Keep, then, this first great precept, ever near:

Short be your speech, your matter strong and clear;
Earnest your manner, warm and rich your style,
Severe in taste, yet full of grace the while;
So you may reach the loftiest heights of fame,
And leave, when life is past, a deathless name.

-Judge Story.

XLVI.-FOES UNITED IN DEATH.

THERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat face to face on the bank of the stream; the strife and the anger had all gone now, and they sat still,-dying men, who but a few hours before had been deadly foes,sat still, and looked at each other. At last one of them spoke : "We haven't either of us a chance to hold out much longer, I judge." "No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and recklessness, "you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was slowly oozing. "Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged,—a deadly wound.

Then the two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light; for the moon had come over the hills now, and stood among the stars like a pearl of great price. And as they looked, a soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe,-a feeling of pity for the strong, manly life laid low, a feeling of regret for the inexorable necessity of war, which made each man the slayer of the other; and at last one spoke: "There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse when you are gone out of it." A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said the man, in husky tones, 66 there's one woman

with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear of this;" and he groaned out in bitter anguish, "O God, have pity on my wife and children!" The other drew closer to him: "And away down among the cotton-fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what this day has done;" and then the cry wrung itself sharply out of his heart, "O God, have pity upon them!" From that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to fall drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept like little children.

At last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to every word, "She used to come,— my little girl, bless her heart!—every night to meet me when I came home from the fields; and she would stand under the great plum-tree that's just beyond the back door at home, with the sunlight making yellow brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate,-I see her now, and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss; but my little darling will never watch under the old plum-tree by the well for her father again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass to spring into my arms again!"

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"Then," said the Southerner, "there's a little browneyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shouts of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little flying feet up and down the veranda again."

The Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke

now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast, "We have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little while. Let us forgive each other." The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a murmur from his white lips; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgiveness

and peace.

When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their hands clasped, by the stream which ran close to the battle-field; and the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the plum-tree, among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl with bright brown hair, that waited by the roses, among the green fields of Georgia, were fatherless.

XLVII.—THE PUREST PEARL.

BESIDE the church door, a-weary and alone,
A blind woman sat on the cold door-stone;
The wind was bitter, the snow fell fast,
And a mocking voice in the fitful blast

Seemed ever to echo her morning cry,
As she begged an alms of the passers-by,
"Have pity on me, have pity, I pray;
My back is bent, and my hair is gray."

The bells were ringing the hour of prayer,
And many good people were gathered there,
But covered with furs and mantles warm,
They hurried past through the wintry storm.

Some were hoping their souls to save,

And some were thinking of death and the grave;
And, alas! they had no time to heed

The poor soul asking for charity's meed:

K. N. E.-18.

And some were blooming with beauty's grace,
But closely muffled in veils of lace,

They saw not the sorrow nor heard the moan
Of her who sat on the cold door-stone.

At last came one of noble name,

By the city counted the wealthiest dame,
And the pearls that o'er her neck were strung
She proudly there to the beggar flung.

Then followed a maiden, young and fair,
Adorned with clusters of golden hair;

But her dress was thin, and scanty, and worn,
Not even the beggar's seemed more forlorn;

With a tearful look and a pitying sigh,
She whispered softly, "No jewels have I;
Naught but a heartfelt prayer," said she,
"That heaven thy protector ever may be."

On the poor white hand, so shrunken and small,
The blind woman let a tear-drop fall,
Then kissed it, and said to the weeping girl,
"It is you who have given the purest pearl!"

XLVIII.-MIND, THE GLORY OF MAN.

THE mind is the glory of man. No possession is so productive of real influence as a highly cultivated intellect. Wealth, birth and official station may and do secure to their possessors an external, superficial courtesy; but they never did, and they never can, command the reverence of the . heart. It is only to the man of large and noble soul, to him who blends a cultivated mind with an upright heart, that men yield the tribute of deep and genuine respect. But why do so few young men of early promise, whose hopes, purposes, and resolves are as radiant as the colors of the rainbow, fail to distinguish themselves? The answer is

obvious: they are not willing to devote themselves to that toilsome culture which is the price of great success.

Whatever aptitude for particular pursuits nature may give to her favorite children, she conducts none but the laborious and the studious to distinction. Great men have ever been men of thought as well as men of action. As the magnificent river, rolling in the pride of its mighty waters, owes its greatness to the hidden springs of the mountain nook, so does the wide-sweeping influence of a distinguished man date its origin from hours of privacy, resolutely employed in efforts after self-development. The invisible spring of self-culture is the source of every great achievement. Away, then, young man, with all dreams of superiority, unless you are determined to dig after knowledge as men search for concealed gold. Remember, that every man has in himself the seminal principle of great excellence, and he may develop it by cultivation if he will try.

Perhaps you are what the world calls poor. What of that? Most of the men whose names are as household words were also the children of poverty. Captain Cook, the circumnavigator of the globe, was born in a mud-hut, and started in life as a cabin boy. Lord Eldon, who sat upon the wool-sack in the British Parliament for nearly half a century, was the son of a coal merchant. Franklin, the philosopher, diplomatist, and statesman, was but a poor printer's boy, whose highest luxury, at one time, was only a penny roll eaten in the streets of Philadelphia. Ferguson, the profound philosopher, was the son of a half-starved weaver. Johnson, Goldsmith, Coleridge, and multitudes of others of high distinction, knew the pressure of limited circumstances, and have demonstrated that poverty even is no insuperable obstacle to success.

Up, then, young man, and gird yourself for the work of self-cultivation! Set a high price on your leisure moments: they are sands of precious gold. Properly expended, they