. There were inconsistencies between the debtor and creditor columns, increasing with each successive year; and the effort had been made to cover them up by the alteration of figures so as to appear square and correct. Howard knew too much of prices to be deceived by these, being in the same business. The aggregate stealings—for it was nothing else—amounted to $20,000! And this was the payment the firm received for their liberal kindness and their blind confidence!

"When all was discovered, and Willing's guilt clearly proved, he was summoned to meet his injured employers. He must have gone with quakings of heart: but not even then did his cool assurance fail him, or the blush rise to his cheek, until he was made conscious that all his trickery was understood, and that public exposure and the penitentiary were before him. Then he gave way, and confessed all. He had not, in the beginning, planned deliberate villany—very few ever do who have been brought up to know the right. But the temptations to extravagance had proved too much for him, and his principles, never strong, had given way. He had taken two hundred dollars, intending to return it from his salary, and none should be the wiser. But fast living is a deceitful thing—almost as deceitful as the human heart. Bills came in fast—store bills, butchers' bills, carriage bills, confectionery bills, milliners' bills—swallowing up his quarter's salary; and one must have ready money, you know; so instead of returning what he had taken, as hope had whispered, he took more—still to be repaid in the future.

"I need hardly say, that each time he yielded to temptation the resistance of his conscience became less and less, until finally it appeared to be paralyzed. He had woven the toils about himself until he seemed powerless to escape; no chrysalis, apparently lifeless in its silky shroud, was feebler than he. He was strong to do evil but weak to do good. Everything conspired to push him down hill—circumstances were against him, he thought—but one thing was certain, he must have money, and then all would be right.

"But how to break the meshes? How to retrieve himself? One way only was clear to him—speculation in stocks, and on a margin; he could borrow money for that, for he would be sure to repay. Borrowing was now the convenient name he applied to his stealing. He tried it, and at first succeeded; the deluded victims of all gambling, whether in the Exchange or in gambling hells, are pretty sure of success at first; and so they are enticed to higher ventures. Now he might have returned the ill-gotten money, and at least have saved his reputation. But no! the gambling passion was now aroused, and he felt sure he could soon realize enough to make him easy. He tried again and for a larger sum and lost.

"And so he went on until he was tangled inextricably in the net, and felt that he was a rascal, and a lost, not a successful one. Remorse seized him, but not repentance; for still he went on in his guilt. Indeed, he was more reckless than ever, struggling to get out of the meshes. Gay to excess at times, then gloomy; his temper became unequal, and to drown reflection he sometimes drank to excess. He was a ruined man—ruined before exposure, for that only opened the eyes of others—his own down-fall had already taken place.

"I am told that when the proofs of his guilt were laid before him, and his confession was made, his pleadings for mercy were most pitiful. Stewart & Gamble had a stern sense of justice, and their indignation was in proportion to their former confidence. They were determined that he should not escape, and that, not so much from personal vengeance as because they thought it wrong to interfere with laws due and wholesome in themselves, and necessary to deter others from evil doing. He was committed to prison, a trial took place, and poor Willing was sentenced to five years in the penitentiary.

"When he first stood up for trial, he Was alone; all the friends of his prosperity had forsaken him. He was thoroughly stricken down, abashed, shame-faced, not lifting his eyes to the crowd in court; and no one of his intimates care to claim acquaintance with a felon. I could not hold back; much as I hated the crime, I could not hate the criminal. My schoolmate, my playfellow, stood there, alone, forsaken, despised; crushed to the ground, ready to despair. I went to him, gave my hand and stayed, while his case was up. Never shall I forget the look of mingled gratitude and hopelessness in his haggard eyes which had scarcely known sleep since his disgrace.

