master's house in Cheapside one summer evening, and set his face toward the north. After two or three hours' walking, he sat down to rest before ascending Highgate Hill, which was then far out in the country, though now it is a populous part of the great metropolis. Already he must have been tired and hungry, for he had done a day's work before he started, and had probably saved his supper to swell his little stock of provisions. He had walked several miles, darkness was coming on, and he had met with no adventures. What wonder, then, that, as he rested, the tones of Bow-bells on the soft evening air fitted themselves to words suggested by his lonely situation, and the high hopes that were within him, and bade him return and thrice reign over the city which had hitherto treated him so roughly. The romance of the runaway was over. He obeyed the fancied summons, and returned to fight the dull stern battle of life, and win the victories which destiny had in store for him.

But if young Whittington seems to have shown a faint heart by so soon abandoning the adventure on which he had embarked, he proved that he possessed courage of a more real kind by returning to take his part in that life where, at least as much as elsewhere, fame and fortune were to be won. Restored to his former position in the merchant's household, the strong-willed lad bore his part bravely, and soon gained the confidence of his employer, whose daughter he afterward married. He was taken into partnership, and by a fortunate speculation in cats, if we accept the legend (which, however, though the most picturesque event in his career, is probably the least true), he laid the foundation of the largest fortune of those times gained in commerce.

Bow-bells had promised him that he should be thrice Lord Mayor of London; but fate was even kinder to him than prophecy, for Whittington held that ancient and honorable office no fewer than four times. During one of his terms of office he entertained at a grand banquet King Henry the Fifth, the hero of Agincourt, who, besides being his sovereign, was also his debtor to a very large amount, for kings in those days were not above borrowing from their subjects. After the banquet the Lord Mayor caused a great fire to be made in the hall, and in the presence of the King and Queen and all their noble retinue he threw into the fire the bonds which the King had given him as acknowledgment of the loan, thus releasing his sovereign from the debt. Henry, who was himself a man of generous nature, was greatly moved by this striking act of loyalty, and exclaimed, "Never, surely, had King such a subject!"

"Ah, sire," returned the courtly Lord Mayor, "never had subject such a King!"

It were hard to believe that so noble a prince as Henry the Fifth took advantage of this generous act, and fortunately history does not tell us whether the debt remained unpaid because the evidence of it was destroyed. Let us give the King the benefit of the doubt, and trust that the money was afterward honorably repaid, and went to swell the number of those charities with which the name of Sir Richard Whittington is for all time connected.

No one person of that time has left greater or more varied proofs of benevolence. The sick who lay in the wards of St. Bartholomew's Hospital blessed the memory of its benefactor, the great Lord Mayor; and the felons confined in the cells of Newgate Prison owed their comparative comfort to that kind heart which recognized the fact that even those whom crime has outlawed from society are still our fellow-beings. Scholars owe to the 'prentice lad, whose own schooling was mostly of the sternest practical sort, the foundation of a college and two libraries, which are still in existence; and thanks are due to him in great part for the nave of Westminster Abbey, the cost of building which Whittington bore in common with another London merchant.

But Whittington was above all things a great merchant, and, as such, did much for commerce. Some of our readers may have seen the London Directory, an immense, closely printed book, which contains the names and residences of nearly four millions of people. Five hundred years ago Sir Richard Whittington caused to be prepared a directory of all the trades in London, and thus was the first, so far as we know, to issue what has now become a necessity in our daily business, and as familiar as it is necessary—a City Directory.

Do you not think he is rightly called "the model merchant of the Middle Ages?"

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

"I BEG YOUR PARDON."

When little Tom Macaulay was about four years old, he was taken by his father to call upon Lady Waldegrave, at Strawberry Hill, and there an awkward servant spilled some hot coffee over his legs. The hostess was very sorry indeed, and after a while asked him if he felt any better.

"Thank you, madam," said the small gentleman, "the agony is abated."

I do not expect you, my dear children, to use words so quaint as those which were quite natural to young Macaulay, but I should be glad if you would try to have equal politeness. Politeness is simply the highest form of unselfishness, and the finest manners spring from a kind heart. There is a difference between manner and manners, which I think you can understand. Manner is the expression of a person's character, and manners are the person's every-day dress. One may have at the same time an awkward manner, and polished manners, contradictory as it seems to say so. The only way to be sure of having both in perfection is to begin when you are young, and practice self-control in your life at home. There are certain rules to which courteous people conform in society, and these you can easily learn, partly by asking, partly by obedience, and partly by observation. Conventionality is a long word, and some good men and women affect to despise it; but it is, on the whole, very convenient, and life is far more agreeable where people are governed by its good order and system than where they act independently and brusquely.

I beg your pardon for giving you a hint about two or three common usages which you know of, but sometimes forget. Lewis was passing hurriedly through the dining-room yesterday, when his aunt Carrie spoke to him. He did not hear precisely what she said, so he stood in the doorway and said, "What, ma'am?" "I beg pardon," would have been more elegant there. But when he entered mamma's chamber, where she and sister Sue were having a confidential chat, if he wished to interrupt the talk for a moment, the right thing to say would have been, not "I beg pardon," but "Please excuse me."

Bessie came down to breakfast one morning lately, and at once seated herself, and began to drum on the table with her spoon. Nothing could have been ruder, and I was surprised, for I had thought Bessie a well-bred child. She ought to have waited until the family had assembled, and then she should not have taken her place until mamma was ready to sit down.

But when Clara was visiting at the Stanleys' she really tried to be very polite, and she made one mistake—one, indeed, which older people often make. Mrs. Stanley helped her bountifully to pudding, and she passed it along to her next neighbor. She ought to have retained it herself, as it was meant for and apportioned to her.

Bob Hartt has two or three friends staying a few days at his house, and his sister Agnes finds it a great trial to eat with them, and why? Would you believe that Will Fleming appears at the dinner table without his coat, that Arthur Samson eats with his knife, and that Phil Decker gobbles his soup in the greatest haste, and almost swallows the spoon, instead of taking the soup, as polite people do, from the side of the spoon? These boys are honest and faithful at school, but they have not been taught good manners.

The other day I