pride and vainglory: pride does _not_ depend upon the external circumstances of rank, wealth, fame; vainglory _does_. We sometimes speak of _mortifying_ pride; _pride_ is _never_ mortified; it is impossible—it holds itself grandly above all such influences; vanity, self-love, is _often_ humbled. I was vain-glorious, not only of my wealth, of my celebrity, of my admired wife—but most of all, of the _intact propriety_ of all things appertaining to me. Years slid smoothly over us. I never saw so beautiful a woman as Fanny was at thirty. Few of our women bloom into the full flower—most of them are withered in the bud. Fanny at thirty was the perfect rose of beauty. Why, Sophie, when I took her to New York city, or into any strange company, there was always a half-suppressed murmur of irrepressible admiration. Though I was no longer _proud_ of her, yet now that for long years she had ceased to worry me with her unwelcome caresses, there had grown up a calm friendship and confidence between us—she understood me, and _I thought_ that I understood her. I never guessed the latent force of passion, augmenting while it slumbered in her heart (sleep is the time for growth), or suspected the burning lava, burning more fiercely for suppression under the snowy exterior of that volcanic bosom! As little dreamed I of impending ruin as the city under the shadow of Vesuvius! About this time the whole country rang with the name of one man. A man distinguished alike for the splendor of his genius, the audacious flight of his ambition, the godlike beauty of his person, and the satanic power of fascination that neither the honor of man nor the purity of woman ever withstood. You cannot fail to identify the man—but _one_ such is born in a cycle of centuries. One day I received an invitation to preach an ordination sermon upon the next Sabbath, in the city. I had, during the years of my ministry, received several calls to take charge of large city parishes; but always declined them, because our large property and our home lay near our village. Frequently I was invited to preach in the cities, and then wherever I went crowds gathered. I always took Fanny with me, for the beauty of the woman attracted quite as much attention as the genius of the man. Upon receiving this invitation to preach the ordination sermon, therefore, I procured a substitute to fill my pulpit, and taking Fanny, stepped aboard a steamboat on Saturday morning, and the afternoon of the same day reached the city.