Chapter XI: Part I: How to Write a Composition (4)

2. Welcome season after short, cold days of winter.

3. Trees and flowers—blossom.

4. Sowing.

5. Pleasant walks in the country.

_Christmas._

1. When?

2. Most general holiday.

3. Why kept—“peace and goodwill.”

4. How kept:—business stopped; cards; presents; meetings of
friends; Christmas fare; trees.

_Your School._

1. Name.

2. Situation.

3. History.

4. Subjects taught.

5. Games.

6. How you may do credit to it.

_Any Town._

1. Name.

2. Situation.

3. Population.

4. Chief industry.

5. Chief buildings.

6. History.

_Linen._

1. Made from flax-plant about four feet high, blue flower.

2. Ripe flax pulled up, dried.

3. Seed (linseed) removed by pulling stalks through a kind of
comb.

4. Stalks consist of two parts, woody and fibrous.

5. Steeped in water to make separation of two easier.

6. Beaten to break woody part.

7. Combed to remove it.

8. Spun, bleached, woven.

9. Uses.

_Blind Man’s Buff._

1. One of the players has handkerchief tied over eyes.

2. Tries to catch any of the others.

3. If he catches any one he must say who it is.

4. If he succeeds, player caught takes his place.

5. The fun of the game.

_Base Ball._

1. Describe bases (number, positions, etc.).

2. Describe bat and ball.

3. How many players?

4. Pitcher, catcher, basemen, fielders.

5. How “runs” are made.

6. How a player is “out.”

7. How one side is out.

8. Which “team” wins?

_The Blacksmith’s Shop._

1. Describe the blacksmith.

2. His work.

3. Fire, bellows.

4. Anvil, hammers, tongs, water-trough.

5. “The children coming home from school....”

_The Carpenter’s Shop._

1. Work.

2. Bench, planes, chisels, hammers, mallets, axe, adze, gimlets,
saws, rule.

3. Compare blacksmith and carpenter.

_Soldier._

1. Appearance.

2. Work.

3. Where he lives in peace and in war.

4. Recruits, drill, reviews, band.

5. Battle.

6. Qualities of a soldier.

_A Farm Laborer._

1. Work varies with season.

2. In spring work connected with sowing.

3. Summer—weeding, haymaking.

4. Autumn—harvesting; sometimes ploughing.

5. Winter—looking after stock.

_A Visit to Washington._

1. On what river situated?

2. Founded when? When captured by the British?

3. Streets and avenues.

4. Capitol building, dome, Senate chamber, Chamber of the House
of Representatives.

5. White House.

6. Buildings of Government Departments.

7. Smithsonian Institute.

8. Washington’s monument.

_Cleanliness._

1. Of person.

(_a_) Describe pores. Waste of body passes through them like
smoke up a chimney; therefore must be kept open.

(_b_) Diseases arise if waste cannot pass off.

(_c_) Dirty person disagreeable.

2. Of clothes.

Clean person impossible in dirty clothes.

3. Of houses.

(_a_) Dust passes into lungs.

(_b_) Dirty houses—bad smells.

(_c_) Plague (formerly common) due to dirt.

_Lying._

1. What it is—willful attempt to deceive.

2. Words may be true and yet a lie because meant to deceive.

3. There may be lies without words.

4. Why wrong.

5. Consequence to liar—not believed even when speaking truth.

6. Fable of boy that cried “Wolf.”

_Cruelty to Animals._

1. Animals can feel.

2. How would you like cruel treatment?

3. “Do unto others....”

4. Animals grateful for kindness.

5. Any story to show this.

_Thrift._

1. “Penny saved, penny earned.”

2. Name some things on which children spend money needlessly.

3. Advantages of saving:—“Take care of the pennies and the
dollars will take care of themselves;” savings can be turned to
account; provision for a “rainy day.”

4. Aids to thrift:—Savings banks, building societies, etc.

_Make Hay while the Sun Shines._

1. Meaning of proverb. Hay is grass dried in the sun; if not
“made” on first opportunity, it may be spoiled by rain.

2. Proverb teaches us to miss no opportunity.

3. Reasons:—Do not know what may happen by to-morrow; chance
perhaps lost forever; “The mill cannot grind with the water that
is past.”

4. Story to show danger of putting off.

_A Rolling Stone Gathers no Moss._

1. Meaning of the proverb—persevere.

2. Illustrations:—

(_a_) If you do not finish a study begun, _all_ the time spent on
it is wasted.

(_b_) Three removes are as bad as a fire.

(_c_) By staying in the same place you make friends and a
position.

