have been, in prose and fiction, Kingsley, Bulwer, Scott, Cervantes, Macaulay, Irving, Goldsmith, and occasionally Thackeray; in poetry, Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Milton, Tennyson, and Longfellow. Within these lines, about all his standard reading has been done.

As to the characters he has created, he does not know that he prefers one to another, but he says, "There are certain characters that get hold of you. You see them. They have individuality. You can see the color of their hair, and their eyes, and you hear their voices. In 'Ben Hur,' Simonides, Belthazer, and Ben Hur were great favorites."

Twenty-five years ago the town of Crawfordsville, so dear to those who lived there, was even then a Mecca for literary pilgrims. It was the home of the Wallaces, Maurice Thompson and Miss Krout, all noted in the literary field. Of these Mrs. Wallace had already attained fame in frequent contributions to the New York Tribune and Harper's Magazine. Her later works have been "The Land of the Pueblos," "The Storied Sea," and "The Repose in Egypt." She is a lady of rare literary judgment, an expert in proof reading, and in perfect harmony of literary taste with her husband. He is his own severest critic. When he has cast and recast his manuscript many times, it is then turned over to Mrs. Wallace. The "Patter of Little Feet," which was published in Harper's Magazine in 1889, made her famous at once, and every little while the papers have urgent call for another look at it. It is one of the gems of American literature :

"Up with the sun at morning,

Away to the garden he hies
To see if the sleepy blossoms
Have begun to open their eyes;
Running a race with the wind,
His step as light and fleet,
Under my window I hear

The patter of little feet.

"Anon to the brook he wanders,
In swift and noiseless flight,
Splashing the sparkling ripples
Like a fairy water sprite;

No sand under fabled river

Has gleams like his golden hair,
No pearly seashell is fairer

Than his slender ankles bare;
Nor the rosiest stem of coral

That blushes in ocean's bed,
Is sweet as the flush that follows
Our darling's airy tread.

"From a broad window my neighbor
Looks down on our little cot

And watches the poor man's blessing';
I cannot envy his lot.

He has pictures; books, and music,
Bright fountains and noble trees;
Flowers that bloom in vases

And birds from beyond the seas;
But never does childish laughter
His homeward footstep greet -
His stately halls ne'er echo

To the tread of innocent feet.

"This child is our speaking picture,'
A birdling that chatters and sings;
Sometimes a sleeping cherub

(Our other one has wings),

His heart is a charmed casket

Full of all that's cunning and sweet, And no harp strings hold such music As follows his twinkling feet.

"When the glory of sunset opens The highway by angels trod,

And seems to unbar the city

Whose builder and maker is God;

Close by the crystal portal,

I see by the gates of pearl

The eyes of the other angel —
A twin-born little girl.

"And I ask to be taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright,
So that I be accounted worthy
To walk in sandals of light;

And hear amid songs of welcome

From messengers trusty and fleet,
On the starry floor of heaven

The patter of little feet."

There, in the large grove on East Wabash avenue, is the home of General Wallace, a large, two-story frame house, and destined to be famous as the place where "Ben Hur" and The Prince of India" were written. A little farther away in the grove is the library, which is one the most unique and complete buildings of its kind ever attempted. It is on the border of an artificial lake, fed by a self-flowing artesian well. A few feet from the front porch of the house is the large beech tree, under which many chapters of 66 'Ben Hur" were written. "Do not imagine," says General Wallace, I wrote every day. Although it was my great desire to do so, I was a breadwinner and had duties to attend to. There were days when Ben Hur would call to me, and with persistence; on other days some other character would do the same, and at such times I was powerless to do aught but obey, and was forced to fly from court and client. Many of the scenes of the books were blocked out in my journeys to and from my office. The greater part of the work was done at home beneath an old beech tree near my house. I have a peculiar affection for that tree. How often, when its thick branches have protected me with their cooling shadows, has it been the only witness to my mental struggles; and how often, too, has it maintained a great dignity when it might have laughed at my discomfiture. The soft twittering of birds, the hum of bees, the lowing of the kine, all made the spot dear to me."

It is not always true that men do not gain by addition late in life. General Wallace's whole career is proof that we do not always lose something that is good as we grow older. He was sixty-six years old when he handed to his publishers the finished manuscript of "The Prince of India," and it is quite likely that he will again send a flash of glory up the Western sky to catch the gaze of an admiring world.

He has never paraded before the country as a man with a grievance. He kept himself above the scheming plans and jealousies which were often the sole capital of many military

aspirants in the early days of the war. None could impeach the purity of his motives, and it was, indeed, an honor that might excite the envy of anyone, that it was President Lincoln's own wish that he be appointed commander of the Eighth corps, and in charge of the middle department. When Bragg's detachment threatened Cincinnati he threw aside his rank to accept service in its defense, and the same is true of John Morgan's invasion of Indiana. He had in him the stuff of a patriot.

In his seventy-fifth year he is one of the few surviving prominent characters of the war period,- always of striking military bearing,- always a picturesque figure on the streets. In the fading twilight these old heroes of the war are mustering for their last long march. Their old commander and many of their comrades are already in line, and under banners which never yet waved to mortal eye; under the order of a new chief marshal, whose trumpet has never sounded retreat, they are moving from our loving sight to the eternal camping ground beyond. All honor to the defenders of the Union! Loving benisons on the memory of these translated children of the Republic!

"K

HOW TO USE YOURSELF.

W thyself" was the wise counsel of an ancient philosopher. It is absolutely necessary to know your

self in order to know how to use yourself. You cannot use what you do not have. You cannot use five talents if you do not have but one or two; you cannot be wise if you are otherwise; you cannot exercise sound judgment if you do not possess it; you cannot make a successful merchant or minister if you have no qualifications for those positions. Make the most of such material as you have, and the best results will follow. Hence, self-acquaintance is indispensable to the proper use of yourself.

Some young people may lack certain qualities which they can cultivate, but they must know what they are. Observation may be deficient; love of work languish; patience and perseverance may be wanting, and other qualities may be weak and inefficient; but they can be improved, when a person knows what it is that he must improve. He must know himself in order to undertake intelligently self-improve