There you have all the necessary ingredients for a family explosion. When any young man is a favourite son, and a talebearer, and is filled to the eyes with self-conceit, he has in him the sulphur, the saltpeter, and the charcoal which enter into the composition of that sort of gunpowder which is liable to blow him up. You do not wonder that his brothers hated him. You are not surprised that when they saw him coming across the fields at Dothan they said with a sneer, "Behold, the dreamer cometh!"

We might naturally expect that they would conspire against him. They proposed to see whether or not this conceited young tattler would become the tallest sheaf in the field and the centre of the whole solar system there in little Canaan. He had himself to thank for getting in wrong with his associates. He was not showing the qualities which make for peace and joy and advancement.

But in the second place he was sent early in life to the school of adversity. The place where he "prepared" was not much like "The Hill" or Hotchkiss; it bore no resemblance whatever to Andover or Exeter. He took all the grades in the commonest of all common schools. He was under the tuition of struggle and difficulty. He was a Freshman, then a Sophomore, a Junior and a Senior in the University of Experience, where the college colours are always "black and blue" because the lessons are learned by hard knocks. He learned obedience by the things that he suffered. He had the conceit taken out of him by being knocked down. He knew the meaning of the word "discipline," so that he could have spelled it and parsed it forward and backwards and crosswise.

He was tried in these three ways: first, by being sold as a slave boy into Egypt. His father sent him out to Dothan to see how his brothers were faring with their flocks. When they saw him coming across the plain they said, "Behold the dreamer! Let us cast him into a pit and see what will become of his dreams."

His brothers seized him and threw him into a deep well, where there was no water, intending to let him die in that horrible way. But when a company of Ishmaelites came along on their way to Egypt, a happier thought struck those men. Judah, who was always a thrifty soul, said, "What profit is it if we slay our brother and conceal his blood?" There is no money in murder. "Let us sell him to the Ishmaelites."

Here was the proverbial instinct, an eye for the main chance, already on its feet and doing business in the very childhood of that race, which has enjoyed such marked success in commercial pursuits. "Let us sell him and let not our hand be upon him, for"—here emerges Mr. Pecksniff, who is much older than the time of Dickens—"for he is our brother and our flesh." His argument was plausible and the men drew Joseph out of the pit and sold him to the Ishmaelites who carried him down into Egypt. Now the hands of the ten men were not stained with innocent blood and they were also twenty pieces of silver to the good.

How human and how modern were the mental processes of those crafty men! The man who decides to coin his brother's life into money instead of killing him with an axe has chosen so much milder a form of wrong-doing that he feels almost virtuous. "Let us not slay our brother"—that has an atrocious sound. It smacks of the doings of gunmen. Let not our hand be upon him for he is our flesh!

"But let us sell him"—this is so much more humane! Let us burn out his energy swiftly in the long hard hours of the steel mill to make our profits large. When he is exhausted before his time we can scrap him, flinging him aside to make room for a fresh hand. Let us set the pace in the factory so sharp that the man in middle life cannot hold it—he will be compelled to drop out and tramp the streets in search of a job, while some younger man takes up his work. Let us keep the wages of the working girl so near the danger line that unless she is splendidly fortified with moral stamina she may be tempted after she has sold her days to greed to add to her income by selling her nights to shame.

Let not our hands be stained by the murder of our own flesh and blood—let us sell them in these more delicate and refined ways to increase the toll of profits! The voice of Judah is still heard in the land. There on the plains of Dothan this favourite son fell into the hands of greed and was sold as a slave boy into the land of Egypt.

He was also tested by the accusations of an evil-minded woman. When the Ishmaelites disposed of him in Egypt he was purchased by Potiphar, an officer in Pharaoh's guard. He was made a house servant. He showed himself diligent and faithful and was advanced until he was the overseer of Potiphar's whole establishment.

He was a handsome young Hebrew, his complexion being much fairer than that of the dark-skinned Egyptians. He attracted the attention and won the admiration of Potiphar's wife, who was an evil-minded, faithless creature. As Joseph went about the house in the discharge of his duties she approached him repeatedly with her solicitations to evil.

He did not look her in the eye, as Billy Sunday suggests in his brisk way, and say, "Nothing doing." He said something infinitely better than that—"There is none greater in this house than I. My master hath kept back nothing from me but thee. How then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God."

He was not one of those men who do in Rome as the Romans do, who do in New York as Broadway does, even though that may mean a less wholesome type of conduct than they are accustomed to put up in their home towns. He was a man of principle wherever he was placed. How can I sin against God!

Heaven be praised for men of principle and for men who are not afraid! A well-to-do Harvard student in one of the dormitories was shaving one morning when a wretched woman of the street slipped into his room through the door which he had left ajar. She shut the door and with her back against it said to him, "Give me fifty dollars instantly or I will scream for help." He looked around at her and said, "Yell away"—and went on with his shaving. He knew that his own life was clean. He had lived as a man of integrity and he felt that his statement would be taken anywhere against hers, because it was worth one hundred cents on the dollar. And she knew it—so she slunk out like a whipped cur. If he had compromised with her or had given her a dollar, he might have been in for endless trouble and disgrace.

But Joseph was not in Cambridge—he was in Egypt. He was not a well-known Harvard student—he was only a slave boy there in the house of his master. When this woman whom he had repulsed made her ugly, lying accusation against him she was believed and he was thrown into prison.

What indeed has now become of his dreams! He was a stranger in a strange land. He was a slave who had been jailed on an ugly charge. He must have felt that he was a long way from becoming the tallest sheaf in the field or the brightest star in the sky.

He was also tested by the ingratitude of those whom he had befriended. While he was in jail he did not for one hour give up his hope of advancement. He kept right on, attending the school of those instructors whose names are printed in the catalogue as Professor Adversity, Professor Difficulty and Doctor Discipline. He found them most capable teachers. They did not teach him much of that which is found in text-books, but they were teaching him to be a man, which after all is the main object of all education.

When Joseph was knocked down he did not wait for some Red Cross nurse to come with "first aid to the injured." He got right up and was there on the mat ready for the next round. And the young fellow with that sort of stuff in him learns, I care not how soft, callow and conceited he may have been in his "prep. school" days.

He was in prison, but since nothing better offered he would show himself the best prisoner behind those bars. He bore the false accusation of that lying woman without a word of recrimination lest he