inly
did. He was a great patron of literature and the fine arts, and was a
munificent friend to Virgil. Who can he be?"

"I can tell you, without asking my question," cried Tom. "Augustus was
eminently the nephew, and succeeded his uncle, Julius Caesar, in the
Empire. He was reigning at the time of our Saviour's birth, and of
course lived in the year one: every thing fits--he's the man."

"You are right. Now 'tis your turn, brother Tom."

"The first of the English poets--who wrote splendid poetry, if only one
could read it. 'Tis such hard, tough, jaw-breaking English, that it is
little wonder his very name shows we must use the muscles of our mouths
when we attempt it. He lived soon after the time of Wickliffe, and
imbibed some of his ideas. Who can he be?"

"Who but Chaucer?" said Cornelia. "Now who is the hero who was almost
elected King of Poland, but who lost that honor through the interference
of a queen of England, unwilling to lose the brightest jewel of her
crown by parting with him? He is mortally wounded on the battle-field,
and thirsting for water. His soldiers procure some, with great
difficulty, and he is about to raise it to his lips, when he sees the
longing eye of a dying man, at his side, fixed upon it. 'He wants it
more than I,' said he, and gave it to the poor fellow. Who can he be?"

"We are allowed three questions to an anecdote," said Alice, "but none
are required here. There is only one Sir Philip Sydney. But who was the
selfish queen, unwilling to have her noblest subject exalted beyond her
control?"

"None other than good Queen Bess," answered Cornelia.

"And who is the poet that has immortalized Sydney's sister, in the
following lines?

"'Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother--
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Good, and fair, and wise as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee!'"

"Was it 'rare Ben Jonson?'" cried Charlie Bolton.

"Even so, Charlie: now, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"I intend to disprove the assertion of Alice, that there is only one
Sir Philip Sydney. Who was that other equally valiant knight, and much
sweeter poet, who used to sing his own verses, accompanying himself upon
the harp; and could thereby soothe the most troubled spirit? On one
occasion, this brilliant genius, whose romantic adventures might fill a
volume, and who subsequently became a king, was