Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye, still, the words would be,-
"Let me hide myself in Thee."

CULTURE, THE RESULT OF LABOR.

HE

THE

IE 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,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And drag up drowned honor by the locks."

This is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements, which are to enroll your names among the great men of the earth.-William Wirt.

THE TRAIN TO MAURO.

CHARACTERS: MRS. BUTTERMILK, an elderly lady from the country.

MR. BRIGHT, clerk at a railway station.

JOHNNIE BUTTERMILK, a terrible child.

MR. BRIGHT seated at a table, writing. Enter MRS. BUTTERMILK, with a bandbox, a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a basket. JOHNNIE, with a satchel, a bundle, a parasol, and a fishing-rod.

RS. BUTTERMILK. Morning, sir!

Mr. Bright (coldly). Good-morning.

Mrs. B. Fairish day!

Mr. B. (very stiffly). Very pleasant, madam.

Mrs. B. Is this the place where you take the train to Mauro?

Mr. B. You can take a train here to-morrow, or any other day.

Mrs. B. I want to take the train to Mauro.

Johnnie. No you don't, ma. You want the train to take you.

Mrs. B. It's all the same. Are all my things here -bandbox, carpet-bag, umbril, basket-you John, have you got all the things-bag, bundle, parasol ? J. Yes, and my fishing-rod.

Mr. B. If you don't want to leave to-day, you had better go over the way to a hotel. You cannot stay here all night.

Mrs. B. Stay here all night!

F. Nobody wants to stay here. We're going up to Aunt Susan's.

Mr. B. You said you wanted to go to-morrow.

Mrs. B. Well, so we do. My old man's sister's son's wife is sick.

Mr. B. I don't want to hear your family troubles. Mrs. B. 'Tain't my family. It's Buttermilk's son's wife's got some kind o'sickness come on sudden. You see Buttermilk's sister's son's wife is always delicate, and this is a bad spell, I reckon.

Mr. B. I should think you would go to-day. You seem all prepared.

Mrs. B. Ain't I going as soon as the train comes along to Mauro ?

Mr. B. Why do you wait till to morrow? Where are you going?

Mrs. B. Don't I tell you I'm going to Mauro. Got all the things safe, Johnnie?

J. Yes, ma.

Mrs. B. Bandbox, carpet-bag, umbril, basket, bag, bundle, parasol ?

F. And fishing-rod.

Mrs. B. Young man, what are you writing?

Mr. B. (coldly). A report of an accident on the road. Mrs. B. Oh, mercy! Oh! Are we going to have an accident? I won't go! I won't stir a step.

Mr. B. You need not be alarmed. The accident took place a week ago.

Mrs. B. What did they do, young man?

Mr. B. Ran over a cow.

Mrs. B. Dear me! Was she hurt, poor thing?
Mr. B. She was taken up in three pieces.

Mrs. B. You don't say so!

7. Dear me, what a fuss about a cow! Is all that writing about it?

Mr. B. Yes, it is. The cow threw the train off the track; thirty people were killed, sixty injured; the locomotive smashed to pieces, and five cars shattered. Mrs. B. I'm going home!

F. Oh, pshaw, ma! I want to go fishing.

Mrs. B. Fishing! Thirty killed! Young man, did you say thirty?

Mr. B. Yes, ma'am.

Mrs. B. When 'll that train be along, young man? Mr. B. What train?

Mrs. B. The ten-forty train.

Mr. B. (pettishly). At ten-forty, of course.

Mrs. B. That's the one that goes to Mauro, ain't it? Mr. B. Of course it goes to-morrow. It goes every day.

Mrs. B. Oh ! You see, young man, it's some ways

for me to come down here, for I live fifteen miles back in the country.

Mr. B. I don't want to know where you live.

Mrs. B. And Mr. Jenk's uncle's daughter's husband was a coming over with market truck; they've taken the corner farm this season, and are doing pretty well in garden sass and berries.

Mr. B. I don't want to hear all this.

Mrs. B. As I was saying, Mr. Jenk's uncle's son-inlaw was coming over, and he stopped around to our place, and says he- Mrs. Buttermilk, says he, I hear you're going up to town to take the train!

Mr. B. See here, boy, can't you make your mother be quiet? I want to write.

F. (grinning). That's a good one. I make her! Suppose you try.

Mrs. B. Shut up, John. Well, sir, as I was saying, Mr. Jenk's uncle's daughter's husband brought me over with as fine a lot of early greens as ever grew in our parts. It beats me how they was ever raised on that miserable old place. It must be out of his books and papers. He's a powerful hand for reading, and I must say he's a first-rate hand on a farm. His pigs are pictures! If you want garden sass, any time, young man, I'll get him to stop here.

Mr. B. (crossly). You need n't trouble yourself. Mrs. B. 'Tain't a mite o' trouble. I see him every market-day, 'cause he brings my butter.

Mr. B. I don't want any garden sass.

Mrs. B. Dear me! Now some folks is so fond of it, when it comes in fresh.

Mr. B. I'm not.

Mrs. B. Powerful stupid, waiting here, ain't it?