“_Virtue is its Own Reward._”

1. Virtue often gains for a man honor, wealth, friends.

2. But though it brought no such rewards it should be sought.

3. For the approval of one’s own conscience is more important
than the approval of any one else.

Easy Subjects for Compositions.

Rabbit. Fox. Pig. Mouse. Bear. Camel. Monkey. Sheep. Goat. Cow. Hen. Duck. Robin. Lark. Canary. Ostrich. Eagle. Pigeon. Gull. Sparrow. Whale. Seal. Bee. Spider. Fly. Butterfly. Shark. Herring. Mackerel. Crab. Cod. Frog. Crocodile. Turtle. Adder. Cocoa. Sugar. Sago. Cork. India rubber. Potato. Turnip. Salt. Lead. Tin. Copper. Gold. Knife. Glass. Paper. Soap. Pins. Needles. Candles. Cotton. Silk. Woollen cloth. Autumn. Winter. Any game with marbles. Making and flying kites. Boating. Swimming. Fishing. Football. Skating. Lawn tennis. Punctuality. Industry. Perseverance. Obedience. Bad language. Good manners. Good habits. Temperance. Honesty. The “Golden Rule.” How to make yourself useful at home.

Describe:—(_a_) A house. (_b_) A street. (_c_) A church. (_d_) Any village. (_e_) Any town. (_f_) A farm. (_g_) A mill. (_h_) The sea-side. (_i_) Common spring flowers. (_j_) The most beautiful place you have seen. (_k_) A snow-storm. (_l_) A thunder-storm.

Describe the life and work of:—(_a_) A mason. (_b_) A gardener. (_c_) A teacher. (_d_) A doctor. (_e_) A sailor. (_f_) A policeman. (_g_) A postman. (_h_) A tailor. (_i_) A baker. (_j_) A shepherd. (_k_) A fisherman. (_l_) An errand-boy. (_m_) A painter.

Describe a visit to:—(_a_) The seaside. (_b_) Chicago or some other large town. (_c_) The Zoological Gardens or a menagerie. (_d_) A circus. (_e_) A school exhibition. (_f_) A department store. (_g_) A country dairy. (_h_) A picture gallery.

Tell a story about:—(_a_) A dog. (_b_) A cat. (_c_) A horse. (_d_) A monkey. (_e_) A parrot. (_f_) An elephant. (_g_) A hen.

Tell any stories you know illustrating the following sayings:—

(_a_) “Look before you leap.”

(_b_) “Liars are not believed even when they speak the truth.”

(_c_) “People are judged by the company they keep.”

(_d_) “Penny wise and pound foolish.”

(_e_) “Count not your chickens before they are hatched.”

(_f_) “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

(_g_) “Union is strength.”

Explain and illustrate the following proverbs:—

(_a_) “A stitch in time saves nine.”

(_b_) “A prudent man foreseeth the evil; fools pass on and are
punished.”

(_c_) “The more haste the less speed.”

(_d_) “Strike the iron while it is hot.”

(_e_) “Touch pitch and be defiled.”

(_f_) “Rome was not built in a day.”

(_g_) “No gains without pains.”

(_h_) “Nothing venture nothing win.”

USE OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

An apt illustration is always a help to a writer or speaker. The mind of the reader or hearer is interested in tracing the comparison, and receives a stronger impression than it does when the thought is stated simply by itself.

Many of the most famous orators have been very gifted in employing similes to express their meaning. You should cultivate the habit of using illustrations. Although there is sometimes danger in employing them, yet where carefully and rightly used they not only ornament the composition, but render its thoughts and ideas more striking, more impressive and more easily remembered.

=A Simile= is a comparison explicitly stated; as,

Now does he feel his title
Hang loose upon him like a giant’s robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.

How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

An evil soul producing holy witness
Is like a goodly apple rotten at the heart.

The course of a great statesman resembles that of navigable
rivers, avoiding immovable obstacles with noble bends of
concession, seeking the broad levels of opinion on which men
soonest settle and longest dwell, following and marking the most
imperceptible slopes of national tendency, yet always aiming at
direct advances, always recruited from sources nearer heaven,
and sometimes bursting open paths of progress and fruitful human
commerce through what seem the eternal barriers of both.

=A Metaphor= is a condensed Simile. The comparison is implied, but not expressed at length; thus:—

But look, the morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

The simile implied here is, “The morning like to a person clad in
russet mantle walks,” etc.

Stand, therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and
having on the breastplate of righteousness ... above all taking
the shield of faith wherewith ye may be able to quench all the
fiery darts of the wicked.

