him, the magician's arts would be at an end. The good man, however, beheld him without the least recognition; so did the Emperor; and when he saw them both gazing with unfeigned admiration at the exalted beauty of his former altered self, and not with the old faces of pretended good will and secret dislike, a sense of awe and humility for the first time fell gently upon him. Instead of getting as far as possible from his companion the ape, he approached him closer and closer, partly that he might shroud himself under the very shadow of his insignificance, partly from a feeling of absolute sympathy, and a desire to possess, if not one friend in the world, at least one associate who was not an enemy.

It happened that day, that it was the same day on which, two years before, Robert had scorned the words in the "Magnificat." Vespers were performed before the sovereigns; the music and the soft voices fell softer as they came to the words; and Robert again heard, with far different feelings, "He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble.' Tears gushed into his eyes, and, to the astonishment of the court, the late brutal fool was seen with his hands clasped upon his bosom in prayer, and the water pouring down his face in floods of penitence.

Holier feelings than usual had pervaded all hearts that day. The king's favorite chaplain had preached from the text which declares charity to be greater than faith or hope. The Emperor began to think mankind really brothers. In short, Rome felt that day like angel-governed Sicily.

When the service was over, the unknown King Robert's behavior was reported to the unsuspected KingAngel, who had seen it but said nothing. The sacred interloper announced his intention of giving the fool his discharge; and he sent for him accordingly, having first dismissed every other person. King Robert came in his fool's-cap and bells, and stood humbly at a distance before the strange great charitable Unknown, looking on the floor and blushing. He had the ape by the hand, who had long courted his good will, and who, having now obtained it, clung to his human friend in a way that, to a Roman, might have seemed ridiculous, but to the Angel was affecting.

"Art thou still a king?" said the Angel, putting the old question, but without the word "fool."

"I am a fool," said King Robert," and no king. "What wouldst thou, Robert?" returned the Angel in a mild voice.

King Robert trembled from head to foot, and said, "Even what thou wouldst, O mighty and good stranger, whom I know not how to name,-hardly to look at!"

The stranger laid his hand on the shoulder of King Robert, who felt an inexpressible calm suddenly diffuse itself over his being. He knelt down, and clasped his hands to thank him.

"Not to me," interrupted the Angel, in a grave but sweet voice; and kneeling down by the side of Robert, he said, as if in church," Let us pray."

King Robert prayed, and the Angel prayed, and after a few moments the king looked up, and the Angel

was gone; and then the king knew that it was an Angel indeed.

And his own likeness returned to King Robert, but never an atom of his pride; and after a blessed reign, he died, disclosing this history to his weeping nobles, and requesting that it might be recorded in the Sicilian Annals.

IX

THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT

THOMAS CAMPION

The date of the birth of THOMAS CAMPION is unknown. Toward the end of Elizabeth's reign we hear of him as a popular physician in London. He was buried at St. Dunstan's, Fleet Street, on March 1, 1620. He wrote many delightful lyrics.

The man of life upright,

Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes can not delude,
Nor sorrow discontent:

That man needs neither towers
Nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence:

He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.

Thus scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,

The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

So, when back mine eye,
Pilgrim-like, I cast,

What fearful ways I spy,

Which, blinded, I securely past!
But now heaven hath drawn
From my brows that night;

As when the day doth dawn,
So clears my long-imprisoned sight.

CAMPION.

X

THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

PART I

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, one of America's best authors of fiction, was born on Independence Day, 1804. His writings are finished in style and reveal a rare insight into the humble things of life. The scene of many of his stories is laid in New England; such as "The House of The Seven Gables," "Twice Told Tales," and "The Scarlet Letter." He died May 24, 1864, and he is buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, Massachusetts. Near him are buried Emerson, Thoreau, and Alcott.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child, named Epimetheus, who never had father or mother; and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.

The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box.