All too fresh the joy to make To this wondrous pocket. Leather, marbles, bits of string, And, when Willie's snug in bed, Sundry treasures rattle out From this crowded pocket. Sometimes Johnny's borrowed knife Where do you suppose it was? Christian at Work. WHAT IS THINE AGE? "Father," said a Persian monarch to an old man, who, according to oriental usage, bowed before the sovereign's throne, "pray be seated; I cannot receive homage from one bent with years, and whose head is white with the frost of age." "And now, father," said the monarch, when the old man had taken the proffered seat, "tell me thine age; how many of the sun's revolutions hast thou counted?" "Sire," answered the old man, "I am but four years old." "What!" interrupted the King, "fearest thou not to answer me falsely, or dost thou jest on the very brink of the tomb?" "I speak not falsely, sire," replied the aged man," neither would I offer a foolish jest on a subject so solemn. Eighty long years have I wasted in folly and sinful pleasures, and in amassing wealth, none of which I can take with me when I leave this world. Four years only have I spent in doing good to my fellow-men; and shall I count those years that have been utterly wasted? Are they not worse than a blank, and is not that portion only worthy to be reckoned as a part of my life, which has truly answered life's best end ?"-American Messenger. THE FATE OF IMPERIAL BOYS. BY THE EDITOR. "Imperious Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, In 1860 the GUARDIAN gave in a foot note, on page 17, a sketch of the cradle of Napoleon's future heir. A description of the elaborate, highly artistic, and very costly bed of the baby Emperor is given to show the contrast between it and the cradle of the infant Jesus. The former in a palace, amid the splendors of imperial pomp and power; the latter in "a stable!" Above and around are the naked, rough-hewn timbers. See the empty racks-the mute, slaving ox and ass, standing back astonished, and yielding the empty manger to the wonderful babe. See the open crevices! through which are heard the rude murmur and boisterous, idle laugh of the taxpayers, borne from the crowded inn upon the chilly, mournful night wind. For "It was winter wild, While the Heaven-born child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master to sympathize." Previous to this the papers had given graphic descriptions of the Prince Imperial's Baptism. It was an imposing royal show, such as only French taste and French vanity could produce. For almost fifteen years this tender sprig of royalty has been the most conspicuous boy in Europe, indeed in the civilized world. He was the heir of the crown of France, bore the charmed name and life of Napoleon. What a glory awaited this boy, as all the world thought! In October, 1870, a certain person entered the castle at Wilhelmshohe to visit the imprisoned father of this boy. He says: The Emperor was standing before the fireplace when I entered. He was attired in plain black clothes. In the button-hole of his coat I noticed the orange-colored ribbon of the order of the Black Eagle, a Prussian decora tion. He gave me a searching glance, then putting aside all assumption of court ceremony, he advanced, and returning my bow, he expressed himself glad to see me. I cast a look about the room. The apartment was high, though not spacious. Deeply recessed windows looked out on the park and were hung with curtains of crimson velvet. The furniture, of which there was but little, looked old and faded. Not a sign of richness was there. The Emperor's writing desk, which stood on the right of the door, was literally jammed full of dispatches, books and papers relating to the war. I also noticed the photographs of the Empress and of the Prince Imperial, and, with considerable astonishment, an elaborately carved crucifix and a copy of the Bible. * I casually remarked, "Has the Prince Imperial recovered from the effects of the trying ordeal to which he has been subjected?" * * I asked this question, alluding to the Prince's flight from Paris. "He writes that both the Empress and himself are enjoying good health,” quickly replied the Emperor, while the expression of his countenance all of a sudden changed as I mentioned the name of his son. It was no longer the imprisoned, dethroned monarch, who had lost his empire, that sat before me; it was the affectionate father, whose thoughts centered in the fate of his son, a boy not quite fifteen years old, who had been obliged to seek safety in flight, unaccompanied by either father or mother. "You can not imagine how my poor boy has suffered," continued the Emperor. "In the year 1814 I had to pass through a similar trying ordeal, but at that time I was only six years old, and impressions received at so early an age are easily effaced. My son, however, has attained nearly his fifteenth year; he mourns deeply the fearful misfortunes which have overtaken France. He feels keenly the sad condition of his country; it causes him a vast deal of grief and sorrow." It is a dreary December day, two years later. In the home-like castle of Chiselhurst, England, lies a dying man—the exiled Emperor of France. At his bedside stands the youthful Prince Imperial, weeping. His sobbing grief tells of the loving, affectionate heart of a son, at the death-bed of a father. England helps him and his sorrowing mother to bury all that is mortal of Louis Napoleon. The Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburg, Victoria's two sons, visit the bereaved family. Despite the cold court etiquette of the royal consolers, the visit