Similes and Metaphors are employed

1. To aid the understanding.

We comprehend the unknown best by comparison with the known.

2. To intensify the feelings; as

Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice.

What a piece of work is man; how noble in reason! how infinite in
faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action
how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of
the world! the paragon of animals!

3. To give point and force to what we wish to express.

Our conduct towards the Indians has been that of a man who
subscribes to hospitals, weeps at charity sermons, carries out
broth and blankets to beggars, and then comes home and beats his
wife and children.

Howe’er it be, it seems to me
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.—_Tennyson._

Every one must admit the beauty and force of the great poet’s
comparison of kind hearts to coronets, and simple faith to Norman
blood, implying that each object mentioned surpasses the one with
which it is compared.

The following rules should be observed in the conduct of Metaphors:—

1. Do not use metaphors, except when needed to make a sentence
clearer or stronger. Needless metaphors are a blemish instead of
an ornament.

2. Do not pursue a simile or metaphor too far. The further it is
pursued the less likely is the comparison to hold.

3. Metaphors should avoid mean or disagreeable details.

4. Metaphors should not be forced. Some metaphors are so
far-fetched that (as Mr. Lowell says) one could wish their
authors no worse fate than to be obliged to carry them back
whence they came.

5. Do not mix literal and metaphorical language. In the sentence

I was walking on the barren hills of sin and sorrow near Welshpool,

“the barren hills of sin and sorrow” is metaphorical, and “near
Welshpool” is literal.

_Examples of Apt Illustrations._

But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.—_Shakespeare._

I had rather be a dog and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.—_Shakespeare._

There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.—_Shakespeare._

Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve.—_Milton._

Now morn, her rosy steps in eastern clime
Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearl.—_Milton._

So may’st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop
Into thy mother’s lap.—_Milton._

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible
locks.—_Milton._

There is a reaper whose name is death,
And with his sickle keen
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.—_Longfellow._

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.—_Longfellow._

But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.—_Tennyson._

But Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Honor turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
Laughs louder than the laughing giant.—_Holmes._

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.—_Lowell._

In winter, when the dismal rain
Came down in slanting lines,
And wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines.—_Mulock._

Men not only want a competency, but they want a ten-story
competency; then they want religion as a lightning rod to
ward off the bolts of divine judgment.—_Beecher._

As the river is swollen by the melting snows of spring and
runs with greater force and volume, so, when he is aroused,
his thoughts and words pour forth impetuously, and he exhibits
the strength and majesty of the most commanding eloquence.

_Examples of Faulty Illustrations._

Peace has poured oil on the troubled waters, and they blossom like the rose.

She has come down among us in her floating robes, bearing the olive-branch in her beak.

The American eagle broods over his nest in the rocky fastnesses, and his young shall lie down with the lamb.

We have gone through the floods, and have turned their hot ploughshares into pruning-hooks.

May we be as lucky in the future, preserving forever our Goddess of Liberty one and inseparable.

CORRECTIONS.—Peace may pour oil on troubled waters, but waters never blossom.

Anything that wears floating robes is not furnished with a beak.

The young of eagles are not in the habit of lying down with lambs.

Floods do not have hot ploughshares.

Why should anyone wish to preserve the Goddess of Liberty inseparable, as it would be an unheard-of experience for a Goddess to be divided?

HOW TO COMPOSE AND WRITE LETTERS.

To be a good letter writer is an accomplishment as desirable as it is rare. Few persons possess the faculty of writing an interesting letter, politely and gracefully expressed. Unless you are an exception to the general rule you become stiff and formal when you attempt to express your thoughts to a friend, or make known your wants to a man of business. The epistle is labored, unnatural and lacking in that ease which is the charm of conversation.

“I now take my pen in hand,” etc. Do get rid of all old, set forms of expression. Imagine the person to whom you are writing as placed right before you, and talk to him with your pen as you would with your tongue.

There can be but one opinion concerning the general value of correspondence. How often people complain that they do not get letters from their friends. Neglect can be shown in no way more effectively than by failing to answer a letter when it ought to be written.

In writing a letter, care should be taken that the different parts are properly arranged.

First comes the =Address of the Writer=.

This is written at the top of the paper, towards the right side.
If the address consists of several parts, each part is given a
separate line; thus—

LIVONIA,
LIVINGSTON CO.,
NEW YORK.

After the address comes the =Date of Writing=.

Next comes the =Form of Address=.

