soonest mended. But, Mr. Bolt, to
return to the Cyprinidae."

"What's the hard name you call them 'ere carp, yer honor?" asked Bolt.

"Cyprinidae,--a family of the section Malacoptergii Abdominales,"
replied Mr. Caxton; "their teeth are generally confined to the
Pharyngeans, and their branehiostegous rays are but few,--marks of
distinction from fishes vulgar and voracious."

"Sir," said Bolt, glancing to the stewpond, "if I had known they had
been a family of such importance, I am sure I should have treated them
with more respect."

"They are a very old family, Bolt, and have been settled in England
since the fourteenth century. A younger branch of the family has
established itself in a pond in the gardens of Peterhoff (the celebrated
palace of Peter the Great, Bolt,--an emperor highly respected by my
brother, for he killed a great many people very gloriously in battle,
besides those whom he sabred for his own private amusement); and there
is an officer or servant of the Imperial household, whose task it is to
summon those Russian Cyprinidae to dinner, by ringing a bell, shortly
after which, you may see the emperor and empress, with all their
waiting ladies and gentlemen, coming down in their carriages to see
the Cyprinidae eat in state. So you perceive, Bolt, that it would be
a republican, Jacobinical proceeding to stew members of a family so
intimately associated with royalty."

"Dear me, sir," said Bolt, "I am very glad you told me. I ought to have
known they were genteel fish, they are so mighty shy,--as all your real
quality are."

My father smiled, and rubbed his hands gently,--he had carried his
point; and henceforth the Cyprinidae of the section Malacoptergii
Abdominales were as sacred in Bolt's eyes as cats and ichneumons were in
those of a priest in Thebes.

My poor father, with what true and unostentatious philosophy thou didst
accommodate thyself to the greatest change thy quiet, harmless life
had known since it had passed out of the brief, burning cycle of the
passions! Lost was the home endeared to thee by so many noiseless
victories of the mind, so many mute histories of the heart; for only
the scholar knoweth how deep a charm lies in monotony, in the old
associations, the old ways and habitual clockwork of peaceful time.
Yet the home may be replaced,--thy heart built its home round itself
everywhere,--and the old Tower might supply the loss of the brick house,
and the walk by the stewpond becom