"O, it is well to be just! No doubt of that. The law should be sustained, and no sentimental pity should interfere. We must not condone crime, or the very object of law and penalty will be annulled. Philanthropy should be tender, but not weak; and if tears are shed and bouquets of flowers sent, it should rather be to the victims of crime, than to the criminal. But when a man is crushed with a sense of guilt, and down on the ground, that is not the time to spurn him; when disgrace is added to trouble, friends must not stand aloof. Many a poor fellow is driven to suicide by this course who might have been saved by kindness and brought to repentance.

"Willing's dashing friends, by whose example he had been helped in the downward career, who had eaten his dainty little suppers and enjoyed his society, now forsook him and held up their hands in horror at his conduct—it was so disreputable! I may be wrong, but I can't help despising men and women who share a poor fellow's prosperity and fall off in his adversity; giving an additional kick, if need be, to send him down the hill. Of all his gay companions not one stood by him on his trial, or said one word of pity, hope, or cheer, when he was condemned. The friendship of the world is a hollow thing, more unsubstantial than a bubble. It seems to me that nothing is so hardening to the heart as self-indulgence, luxurious living, idleness, the absence of any high aim in life, or any earnest effort for the life beyond. Certain it is the summer friends all vanished; their friendship wilted like flowers before a frost.

"That was the time for Howard and me to act like men. We were busy, very busy, but we took turns to stand by him, and show that we had not forgotten 'auld lang syne' and boyish days. Poor fellow! he wept then. Well did he know that we would be the last to extenuate his crime, but he saw that we pitied him while we condemned his sin. He spoke the first words of genuine repentance, or what looked like it, then and there.

"After his condemnation, when immured in prison walls, dressed in convict garb, and fed on prison fare, we visited him whenever the rules allowed it. We found him quite broken up—thoroughly humiliated, ready to despair of God's mercy as well as man's forgiveness. He was in the depths of trial, all the waves and the billows had gone over him, the deeps had swallowed him up, as the Psalmist poetically and truly says. We could not in conscience say one word that might lessen the weight of his guilt, but we could point him to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin not of one only, but of the whole world. We could tell him that Christ came, not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance, to which he promptly added, and from the heart, 'Of whom I am chief.'

"Calamity, sorrow, reverses and all the punishments due to iniquity, can never be relied upon to bring men to repentance; but in this case they worked well, and Willing became a new man. It was a great pleasure to us to see the change in his very countenance, wrought out by the inward principle, and that his sorrow, as time went on, was not so much for his punishment and disgrace as for his guilt. He made no effort to get a commutation of his sentence, saying, It was all right; he had deserved that and much more.

"Of course our pity was much excited for his poor little wife, who seemed almost heart-broken. My dear Lucy and John's wife, who had never cultivated intimacy with her in their prosperous days, now came forward in true womanly style, and made her feel that she had sisters in heart, whom she had not known. She had no near kindred, and the few relatives she had held aloof. Truly she might say, 'My lovers and my friends stand aloof from my sore; and my kinsmen stand afar off.' No one offered her help or shelter, of all those who had enjoyed her elegant hospitality.

"Immediately upon the conviction of her husband she wrote to Stewart & Gamble, offering to give up all her handsome furniture and pictures, and even her jewels, as a small indemnity for their losses; but they very nobly refused to accept it, advising her to sell and invest the proceeds. John and I, acting under the direction of our wives, who were enthusiastic in their admiration and pity for Olive Willing in her trouble, told her to pack her trunks at once and come to our house, where we had room enough and to spare, and that we would attend to the sale. She could scarcely believe she heard aright, and was full of surprise and gratitude, and, of course, accepted the offer.

