66

their fans, and the gentlemen bite their mustachios and stare hard at the toes of their boots, while the Duke of Buckingham shook with laughter, and whispered to his next neighbor, " The Duchess hath caught it fair from the little savage, she'd best not meddle with her again. Besides, my Lady hath need to mark her words carefully, for she can no longer take such liberties with the King as when she was the Countess of Castlemaine."

Only His Majesty kept the gravity of his face unmoved, and replied still more kindly to Penelope, "Ay, ye have said aright, the King is here and ye have naught to fear. Now gentlemen," he added, turning to those around, "choose your partners for the brantle. Buckingham, bid the musicians

strike a tune!"

With this there was much moving to and fro. Very noble the procession was, and a great pleasure to see; but there were two in that hall who gave it little heed, those left thus for an instant alone together, the man who ruled it all, and the little rustic who looked on it for the first time: yet somehow Penelope feared the King least of all.

"Tell me," he said in a voice which of itself gave her courage, so kind was it, "is it some sorrow that hath driven you thus overseas, my child? Your face is too sad for one so young, and surely you have ne'er made such a journey without grave occasion.”

“The time and place, Your Majesty," answered Penelope, "scarce befit my sad story, else would I crave the boon of laying it before you."

"You say

The maid choked and could say no more. truly," said the King, "that this is neither the time nor the place; but we will set a time and find a place for the hearing. Mr. Pepys," he added, turning to that gentleman, who, courtier like, stood just near enough to catch what was going forward without appearing to hear, " ye have twice written asking permission to come kiss our hand. Your petition is granted; we will arrange an audience both for you and your niece. Let it be to-morrow - to-morrow is mortgaged to the ambassadors of Spain and Sweden. We will say Friday -no, Friday is unlucky; and on Saturday I go a hunting at Windsor. Well, ye shall hear of the time later."

stay

Pepys would fain have burst out with a florid speech of gratitude, but the King cut him short and bade him make

ready to take his niece in to supper, whither he shortly led the way with a lady whose beauty was so dazzling that it fairly took away Penelope's breath. She was dressed as Britannia, with a burnished helmet from which rose a great cluster of white ostrich plumes, whose whiteness could not surpass the brow beneath, or the neck, bare save for a shower of raven-black curls which fell over it. Her breastplate was of beaten gold, with a group of pearls in the center worth a man's ransom, and her mantle was caught at the shoulder with a brooch of rubies, and the sheer lawn of the sleeve was bound above the elbow with a band of gems which flashed in Penelope's eyes as the radiant vision passed.

"Who is she? O uncle, who is she, that lovely lady, queenlier than the queen, whose beauty strikes me breathless?"

"Ay, mark her," quoth Pepys, as he carefully gathered his robe over his arm and prepared to follow the procession. "Ye'll ne'er see anything to match her. Did ever ye set eyes on such an excellent taille or such a complexion (all her own too); and then that sweet eye and little Roman nose, - oh, there is none like La Belle Stuart in the whole of England! And yet, child, I heard three gentlemen say that you were the fairer of the two, and that there was none could match you for grace and stateliness."

As the procession moved into the Banqueting Hall with much mirth and laughter, Penelope fell to wondering how the son of the martyred king could find heart to make merry on the spot where his father had suffered, -ay, and gone forth to his death beneath that very window now hung gayly with lanterns. As she gazed around upon the panels blazoned with heraldry, and upon the great oaken beams which supported the opentimbered roof, her mind was carried strangely back to the rude rafters and bare boards of the rough Courthouse at Middle Plantation. Yes, she could see once more the grim faces of the fierce old Governor and his counselors; and the crowd of figures that thronged around her as she sat on that Courthouse bench seemed far more substantial than the liveried lackeys who stood before her now, waiting to bring her portions of the pheasants which lay in state on their platters of gold, or of the great peacock, which, with his tail outspread, decorated one end of the long board beneath the twinkling candles.

Penelope raised her hand to her brow as if to brush away

the fog which clung around her mind. "Which," she wondered, "is the true Penelope, the maiden in the prisoner's dock, hand clasping hand with a convicted felon, or this princess with golden crown and sweeping draperies at the King's levee?" A conviction flashed upon her, as it does on all of us at certain crises, that she was but a puppet, made to dance and laugh and sing, or to kneel and weep and pray, according as the hand behind the scenes pulled the strings. Thus she sat silent and cast down, and could touch no morsel of the feast spread before her; but her uncle had no such sentimental scruples.

