allied to the Muses and,
moreover, are harmless, happy folk."

Lienhard Groland listened till his older friend had finished. Then, after
thanking him for his well-meant counsel, he answered, turning to the
others also:

"In better days rope-dancing was the profession of yonder poor, coughing
creature. Now, after a severe accident, she is dragging herself through
life on one foot. I once knew her, for I succeeded in saving her from
terrible disgrace."

"And," replied Wilibald Pirckheimer, "we would rather show kindness a
second and a third time to any one on whom we have be stowed a favour
than to render it once to a person from whom we have received one. This
is my own experience. But the wise man must guard against nothing more
carefully than to exceed moderation in his charity. How easily, when
Caius sees Cnejus lavish gold where silver or copper would serve, he
thinks of Martial's apt words: 'Who gives great gifts, expects great
gifts again.'--[Martial, Epigram 5, 59, 3.]--Do not misunderstand me.
What could yonder poor thing bestow that would please even a groom? But
the eyes of suspicion scan even the past. I have often seen you open your
purse, friend Lienhard, and this is right. Whoever hath ought to give,
and my dead mother used to say that: 'No one ever became a beggar by
giving at the proper time.'"

"And life is gladdened by what one gives to another," remarked Conrad
Peutinger, the learned Augsburg city clerk, who valued his Padua title of
doctor more than that of an imperial councillor. "It applies to all
departments. Don't allow yourself to regret your generosity, friend
Lienhard. 'Nothing becomes man better than the pleasure of giving,' says
Terentius.--[Terenz. Ad. 360]--Who is more liberal than the destiny which
adorns the apple tree that is to bear a hundred fruits, with ten thousand
blossoms to please our eyes ere it satisfies our appetite?"

"To you, if to any one, it gives daily proof of liberality in both
learning and the affairs of life," Herr Wilibald assented.

"If you will substitute 'God, our Lord,' for 'destiny,' I agree with
you," observed the Abbot of St. AEgidius in Nuremberg.

The portly old prelate nodded cordially to Dr. Peutinger as he spoke. The
warm, human love with which he devoted himself to the care of souls in
his great parish consumed the lion's share of his time and strength. He
spent only his leisure hours in the study of the ancient writers, in whom
he found pleasure,