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

will procure for you a stock of great thoughts, thoughts that will fill, stir, and invigorate and expand the soul. Seize, also, on the unparalleled aids furnished by steam and type in this unequaled age. The great thoughts of great men can now be procured at prices almost nominal. You can, therefore, easily collect a library of choice standard works. But, above all, learn to reflect even more than you read. Without thought, books are the sepulcher of the soul, they only immure it. Let thought and reading go hand in hand, and the intellect will rapidly increase in strength and gifts. Its possessor will rise in character, in power, and in positive influence.

-D. Wise.

XLIX. TRUE HEROISM.

LET others write of battles fought,
Of bloody, ghastly fields,

Where honor greets the man who wins,
And death the man who yields;
But I will write of him who fights
And vanquishes his sins,

Who struggles on through weary years
Against himself, and wins.

He is a hero staunch and brave
Who fights an unseen foe,
And puts at last beneath his feet
His passions base and low;

Who stands erect in manhood's might,
Undaunted, undismayed,

The bravest man who ere drew sword

In foray or in raid.

It calls for something more than brawn
Or muscle, to o'ercome

An enemy who marcheth not

With banner, plume, and drum;
A foe forever lurking nigh,

With silent, stealthy tread;
Forever near your board by day,
At night beside your bed.

All honor, then, to that brave heart!
Though poor or rich he be,
Who struggles with his baser part,
Who conquors and is free.

He may not wear a hero's crown,
Or fill a hero's grave,

But truth will place his name among
The bravest of the brave.

L. THE WORTH OF ELOQUENCE.

LET us not, gentlemen, undervalue the art of the orator. Of all the efforts of the human mind, it is the most astonishing in its nature and the most transcendent in its immediate triumphs. The wisdom of the philosopher, the eloquence of the historian, the sagacity of the statesman, the capacity of the general, may produce more lasting effects upon human affairs, but they are incomparably less rapid in their influence and less intoxicating from the ascendancy they confer.

In the solitude of his library, the sage meditates on the truths which are to influence the thoughts and direct the conduct of men in future times; amid the strife of faction, the legislator discerns the measures calculated, after a long course of years, to alleviate existing evils or produce happiness yet unborn; during long and wearisome campaigns, the commander throws his shield over the fortunes of his country, and prepares, in silence and amid obloquy, the means of maintaining its independence. But the triumphs