""Tis a fine supper," quoth he, "a prodigious fine supper; but the venison pasty is very palpable beef; which is not handsome."

MAXIMS OF ROCHEFOUCAULD.

[FRANÇOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, Prince de Marcillac, a distinguished French courtier and man of letters, was born at Paris, September 15, 1613. At sixteen he entered the army, and for a time at court aided Anne of Austria in her intrigues against Richelieu. Disappointed at receiving no advancement, he subsequently joined the Fronde; fought with conspicuous bravery in the siege of Paris; and at the battle of the Faubourg Saint Antoine (1652) was severely wounded in the head. In consequence of his participation in the Fronde he was banished to his estates at Verteuil, and was not permitted to return to court until 1659. He died at Paris, March 17, 1680. His literary fame rests upon his "Reflections, or Moral Sentences and Maxims" (first edition 1665, last in his lifetime 1678), and "Memoirs of the Regency of Anne of Austria" (first genuine edition 1817, after many spurious ones for a century and a half).]

THE desire of appearing to be persons of ability often prevents our being so.

Some weak people are so sensible of their weakness as to be able to make a good use of it.

Few men are able to know all the ill they do.

It is a common fault to be never satisfied with our fortune, nor dissatisfied with our understanding.

The mind, between idleness and conservatism, fixes on what is easy and agreeable to it. This habit always sets bounds to our inquiries. No man was ever at the trouble to stretch his genius as far as it would go.

We should often be ashamed of our best actions, if the world were witness to the motives which produce them.

There is nearly as much ability requisite to know how to make use of good advice, as to know how to act for one's self. We may give advice; but we cannot give conduct.

We are never made so ridiculous by the qualities we have, as by those we affect to have.

Whatever we may pretend, interest and vanity are the usual sources of our afflictions.

There are in affliction several kinds of hypocrisy we weep, to acquire the reputation of being tender; we weep, in order to be pitied; we weep, that we may be wept over; we even weep, to avoid the scandal of not weeping.

We arrive novices at the different ages of life; and want experience, though we have had many years to gain it.

Age does not necessarily confer experience; nor does even precept; nor anything but an intercourse and acquaintance with things. And we frequently see those who have wanted opportunities to indulge their juvenile passions in youth, go preposterous lengths in old age, with all the symptoms of youth except ability.

We judge so superficially of things, that common words and actions, spoken and done in an agreeable manner, with some knowledge of what passes in the world, often succeed beyond the greatest ability.

When great men suffer themselves to be subdued by the length of their misfortunes, they discover that the strength of their ambition, not of their understanding, was that which supported them. They discover too, that, allowing for a little vanity, heroes are just like other men.

Those who apply themselves too much to little things commonly become incapable of great ones.

Few things are impracticable in themselves; and it is for want of application, rather than of means, that men fail of

success.

In every profession, every individual affects to appear what

he would willingly be esteemed; so that we may say, the world is composed of nothing but appearances.

We like better to see those on whom we confer benefits, than those from whom we receive them.

Everybody takes pleasure in returning small obligations; many go so far as to acknowledge moderate ones; but there is hardly any one who does not repay great obligations with ingratitude.

A man often imagines he acts, when he is acted upon; and while his mind aims at one thing, his heart insensibly gravitates towards another.

In love there are two sorts of constancy: one arises from our continually finding in the favorite object fresh motives to love the other from our making it a point of honor to be con

stant.

In misfortunes we often mistake dejection for constancy; we bear them without daring to look on them, as cowards suffer themselves to be killed without resistance.

None but the contemptible are apprehensive of contempt. We are always afraid of appearing before the person we love, when we have been coquetting elsewhere.

We easily forget crimes that are known only to ourselves. Cunning and treachery proceed from want of capacity. It is as easy to deceive ourselves without our perceiving it, as it is difficult to deceive others without their perceiving it. In love, deceit almost always outstrips distrust.

We are sometimes less unhappy in being deceived than in being undeceived by those we love.

Before we passionately wish for anything, we should examine into the happiness of its possessor.

Were we perfectly acquainted with any object, we should never passionately desire it.

Were we to take as much pains to be what we ought, as we do to disguise what we are, we might appear like ourselves, without being at the trouble of any disguise at all.