CULTURE THE RESULT OF LABOR.-WM. WIRT. The education, moral and intellectual, of every individual must be chiefly his own work. How else could it happen that young men, who have had precisely the same opportunities, should be continually presenting us with such different results, and rushing to such opposite destinies? Difference of talent will not solve it, because that difference is very often in favor of the disappointed candidate. You will see issuing from the walls of the same college—nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same family,-two young men, of whom the one shall be admitted to be a genius of high order, the other scarcely above the point of mediocrity; yet you shall see the genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity, and wretchedness; while, on the other hand, you shall observe the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing at every step, and mounting, at length, to eminence and distinction, -an ornament to his family, a blessing to his country. Now whose work is this? Manifestly their own. Men are the architects of their respective fortunes. It is the fiat of fate from which no power of genius can absolve you. Genius, unexerted, is like the poor moth that flutters around a candle till it scorches itself to death. If genius be desirable at all, it is only of that great and magnanimous kind which, like the condor of South America, pitches from the summit of Chimborazo, above the clouds, and sustains itself at pleasure in that empyreal region, with an energy rather invigorated than weakened by the effort. It is this capacity for high and long-continued exertion, this vigorous power of profound and searching investigation, this careering and wide-spreading comprehension of mind, and those long reaches of thought, that "Pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, This is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements, which are to enroll your names among the great men of the earth. A CHINESE STORY.-C. P. CRANCH. None are so wise as they who make pretense Might have been drawn a thousand years ago, Two young, short-sighted fellows, Chang and Ching, Fell to disputing which could see the best; In front, where we the letters just may trace; 66 Suppose we say to-morrow afternoon." Nay, not so soon," said Chang: "I'm bound to go So 'twas arranged; but Ching was wide awake: By those to whom the great Goh-Bang was dear." So on the appointed day--both innocent As babes, of course-these honest fellows went, And took their distant station; and Ching said, "I can read plainly, To the illustrious dead, The chief of mandarins, the great Goh-Bang." “And is that all that you can spell?” said Chang, "I see what you have read, but furthermore, In smaller letters, toward the temple door, Quite plain, 'This tablet is erected here By those to whom the great Goh-Bang was dear.'” 'My sharp-eyed friend, there are no such words!" said Ching. They're there," said Chang, "if I see anything, 66 As clear as daylight." 'Patent eyes, indeed, You have!" cried Ching; "do you think I cannot read?" "Not at this distance as I can," Chang said, "If what you say you saw is all you read." In fine, they quarreled, and their wrath increased, The good man heard their artless story through, GIVE ME THE HAND.-GOODMAN BARNABY. Give me the hand that is kind, warm, and ready; Soft is the palm of the delicate woman; Give me the hand that is true as a brother; Give me the grasp that I aye may adore it! Lovely the palm of the fair blue-veined maiden; Give me the grasp that is friendly forever. Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty, Give me the hand that is true as a brother; THE KING'S TEMPLE. A mighty king on his couch reclined, And its fairest maid would be proud to wear Then the site was chosen, the builders wrought To give his labor for naught to God, Then the poor man's mite by the king was spurned, Till at last, on a gorgeous autumn day, Now there lay in the chancel a great white stone, And far away where the melody came Her garment was worn, and her hair was thin, "Thank God that His house is complete at last!" * * * * The monarch, that night, on his couch reclined, And he sought his own royal name to read, "Twas a woman's name he never had heard, And his heart with wonder and wrath was stirred. And when he awoke, throughout his land On the second day, as he sat alone, The courtiers who stood about his throne And they thought, of course, she would have to wait (For even so did the royal kin,) For the kingly pleasure to let her in; But he stamped his foot with a stern "Begone! Then, slowly and trembling, in there came, And when she grew used to the splendid place, He begged, if she could, she would make it known And the old dame lifted her streaming eyes, The king said nothing. Ere morning shone 13 |