ur hard lot, and one day--you shall marry a prince and
ride in your own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work hard and
wait with patience, and in the end, with God's blessing, you shall
earn riches enough to come back to London town and marry your master's
daughter.

You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a truer lesson,
an we would. We know, alas! that the road of all the virtues does
not lead to wealth, rather the contrary; else how explain our limited
incomes? But would it be well, think you, to tell them bluntly the
truth--that honesty is the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in;
that virtue, if persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed
house in an outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction has
its uses.

I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. She can read and
write, knows her tables up to six times, and can argue. I regard her
as representative of average Humanity in its attitude towards Fate; and
this is a dialogue I lately overheard between her and an older lady who
is good enough to occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world--

"I've been good this morning, haven't I?"

"Yes--oh yes, fairly good, for you."

"You think Papa WILL take me to the circus to-night?"

"Yes, if you keep good. If you don't get naughty this afternoon."

A pause.

"I was good on Monday, you may remember, nurse."

"Tolerably good."

"VERY good, you said, nurse."

"Well, yes, you weren't bad."

"And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I didn't."

"Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa
couldn't get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn't have gone at all if she
hadn't gone then."

"Oh, wouldn't she?"

"No."

Another pause.

"Do you think she'll come up suddenly to-day?"

"Oh no, I don't think so."

"No, I hope she doesn't. I want to go to the circus to-night. Because,
you see, nurse, if I don't it will discourage me."

So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We believe her
at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow discouraged.

ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO

I can remember--but then I can remember a long time ago. You, gentle
Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless
youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me--when
there was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped The Amateur. Its
aim was noble. I