This is always placed towards the left of the page, and varies
according to the relations between the sender and the receiver
of the letter. Writing to an intimate friend, one may say, “My
dear Tom,” or (a little less familiarly) “My dear Brown.” Writing
to a friend who is also a superior in age or position, one would
say, “My dear Mr. Brown.” “Dear Sir” is formal, but claims some
small degree of acquaintance or regard. “Sir” is purely formal.
Similarly we may have, “My dear Annie,” “My dear Mrs. Brown,”
“Dear Madam,” and “Madam.” In writing to Miss Jones, a stranger,
you may not wish to say, “Dear Miss.” It would be better in this
instance to address her as “Miss Jones.”

After the form of address comes the =Letter=.

A friendly letter should be easy and pleasant in style—it should
be, in fact, a talk on paper. In a business letter, on the other
hand, the style is brief and concise. The first aim of the writer
is to make himself understood, the next to be brief.

After the letter comes the =Subscription=, as,

Sincerely yours,
ALEXANDER ARGYLE.

Or,

Respectfully yours,
NEW ENGLAND COAL CO.

Or in more formal style,

I am, dear sir,
Your obedient servant,
THOMAS LANCASTER.

The subscription is arranged like the address, but begins further
to the left. The form of subscription varies with the form of
address.

A business letter ends with the =Address of the Person to whom it is Sent=.

This is written in the left corner. A friendly letter generally
ends with the subscription.

EXAMPLES OF LETTERS.

_Application for a Situation._

345 Lancaster Street,
15th February, 189-.

SIR:

Seeing by your advertisement in this morning’s “Standard” that
you are in need of an office boy, I beg leave to apply for the
position. I have been for six years a pupil in the Commercial
School, Old Bridge Street. My teacher permits me to refer you to
him for an account of my conduct and abilities. I have therefore
only to add that if I am fortunate enough to enter your employ,
it shall be my aim to serve you diligently and faithfully.

I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
THOMAS WATSON.

J. W. CHAMBERS, ESQ.,
97 Dearborn Street.

_Letters of Invitation._

NEWARK, September 11.

MY DEAR JOE:

Myself, and a half dozen other good fellows, are going to devote
a few hours on Tuesday evening to the enjoyment of refreshments,
chit-chat, and so on. I hope you will make one, as we have not
enjoyed the “feast of reason and flow of soul” in each other’s
company for some time past.

Believe me, dear Joe,
Yours ever,
HARRY.

MADISON SQUARE, November 12.

DEAR MR. ROBINSON:

My old friend Richard Roy is coming to take a chop with me on
Saturday, the 15th, and I hope you will come and join us at six
o’clock. I know you are not partial to large parties, so trust
you will think us two sufficient company.

Yours ever truly,

WASHINGTON, July 3.

HON. J. B. GRANGER,
MY DEAR SIR:

We are endeavoring to get up a small excursion to visit Mount
Vernon on the 10th of this month. Will you do us the favor of
making one of our number? Mrs. ⸺ and my family desire their
compliments, and request me to mention that they have taken upon
themselves the task of providing the “creature comforts” for
that occasion, and trust that their exertions will meet with
unanimous approval. Should you have no previous engagement for
that day, and feel disposed to join our party, a carriage will be
at your door by 10 o’clock on Thursday morning; and believe me to
be,

My dear sir, yours most sincerely,

HON. J. B. GRANGER.

P. S.—The favor of an early answer will oblige.

WASHINGTON, July 3.

MR. E. B. ALLEN,
MY DEAR SIR:

Replying to your kind invitation of this morning, I beg leave
to say it would afford me great pleasure to join your excursion
to Mount Vernon on the 10th inst. I will await your carriage at
10 o’clock on Thursday morning. Thanking you for your welcome
invitation,

I am, my dear sir, very truly yours,
J. B. GRANGER.

MR. E. B. ALLEN.

_Notes of Invitation._

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs.
James’s company, on Wednesday evening next, at eight o’clock, to
join a social party. An immediate answer will much oblige.

Fifth Avenue, January 9th.

Mr. and Mrs. James will be most happy to avail themselves of Mr.
and Mrs. Thompson’s kind invitation to join their social party as
requested.

West Street, January 10th.

Mr. and Mrs. James greatly regret their inability to accept
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson’s kind invitation to join their social
party. Nothing would have afforded them more pleasure than to be
present, but family affliction prevents them.

West Street, January 10th.

MY DEAR BERTHA,—A few friends will be here on Wednesday evening
next, to take a social cup of tea, and chat about mankind in
particular. Give us the pleasure of your company.

