fortunate husband that she compassed his death by
violence, and seized the crown, reigning in the name of her infant son,
Constantine. And never, under the most despotic sovereigns, had the iron
rule been exercised with more unrelenting vigor than during the reign of
Clotilda the Terrible. But a day of vengeance was at hand. A secret
conspiracy was formed, at the head of which her young son was placed:
the palace was seized in the night, and the murderess was hurried away
to a distant fortress, where she spent the remainder of her unhappy
life--the victim of her own ungoverned passions.

"How I wish that I possessed such a magic rose!" said Alice Bolton. "It
might cure my unfortunate pug nose--I should so love to be beautiful!"

"You own such a rose, my dear girl," said her uncle. "It is invisible,
but I often perceive its fragrance. Each one of you carries such an
indicator of character and feeling about with you, wherever you go. We
may as well call it a rose as any thing else."

"But what can you mean, Uncle? do you mean our tell-tale faces?"

"Nothing else. It is one of the many proofs of beneficent design in the
formation of our frame, than we can scarcely help giving a timely
warning to others of the evil passions which may fill our breasts. The
angry man becomes inflamed or livid with rage before his arm is raised
to strike--just as the rattle-snake is heard before he darts upon his
victim. And so with the gentle and kind emotions. Friendly feeling
softens the eye and soothes the heart before the tongue utters a sound.
Then take my advice, my dear nephews and nieces, if you wish to be
attractive now, seek moral beauty, and the external will follow, in some
degree here below, and completely in a better world. You can afford to
wait."

CHAPTER IX.

NEW-YEAR'S DAY.--CHARACTERS, OR WHO AM I?--QUOTATIONS.--ACTING
CHARADES.--RIDDLES.

"A very happy New-Year to you, Aunt and Uncle!" "The same to you, dear
children! and may each one in your lives be happier than the last!" "As
the Spaniards say, 'May you live a thousand years!'" cried Charlie
Bolton. "I feel glad that wish is an impossible one," answered Mr.
Wyndham, with a smile. "How tired the world would be of seeing me, and
how weary I should be of life! No, no, my boy--I hope when my season of
active labor shall be closed, and I can no more be useful to my
fellow-men, that my kind Father in Heaven will grant me a mansion above,
where time is swallo