"Oh no: I think when people have brains, they can play much better without them. My plan is, for a person to describe the individual, naming the country and age in which he lived, what gained him distinction, and every thing else that is interesting; and then any one of the circle can guess who the hero is, having the privilege of asking one question previously. If the conjecture be correct, the guesser describes another character, and so the game proceeds. Or, if you prefer it, you can narrate one well-known anecdote of your hero, and then three questions are allowed previous to a guess. I call it 'Who can he be?'" "I think I shall like it," said Ellen. "If you please, I'll begin. Once there lived a Roman Emperor--he was a nephew, like Louis Napoleon and Cousin John. We often say people lived in the year one: he certainly did. He was a great patron of literature and the fine arts, and was a munificent friend to Virgil. Who can he be?" "I can tell you, without asking my question," cried Tom. "Augustus was eminently the nephew, and succeeded his uncle, Julius Caesar, in the Empire. He was reigning at the time of our Saviour's birth, and of course lived in the year one: every thing fits--he's the man." "You are right. Now 'tis your turn, brother Tom." "The first of the English poets--who wrote splendid poetry, if only one could read it. 'Tis such hard, tough, jaw-breaking English, that it is little wonder his very name shows we must use the muscles of our mouths when we attempt it. He lived soon after the time of Wickliffe, and imbibed some of his ideas. Who can he be?" "Who but Chaucer?" said Cornelia. "Now who is the hero who was almost elected King of Poland, but who lost that honor through the interference of a queen of England, unwilling to lose the brightest jewel of her crown by parting with him? He is mortally wounded on the battle-field, and thirsting for water. His soldiers procure some, with great difficulty, and he is about to raise it to his lips, when he sees the longing eye of a dying man, at his side, fixed upon it. 'He wants it more than I,' said he, and gave it to the poor fellow. Who can he be?" "We are allowed three questions to an anecdote," said Alice, "but none are required here. There is only one Sir Philip Sydney. But who was the selfish queen, unwilling to have her noblest subject exalted beyond her control?" "None other than good Queen Bess," answered Cornelia. "And who is the poet that has immortalized Sydney's sister, in the following lines? "'Underneath this marble hearse Lies the subject of all verse: Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother-- Death, ere thou hast slain another Good, and fair, and wise as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee!'" "Was it 'rare Ben Jonson?'" cried Charlie Bolton. "Even so, Charlie: now, what have you got to say for yourself?"