S. BUCKMAN.

Prince Street, Saturday morning.

MY DEAR SOPHIE,—It affords me great pleasure to inform you that I
shall join your party on Wednesday evening next.

BERTHA MERWIN.

Spring Street, Saturday afternoon.

_Letters of Congratulation._

LOUISVILLE, KY., February 10.

MY DEAR HOWARD:

The news of your good fortune gives me great satisfaction. No one
can possess true friendship without rejoicing in the prosperity
of a friend. To one who has always been manly, true and noble,
and who has labored persistently toward a particular end, success
must be extremely gratifying.

It will ever be my delight to hear that you are prospering in
your undertakings, and if in any way I can serve you, you can
rely upon my best endeavors. With every good wish for yourself
and Mrs. Kerr,

Ever faithfully yours,

ST. LOUIS, MO., June 15, 189-.

DEAR OLD FRIEND:

The happy announcement that a son and heir has been born to
you, gives me extreme satisfaction. I always thought you would
distinguish yourself in some way, and would do something whereby
your name might descend to posterity. And now, my worthy chum, it
seems you have done it. Blessings on you!

Very sincerely yours,

_Love Letters._

MY DEAREST HARRIET:

I cannot express the happiness I feel in finding that my letter
to your respected parents has been crowned with success,
and I flatter myself, notwithstanding your temporizing with
my feelings, in thus reserving your avowal of a reciprocal
attachment, that you, my dear girl, will not be unsusceptible to
its value, but condescend to acknowledge an equal happiness with
myself at its contents. In token of the confidence with which
your dear letter has inspired me, I beg leave to present you
with a trifle, the acceptance of which will be highly flattering
to him whose image it portrays; and permit me the fond pleasure
of indulging a belief that you will esteem the trifle, in
affectionate remembrance of the original.

In obedience to your father’s command, I shall wait upon him at
the appointed time; till then, my beloved Harriet, adieu.

Ever your devoted admirer,

DEAR SIR:

I make no doubt of the truth of your assertions, relative to
yourself, character, and connections; but as I think I am too
young to enter into such a serious engagement, I request I may
hear no more of your passion for the present; in every other
respect,

I am, Sir,
Yours very sincerely,

OUTLINES TO BE EXPANDED INTO LETTERS.

_Inviting a Friend to Tea._

1. Can you come to tea—day—hour.

2. My birthday—several friends coming.

3. Tea in orchard—then cricket in field.

4. Hope mother will let you come—be home by nine.

_Accepting Invitation._

1. Thanks for invitation—happy to accept.

2. Glad to meet ⸺.

3. Look forward to pleasant evening.

_Declining Invitation._

1. Thanks for invitation—should have been glad to come.

2. Sorry to lose chance of meeting ⸺.

3. Father some time ago arranged to take me and my brother to ⸺.

4. Hope you will have pleasant evening and many happy returns.

_From a Town Child to a Country Child._

1. Town crowded—noisy—dirty—glad to get into country.

2. Shall never forget visit to the country last summer.

3. No streets—few houses—beautiful views—quiet—sweet air.

4. Fine weather—many enjoyable walks.

5. Returned to town almost envying a country life.

_Answer from Country Child to Town Child._

1. You almost envying country life—I almost envying town life.

2. Country has the advantages you describe, but you saw it in
summer.

3. Difficult to get about in bad weather—especially in winter
when much bad weather.

4. Dull—no libraries, exhibitions, meetings, concerts, etc.

5. Town may have all the disadvantages named, but always
plenty to see, opportunities for study, friendly intercourse,
entertainments.

6. Traveling easy.

SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION FROM WORLD-RENOWNED AUTHORS.

Do not consider yourself too ambitious when you make an earnest effort to express your thoughts so well that your productions will compare favorably with those of the best writers. You should have specimens of the best composition before you. The following pages contain such, and you will readily see how the most famous authors construct their sentences, what apt words they choose, and how easily, yet forcibly, they express their ideas.

Do not be disheartened if you fail to come up to the standard here placed before you. It is related of the great painter, Correggio, that he was once almost ready to fling away his brush, exclaiming, “I can never paint like Raphael.” But he persevered, and at length the great painter whom he admired so much said, “If I were not Raphael, I would wish to be Correggio.” You should take the best writers for your models and set your standard high. Be a severe critic of yourself, and do your very best.

GETTING THE RIGHT START.

BY J. G. HOLLAND.