seems to comfort the two mourners. The Empress must nerve herself to receive the English Princes. The Napoleonic Princes and sympathizing French celebrities, all await on tip-toe the coming of English royalty. They group together in a saloon, set apart only for Princes, the Prince Imperial, Napoleon's sorrowing son, of seventeen years, forming the centre of the group. The two English princes step from their carriage, and exactly at the right moment the Prince Imperial rises from his chair, and, followed in due order by the other Princes of his house, meet the Prince of Wales exactly at the right moment and the right spot. Taking the hand of the Prince Imperial the Prince of Wales leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. The Duke of Edinburg gives a kiss on each cheek, and after a shaking of hands between the visitors and Prince Napoleon and the other Princes, the eight scions of Imperial and Royal houses enter and seat themselves in the inner drawing-room. The London Times says: "We should not like to take a less weighty opinion than Lord Sidney's, as to whether this kissing was royal or merely continental, and whether the difference between the one kiss of the Prince of Wales and the two of the Duke of Edinburg was due only to accident or to etiquette aforethought. There was a sad contrast between the robust health and appearance of the Prince of Wales and the pale, worn look, the delicate frame and the slight stoop of the Imperial Prince." The saddest part of the Imperial mourning remains. Well may the young Prince look pale-worn. He must follow his exiled father to the grave. And feel as an affectionate youth must feel, when he buries his father. What avails the multitude of sympathizing spectators--the thousands in the curious staring assemblage? "Long live Napoleon!" shouted the French sympathizers, as he passed along the street. Lifting his hat, with melancholy grace, the sorrowing youth replied: "Napoleon is dead. Napoleon is dead. Long live France." Could any language, just then and there, falling from the lips of this youth, be more touching. For centuries England and France have been rival powers. On many a field have their sons slaughtered one another. At Waterloo Wellington gave the first Napoleon the fatal blow. Some years ago, Napoleon III, at a New Year's levee, dropped the expression "Waterloo must be avenged." The papers caught and published the declaration as oracular. France must wipe away the dishonor of Waterloo. It can only be done by humbling England. So the world interpreted this New Year oracle. What next? "The Empire is peace," was Napoleon's version of it, and for years peace and plenty crowned his reign. England's version was given at Chiselhurst. There she gave the royal French refugee a home, a death-bed, a royal burial, and a royal grave. To Louis Philippe, whom this Napoleon had driven from the throne of France, she gave a refuge. Thus England has avenged Waterloo. What is to become of this young Napoleon? Apart from the loss of his father, he is well provided for and needs not our commiseration. That he shall some day become Emperor of France, is not impossible, indeed, not improbable. This calls to mind another royal boy, of sixty years ago. His father had for many years been the rightful king of Prussia. The first Napoleon then dashed victoriously over Europe, with his desolating French army. At his bidding Kings were exiled and nations put their scepters into his hands. The King of Prussia was driven out of his country. His wife, Queen Louisa, over a secret way, sought a place of safety for herself and her helpless children. It was a galling fate, to be thus hounded out of their own kingdom by a royal plunderer. With the Queen mother was her son William, then seven years old. Never before had he tasted the bitter cup of sorrow. He felt the anguish of their homeless wandering all the more keenly for his dear mother's sake. Perhaps mutely resolved some day to wipe away the stain of this banishment. Ere long the scale turned again. The King of Prussia resumed his crown. Sixty years later another scene occurs. The Prussian and French armies have just been engaged in a deadly battle at Sedan, in France. A tall, gray-bearded, stately old gentleman sits on a plain stool, at a plain table, in a plain cottage. Around him is a group of venerable warriors. A messenger approaches, with cap in hand, bearing a note. It contains a request from Napoleon III, for an interview. He proposes to surrender. The old gentleman is William I, of Prussia, once the boy of Louisa, ten years old, sixty years ago. With gratitude to God the venerable Emperor returns to Berlin. His first act, after his return, is to visit the tomb of his mother, Louisa, at Charlottenberg, near Berlin. With uncovered head, he lays a laurel wreath upon her grave. By this act he wished her to share the glory of his victory, and to show that the banishment of her and her family, by France, sixty years before, had at length been avenged. In sooth, a grand subject for a painter would the old King make at the grave of his mother, reverently laying thereon a victor's crown, his own hands and heart had woven. A great poet says "Die Welt-Geschichte est das Welt Gericht." Often God avenges And there is a sense in which it is true. great wrongs already in this life. What instructive lessons the changeable, battle-ridden life of these Imperial boys teaches us! SATURDAY NIGHT. Placing the little hats all in a row, Ready for church on the morrow, you know; Putting them into clean garments and white' That is what mothers are doing to night. |