they are visible,-the intense hollow blue of the upper sky melting through it all,-showing here deep, and pure, and lightless,-there modulated by the filmy, formless body of the transparent vapor till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and gold.

J. Ruskin, England, 1819-.

47. The Skeptic.

Did the skeptic ever contemplate the landscape at the close of the year, when seed, and grains, and fruit have ripened, and stalks have withered, and leaves have fallen, and winter has forced her icy curb even into the roaring jaws of Niagara, and sheeted half a continent in her glittering shroud, and all this teeming vegetation and organized life are locked in cold and marble obstructions, and after week upon week, and month upon month, have swept, with sleet and chilly rain, and howling storm, over the earth, and riveted their crystal bolts upon the door of nature's sepulchre,when the sun at length begins to wheel in higher circles through the sky, and softer winds to breathe over melting snows,-did he ever behold the long-hidden earth at length appear, and soon the timid grass peep forth; and anon the autumnal wheat begin to paint the field, and velvet leaflets to burst from purple buds, throughout the reviving forest, and then the mellow soil to open its fruitful bosom to every grain and seed dropped from the planter's hand,-buried, but to spring up again, clothed with a new, mysterious being;

then, as more fervid suns inflame the air, and softer showers distill from the clouds, and gentler dews string their pearls on twig and tendril, did he ever watch the ripening grain and fruit, pendent from stalk and vine and tree; the meadow, the field, the pasture, the grove, each after his kind, arrayed in myriadtinted garments, instinct with circulating life; seven millions of counted leaves on a single tree, each of which is a system whose exquisite complication puts to shame the shrewdest cunning of the human hand; every planted seed and grain, which had been loaned to the earth, compounding its pious usury thirty, sixty, a hundred fold,—all harmoniously adapted to the sustenance of living nature, the bread of a hungry world; here a tilled corn-field, whose yellow blades are nodding with the food of man; there an unplanted wilderness, the great Father's farm, where He "who hears the raven's cry" has cultivated, with His own hand, His merciful crop of berries, and nuts, and acorns, and seeds, for the humbler families of animated nature; the solemn elephant, the browsing deer, the wild pigeon whose fluttering caravan darkens the sky, the merry squirrel, who bounds from branch to branch, in the joy of his little life, has he seen all this? Does he see it every year, and month, and day? Does he live, and move, and breathe, and think, in this atmosphere of wonder,-himself the greatest wonder of all, whose smallest fiber and faintest pulsation is as much a mystery as the blazing glories of Orion's belt? And does he still maintain that a mir.

acle is contrary to experience? If he has, and if he does, then let him go in the name of Heaven, and say that it is contrary to experience that the august Power which turns the clods of the earth into the daily bread of a thousand million of souls could feed five thousand in the wilderness.

E. Everett, Mass., 1794-1865.

48. Success.

Every man must patiently abide his time. He must wait, not in listless, not in useless pastime, not in querulous dejection, but in constant, steady fulfilling and accomplishing his task; that when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, without a thought of fame. If it come at all it will not come because it is sought after. It is a very indiscreet and troublesome ambition which cares so much about fame; about what the world says of us; to be always looking in the face of others for approval; to be always anxious about the effects of what we do or say; to be always shouting to hear the echoes of our own voices.

H. W. Longfellow, Maine, 1807-.

49. Motive.

In some respects our mental education resembles the system pursued by some of the ancient islanders of the Mediterranean. In order to teach their chil

dren the use of the bow and the art of war, they suspended their breakfast every morning from the bough of a tree, and made them shoot for it, well knowing that their hunger would sharpen their aim as well as their appetites. So a benevolent Providence, in order to impose upon us a similar necessity and motive for mental activity, has hung, not only our food, but the gratification of every sense, as it were, upon a tall tree, and taught our ideas to shoot for it,-or, without the figure, to think for it.

Elihu Burritt, Conn., 1811

50. Books.

Books,-light-houses erected in the great sea of Time,-books, the precious depositories of the thoughts and creations of genius,-books, by whose sorcery time past becomes time present, and the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes,-these were to visit the firesides of the humble, and lavish the treasures of the intellect upon the poor. Could we have Plato, and Shakespeare, and Milton in our dwellings, in the full vigor of their imaginations, in the full freshness of their hearts, few scholars would be affluent enough to afford them physical support; but the living images of their minds are within the eyes of all. From their pages their mighty souls look out upon us in all their grandeur and beauty, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time.

E. P. Whipple, Mass., 1819-.

51. The Gentle Charities of Life.

A man's usefulness depends far more on the kindness of his daily temper than on great and glorious deeds that shall attract the admiration of the world, and that shall send his name down to future times. It is the little rivulet that glides through the meadow, and that runs along day and night by the farm-house, that is useful, rather than the swollen flood, or the noisy cataract. Niagara excites our wonder, and fills the mind with amazement and awe. We feel that God is there; and it is well to go far to see, once at least, how solemn it is to realize that we are in the presence of the Great God, and to see what wonders His hand can do. But one Niagara is enough for a continent, or a world; while that same world needs thousands and tens of thousands of silvery fountains, and gently flowing rivulets, that shall water every farm, and every meadow, and every garden, and that shall flow on every day and every night with their gentle and quiet beauty. So with life. We admire the great deeds of Howard's benevolence, and wish that all men were like him. We revere the names of the illustrious martyrs. We honor the man who will throw himself in the "imminent deadly breach," and save his country,-and such men and such deeds we must have when the occasion calls for them. But all men are not to be useful in this way, any more than waters are to rush by us in swelling and angry floods. We are to be useful in more limited spheres. We are