In clear expression of thought and use of plain, forcible English, the works of Doctor Holland are superior to those of most authors. He does not employ large, overgrown words, but such as are easily understood. This is one secret of the popularity of his writings. Dr. Holland was born at Belchertown, Mass., in 1819, and died October 12, 1881. He was associate editor of the “Springfield Republican,” and in 1870 became editor of “Scribner’s Magazine.” Both as a writer of prose and poetry he is held in high esteem by all lovers of elevated thought and pure diction.

Society demands that a young man shall be somebody, not only,
but that he shall prove his right to the title; and it has a
right to demand this. Society will not take this matter upon
trust—at least, not for a long time, for it has been cheated too
frequently. Society is not very particular what a man does, so
that it proves him to be a man: then it will bow to him, and make
room for him.

I know a young man who made a place for himself by writing an
article for the North American Review: nobody read the article,
so far as I know, but the fact that he wrote such an article,
that it was very long, and that it was published, did the
business for him. Everybody, however, cannot write articles for
the North American Review—at least I hope everybody will not,
for it is a publication which makes me a quarterly visit; but
everybody, who is somebody, can do something. There is a wide
range of effort between holding a skein of silk for a lady and
saving her from drowning—between collecting voters on election
day and teaching a Sunday-school class.

A man must enter society of his own free will, as an active
element or a valuable component, before he can receive the
recognition that every true man longs for. I take it that this is
right. A man who is willing to enter society as a beneficiary is
mean, and does not deserve recognition.

There is no surer sign of an unmanly and cowardly spirit than a
vague desire for help, a wish to depend, to lean upon somebody,
and enjoy the fruits of the industry of others. There are
multitudes of young men, I suppose, who indulge in dreams of help
from some quarter, coming in at a convenient moment, to enable
them to secure the success in life which they covet.

The vision haunts them of some benevolent old gentleman with a
pocket full of money, a trunk full of mortgages and stocks, and
a mind remarkably appreciative of merit and genius, who will,
perhaps, give or lend them anywhere from ten to twenty thousand
dollars, with which they will commence and go on swimmingly.
Perhaps he will take a different turn, and educate them. Or,
perhaps, with an eye to the sacred profession, they desire to
become the beneficiaries of some benevolent society, or some
gentle circle of female devotees.

To me, one of the most disgusting sights in the world is that
of a young man with healthy blood, broad shoulders, presentable
calves, and a hundred and fifty pounds, more or less, of good
bone and muscle, standing with his hands in his pockets, longing
for help. I admit that there are positions in which the most
independent spirit may accept of assistance—may, in fact, as a
choice of evils, desire it; but for a man who is able to help
himself, to desire the help of others in the accomplishment of
his plans of life, is positive proof that he has received a most
unfortunate training, or that there is a leaven of meanness in
his composition that should make him shudder.

Do not misunderstand me: I would not inculcate that pride of
personal independence which repels in its sensitiveness the
well-meant good offices and benefactions of friends, or that
resorts to desperate shifts rather than incur an obligation.
What I condemn in a young man is the love of dependence; the
willingness to be under obligation for that which his own efforts
may win.

Let this be understood, then, at starting; that the patient
conquest of difficulties which rise in the regular and legitimate
channels of business and enterprise, is not only essential in
securing the success which you seek, but it is essential to that
preparation of your mind which is requisite for the enjoyment of
your successes, and for retaining them when gained. It is the
general rule of Providence, the world over, and in all time, that
unearned success is a curse. It is the rule of Providence, that
the process of earning success shall be the preparation for its
conservation and enjoyment.

So, day by day, and week by week; so, month after month, and
year after year, work on, and in that process gain strength and
symmetry, and nerve and knowledge, that when success, patiently
and bravely worked for, shall come, it may find you prepared to
receive it and keep it.

The development which you will get in this brave and patient
labor, will prove itself, in the end, the most valuable of your
successes. It will help to make a man of you. It will give you
power and self-reliance. It will give you not only self-respect,
but the respect of your fellows and the public.

Never allow yourself to be seduced from this course. You
will hear of young men who have made fortunes in some wild
speculations. Pity them; for they will almost certainly lose
their easily won success. Do not be in a hurry for anything. Are
you in love with some dear girl, whom you would make your wife?
Give Angelina Matilda to understand that she must wait; and if
Angelina Matilda is really the good girl you take her to be, she
will be sensible enough to tell you to choose your time.

You cannot build well without first laying a good foundation; and
for you to enter upon a business which you have not patiently
and thoroughly learned, and to marry before you have won a
character, or even the reasonable prospect of a competence, is
ultimately to bring your house down about the ears of Angelina
Matilda, and such pretty children as she may give you. If, at
the age of thirty years, you find yourself established in a
business which pays you with certainty a living income, you are
to remember that God has blessed you beyond the majority of men.