"I don't wonder you think our house was made of gum-elastic; it really seemed so. 'Room in the heart, room in the house," was our motto; and the children most amiably agreed to give up one room and be sociable together; and I fancy they were, from the peals of laughter that often came from that room, so full of young life and spirits. And so poor Olive was settled down as one of the family. It was a new experience to her in every way. The industry of the house surprised her, and from gratitude and a proper ambition she soon sought to help, which really was the best thing she could do to relieve her trouble, and regain a measure of cheerfulness. But she had to learn first, and found two willing teachers in the noble women who had given her a home. She was an apt scholar and soon became mistress of domestic arts, which were indispensable to her in after life. Indeed, what woman should be ignorant of them, if she wishes to be helpful to herself and useful to others? Who would wish to be considered a mere ornamental piece of bric a brac, good to be set upon the mantel or against the wall, but not good for everyday use and comfort? Better be an eight-day clock, for that at least will regulate the goings of the household!

"In these new employments and in our happy home circle Olive in a few months recovered something of her wonted tone. She then formed the plan of putting her hitherto useless accomplishments to work, by taking pupils in music, drawing, and embroidery. We all approved her plan, and Lucy found pupils for her among our friends—not among those who had cast her off. This supplied her with ready money, and with a little increase to the sum John and I had safely invested for her.

"When his five years were accomplished, and Willing was notified that he was once more a free man, we were there to receive him, and conduct him to our house. He entered it, a wiser and a sadder man. We had formed a plan for him into which he and his wife heartily entered, and had already written to correspondents in Texas, to obtain information as to localities for settlement. After a week's rest Willing and Olive left us for their distant home, where they were soon at home on a small ranche stocked with sheep—the whole paid for by the modest sum held in Olive's name. They did well and are much respected. He has been able to enlarge his operations, and is now a thriving man; and what is far better, he is upright, honest; always on the right side; fearing God, and having favor with those who know him.

"But to return to ourselves. We persevered in a strict course of industry and economy, declining help proffered from outside sources. My dear grandfather, who had brought me up after my father's death, was very kind in offering financial aid; but I did not wish to involve any one in my misfortunes, or to cause embarrassment to one I so greatly loved. Besides, I felt confident that we should retrieve our affairs by our own efforts. So it proved. Eight years to a day from the time we attempted to make our assignment to our generous creditors we paid them, not fifty cents on the dollar, but one hundred, with compound interest. It was a glad surprise to them, but a much greater joy to us. O, boys! better it is to step forth clear of debt; to be able to look every man in the eye; to feel that you owe no man anything, than to own the mines of California, Arizona, or the whole of a Pacific Railroad! I cannot describe to you the exquisite pleasure it gave us to pay out that money. Those who have never experienced losses and embarrassments can scarcely understand it.

"We now had a fresh start in business, with a good stock on hand, boundless credit, and no debts. We soon came to the front rank among merchants. Indeed, so successful were we, that on my fiftieth birthday I resolved to retire, feeling that I was rich enough. My dear grandfather, who had entered into rest some years before, had left me The Grange, in which my earliest years had been passed, and here, amid the beautiful scenes of nature, and with still a large scope for my activities, I have enjoyed years of happiness. My dear friend, Howard, had landed property in one of the Western States and fancied there was more elbow-room there for his children who were settling in life; so at last we were obliged to separate. He has risen, as you know, to prominence, being the most popular governor of the State they have had for years, and even political opponents are loud in praise of his integrity and fidelity to trusts.

"I need scarcely say a word to show the meaning of my simple tale. A life of unspotted integrity and honor is the only life worth living; and to love God and keep his commandments is the only safeguard. You may have a good disposition, but that is not enough. You may have been well trained and instructed, but that is not enough. Your father may be the very soul of honor and to be trusted with uncounted gold, but virtue is not an inheritance, and you must be honest for yourself, self-denying for yourself, diligent for yourself, if you wish to build up a character respected by men and pleasing to God. 'Tis true, this is only one part of your duty, but it is a very important part. Truth and rectitude are pillars in family life, and the very bulwarks of society. If these fail, all else fails.

"And now, a pleasant and a dreamless sleep to you all. To-morrow you return to the studies and duties of the new year, which has begun so happily for us all. I dislike to say that word, Farewell, and so I will only wish you now, Good-night!"

THE END