of greed and
glory, but a country whose foundations were laid in the rights of
conscience only, whose progenitors took God alone for their Leader, and
his rules and service for their code--who came in peace and poverty,
demanding nothing but the right to live and die true men--ah! no wonder
New England is proud of her forefathers."

"What Portuguese hero are you lecturing about now, uncle?" called back
Dwight, saucily, but was at once suppressed by his mother. Hope
answered lightly,

"We have found better heroes than those old Portuguese fighters, we
think; haven't we, Mr. Lawrence?"

"Yes. Still, there is one man whom I greatly admire, of this nation,
and I think we will visit his statue next. What do you know about Luiz
de Camoes, or, as we write it, Camoens, Dwight?"

"Gracious! Nothing at all; never heard of him. Was he a fighter?"

"Hardly. At any rate he did his fighting in a noble way--rather like
heaping coals of fire I should say. He was a writer."

"Oh, tell us about him, uncle."

"What! A lecture? But that is not admissible in polite society."

"Now, don't tease. You know we are all dying to hear about him.
Proceed!"

"Dying?" put in Mrs. Vanderhoff. "How extravagantly you talk, my son."

"Well, crazy, then."

She laughed hopelessly.

"Go on, pray," she said to her brother. "He simply leaps from the
frying-pan into the fire."

"De Camoens," he said, "was by no means without faults, but he was
gifted, generous, forgiving, and brave. He was foolish enough to love
a lady too near the throne, and on that account was banished, and
endured many hardships for years. Yet he did not let this dampen his
love of country, and his loyalty to the government. Though an exile,
he wrote a romantic epic extolling the deeds of his countrymen in all
ages, which has become a great classic, and has made both them and
himself immortal. I call that a generous deed! He died poor and
unnoticed, but now his people make an idol of him, and his statue is
one of the sights of Lisbon."

"Did he live here?" asked Faith. "That is, when he was not in exile?"

"Yes, this was his home."

"And his poem was the Lusiad," added Mrs. Vanderhoff.

"Why, I've heard of that!" cried Dwight. "We had something about it in
our Rhetoric."

"And here," said Mr. Lawrence, pointing down a street into which they
had turned, "you catch your first glimpse of his statue. Poor fellow!
I wonder if he knows of the tardy re