DINAH THE METHODIST.

BY GEORGE ELIOT.

The works of Marian Evans Cross created unusual interest when first published in England. Her “Adam Bede,” “The Mill on the Floss” and “Silas Marner,” immediately placed her in the highest rank of the writers of fiction. For some time her identity was concealed, yet there were critics who suspected that “George Eliot” was the assumed name of a female author. Her writings are characterized by a keen insight into character, intellectual vigor and sympathy with the advanced thought of the day. She was born in 1819, and died in 1880. The selection from “Adam Bede,” here given, is an excellent specimen from one of her well-known works.

Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveler pushed
his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly, and in
advance of her companions, toward the cart under the maple tree.
While she was near Seth’s tall figure she looked short, but when
she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she
seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she
did not exceed it—an effect which was due to the slimness of her
figure, and the simple line of her black stuff dress.

The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and
mount the cart—surprise, not so much for the feminine delicacy of
her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in
her demeanor. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a
measured step, and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt
sure that her face would be mantled with a smile of conscious
saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew
but two types of Methodist—the ecstatic and the bilious.

But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and
seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy;
there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, “I know you
think me a pretty woman, too young to preach;” no casting up or
down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of
the arms, that said, “But you must think of me as a saint.”

She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down
lightly crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes
on the people. There was no keenness in her eyes; they seemed
rather to be shedding love than making observations; they had the
liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to
give out, rather than impressed by external objects.

The eyebrows, of the same color as the hair, were perfectly
horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker,
were long and abundant; nothing was left blurred or unfinished.

It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers
with light touches of color on their pure petals. The eyes had
no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so
simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no
light sneer, could help melting away before their glance.

Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat
in order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad
Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head;
and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting
her.

“A sweet woman,” the stranger said to himself, “but surely Nature
never meant her for a preacher.”

GODFREY AND DUNSTAN.

BY GEORGE ELIOT.

An excellent example of dialogue in fiction.

Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy
felt that it was her husband. She turned from the window with
gladness in her eyes, for the wife’s chief dread was stilled.

“Dear, I’m so thankful you’re come,” she said, going towards him.
“I began to get”—

She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat with
trembling hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a
strange, unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her
as part of a scene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his
arm, not daring to speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed,
and threw himself into his chair.

Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. “Tell her to
keep away, will you?” said Godfrey; and when the door was closed
again he exerted himself to speak more distinctly.

“Sit down, Nancy—there,” he said, pointing to a chair opposite
him. “I came back as soon as I could to hinder anybody’s telling
you but me. I’ve had a great shock—but I care most about the
shock it’ll be to you.”

“It isn’t father and Priscilla?” said Nancy, with quivering lips,
clasping her hands together tightly on her lap.

“No, it’s nobody living,” said Godfrey, unequal to the
considerate skill with which he would have wished to make his
revelation. “It’s Dunstan—my brother Dunstan, that we lost
sight of sixteen years ago. We’ve found him,—found his body—his
skeleton.”

The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created in Nancy made her feel
these words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear
what else he had to tell. He went on:

“The stone pit has gone dry suddenly,—from the draining, I
suppose; and there he lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged
between two great stones. There’s his watch and seals, and
there’s my gold-handled hunting whip, with my name on. He took it
away, without my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire,
the last time he was seen.”

Godfrey paused! it was not so easy to say what came next. “Do you
think he drowned himself?” said Nancy, almost wondering that her
husband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those
years ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been
augured.

“No, he fell in,” said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as
if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added:
“Dunstan was the man that robbed Silas Marner.”

The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck at this surprise and
shame, for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship
with crime as a dishonor.

“O Godfrey!” she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had
immediately reflected that the dishonor must be felt more keenly
by her husband.

“There was money in the pit,” he continued, “all the weaver’s
money. Everything’s been gathered up, and they have taken the
skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you. There was
no hindering it; you must know.”

He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy
would have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but
she refrained, from an instinctive sense that there was something
behind,—that Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he
lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, as he
said:

“Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God
Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. I’ve lived with
a secret on my mind, but I’ll keep it from you no longer. I
wouldn’t have you know it by somebody else, and not by me—I
wouldn’t have you find it out after I’m dead. I’ll tell you now.
It’s been ‘I will’ and ‘I won’t’ with me all my life; I’ll make
sure of myself now.”

Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and
wife met with an awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended
affection.

