So he was. Every thing was gone. Those pretty riches that chirped and
sang to him as he fed them; they had all spread their bright plumage,
like a troop of singing birds--have we not always been taught that they
might, Mr. Jowlson?--and had flown away.

To undertake business anew was out of the question. His friends said,
"Poor Gray! what shall be done?"

The friendly merchants pondered and pondered. The worthy Jowlson, who
had meanwhile engaged as book-keeper upon a salary of seven hundred
dollars a year--one of the rare prizes--was busy enough for his friend,
consulting, wondering, planning. Mr. Gray could not preach, nor practice
medicine, nor surgery, nor law, because men must be instructed in those
professions; and people will not trust a suit of a thousand dollars, or
a sore throat, or a broken thumb, in the hands of a man who has not
fitted himself carefully for the responsibility. He could not make boots,
nor build houses, nor shoe horses, nor lay stone wall, nor bake bread,
nor bind books. Men must be educated to be shoemakers, carpenters,
blacksmiths, bakers, masons, or book-binders. What _could_ be done?
Nobody suggested an insurance office, or an agency for diamond mines
on Newport beach; for, although it was the era of good feeling, those
ingenious infirmaries for commercial invalids were not yet invented.

"I have it!" cried Jowlson, one day, rushing in, out of breath, among
several gentlemen who were holding a council about their friend
Gray--that is, who had met in a bank parlor, and were talking about
his prospects--"I have it! and how dull we all are! What shall he do?
Why, keep a school, to be sure!--a school!--a school! Take children,
and be a parent to them!"