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"My sharp-eyed friend, there are no such words!" said Ching.

"They're there," said Chang, " if I see anything,

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,
Till Chang said, " Let us leave it to the priest;
Lo! here he comes to meet us." "It is well."
Said honest Ching; "no falsehood he will tell."

The good man heard their artless story through,
And said, " I think, dear sirs, there must be few
Blest with such wondrous eyes as those you wear:
There's no such tablet or inscription there!
There was one, it is true; 'twas moved away
And placed within the temple yesterday."

GIVE ME THE HAND.—Goodman Barnary.

Give me the hand that is kind, warm, and ready;
Give me the clasp that is calm, true, and steady;
Give me the hand that will never deceive me;
Give me its grasp that I aye may believe thee.

Soft is the palm of the delicate woman;

Hard is the hand of the rough, sturdy yeoman;

Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not—never!

Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.

Give me the hand that is true as a brother;
Give me the hand that has harmed not another;
Give me the hand that has never forsworn it;
Give me the grasp that I aye may adore it!

Lovely the palm of the fair blue-veined maiden;

Horny the hand of the workman o'erladen;

Lovely or ugly, it matters not—never!

Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.

Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty,
Free as the breeze and unshackled by party:
Let friendship give me the grasp that becomes her,
Close as the t wine of the vines of the summer,—

Give me the hand that is true as a brother;

Give me the hand that has wronged not another;

Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not—never 1

Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.


A. mighty king on his couch reclined,
With a haughty thought in his lonely mind:
;' Has not God prospered me more than all?
A nation would rise at my single call,
And its fairest maid would be proud to wear
A crown by the side of my crowned gray hair;
I'll rear him a house for my greatness' sake,
And nobody's aid will I claim or take;
From the gilded spire to the great crypt stone
It shall be my offering, and mine alone."

Then the site was chosen, the builders wrought
To find a shape for the monarch's thought;
Soon the abbey rose 'gainst the culm blue sky,
And they built it broad, and they built it high;
But if any offered with spade or hod,
To give his labor for naught to God,
Then the poor man's mite by the king was spurned,
And he paid him for every stone he turned.

Till at last, on a gorgeous autumn day,
All the solemn priests in their white array,
With prayers, and anthems, and censers came,
And opened the abbey in God's great name.

Now there lay in the chancel a great white stone,
With the king's name on it, and his alone;
And the king stood near it with haughty brow,
And pondered, "The future will know me now
By the glorious temple I have made,
Unsuilied by any plebeian aid."

And far away where the melody came
But softly, there lingered an aged dame;
Her garment was worn, and her hair was thin,
And she looked like the last of all her kin,—
Who had none to love, who hud none to blame,
Who would start at the sound of her Christian name.
Yet she said, as the music o'er her passed,
"Thank God that His house is complete at last!"

* * * » »

The monarch, that night, on his couch reclined,
With a proud content in his lonely mind;
But when he slept, he strangely dreamed;—
In the abbey chancel alone he seemed,

And he sought his own royal name to read,

But lo! another was there instead;

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
By mouth of heralds he sent command
If a woman bearing a certain name,
Within a month to his presence came,
She should have a cup with a jeweled rim,—
Besides the honor of seeing him.

On the second day, as he sat alone,

The courtiers who stood about his throne

Informed him the woman was at the gate;

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!

And straightway bring her, and leave us alone."

So a great lord brought her, and that lord sWore

That the king awaited her at the door I

Then, slowly and trembling, in there came,

In her poor best weeds, a poor old dame,

And the king himself (there were none to stare,)

Kindly led her up to a velvet chair;

And when she grew used to the splendid place,

And found she could gaze on a royal face,

He begged, if she could, she would make it known

Why he dreamed her name on the chancel stone.

"For what work have you done?" the monarch said;

'I've built all the abbey, and asked no aid."

An4 the old dame lilt jj her streaming eyes,

And held up her binds in her great surprise.

"My liege," she answered, " how much could I do

At a great, good work that was meet for you?

'If the king had asked us,' I often thought,

'I could not have given, for I have naught;'

But in works for God, how it seems his" plan,

There's something to do that any one can.

So when the builders were ready to sink,

I carried some water and gave them to drink."

The king said nothing.

Ere morning shone
His name was gone from the chancel stone;
And with looks of wonder the courtiers read
The name of the woman writ there instead.


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 were 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 donate 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 distinguished men 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 Kldon, who sat on the woolsack 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, &t 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 are now to 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 sepulchre 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.


"He wonbl havo passed a pleasant life of it, despite of the Devil and all his works, tf his path had not beeii crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put togother, and that was a woman."—Sketch Book.

St. Anthonv sat on a lowly stool,

And a book was in his hand;
Never his eyes from its page he took,
Either to right or left to look,
But with steadfast gaze as was his rule,

The holy page he scanned.

"We will woo," said the imp, "St. Anthony's eyes

Off from his holy book;
We will go to him iii all strange disguise,
And tease him with laughter and whoops and cries,

That he may upon us look."

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