“Nancy,” said Godfrey slowly, “when I married you, I hid
something from you,—something I ought to have told you. That
woman Marner found dead in the snow—Eppie’s mother—that wretched
woman—was my wife; Eppie is my child.”

He paused, dreading the effects of his confession. But Nancy sat
quite still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his.
She was pale and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands
on her lap.

“You’ll never think the same of me again,” said Godfrey after a
little while, with some tremor in his voice. She was silent.

“I oughtn’t to have left the child unowned; I oughtn’t to have
kept it from you. But I couldn’t bear to give you up, Nancy. I
was led away into marrying her; I suffered for it.”

Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that
she would presently get up and say she would go to her father’s.
How could she have any mercy for faults that seemed so black to
her, with her simple, severe notions?

But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There
was no indignation in her voice; only deep regret.

“Godfrey, if you had told me this six years ago, we could have
done some of our duty by the child. Do you think I’d have refused
to take her in, if I’d known she was yours?”

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that
was not simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not
measured this wife with whom he had lived so long. But she spoke
again, with more agitation.

“And—oh, Godfrey—if we’d had her from the first, if you’d taken
to her as you ought, she’d have loved me for her mother—and you’d
been happier with me; I could better have bore my little baby
dying, and our life might have been more like what we used to
think it ’ud be.”

The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak.

“But you wouldn’t have married me then, Nancy, if I’d told you,”
said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to
prove to himself that his conduct had not been utter folly. “You
may think you would now, but you wouldn’t then. With your pride
and your father’s, you’d have hated having anything to do with me
after the talk there’d been.”

“I can’t say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I
should never have married anybody else. But I wasn’t worth doing
wrong for; nothing is in this world. Nothing is so good as it
seems beforehand; not even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” There
was a faint, sad smile on Nancy’s face as she said the last words.

“I’m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,” said Godfrey
rather tremulously. “Can you forgive me ever?”

“The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey. You’ve made it up to me;
you’ve been good to me for fifteen years. It’s another you did
the wrong to; and I doubt it can never be all made up for.”

“But we can take Eppie now,” said Godfrey. “I won’t mind the
world knowing at last. I’ll be plain and open for the rest o’ my
life.”

“It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s grown up,” said
Nancy, shaking her head sadly. “But it’s your duty to acknowledge
her and provide for her; and I’ll do my part by her, and pray to
God Almighty to make her love me.”

“Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s this very night, as
soon as everything’s quiet at the Stone Pits.”

RIP VAN WINKLE.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

This charming author, who is a master of pure style, beautiful sentiment and pleasing humor, has been called the father of American literature. If this be not strictly true, it is a matter of record that no American authors before his time achieved any remarkable success. Mr. Irving was born in 1783, and died in 1859. He was particularly happy in portraying the quaint character and customs of the old Dutch settlers in our country. He published a number of volumes, including “The Sketch Book,” “Tales of a Traveler,” “Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus,” etc. One of Irving’s best known and most delightful short productions is “Rip Van Winkle,” from which the following extract is taken. The easy-going, inoffensive character of Rip is delightfully pictured.

The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion
to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want
of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock,
with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and fish all
day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by
a single nibble.

He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down
dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never
refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences.

The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their
errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging
husbands would not do for them;—in a word, Rip was ready to
attend to anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family
duty and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was
the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country;
everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of
him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would
either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to
grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always
made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to
do; so that, though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away
under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more
left than a mere patch of Indian corn, and potatoes, yet it was
the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness,
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his
father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his
mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off
trousers, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a
fine lady does her train in bad weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat
white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a
pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was
bringing on his family.

Morning, noon and night her tongue was incessantly going, and
everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of
household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that by frequent use had grown into a
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his
eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh
volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces
and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in
truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his only
alternative to escape from the labor of the farm, and the clamor
of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the
woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a
tree, and share the contents of his wallet with his dog Wolf,
with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution.

“Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life
of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never
want a friend to stand by thee.” Wolf would wag his tail, look
wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

THE PURITANS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

Distinguished as a descriptive poet by his fine “Lays of Ancient Rome,” and yet more distinguished as a master of English prose by his “Essays” and his noble “History of England,” Thomas Babington Macaulay stands prominent as the most learned and eloquent of the essayists and critics of the nineteenth century. He was the son of Zachary Macaulay, known as the warm friend and co-laborer of Wilberforce and Clarkson, and was born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, October 25, 1800, and died in 1859. In 1818 he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1822. Here he gave proof of his great intellectual powers, obtaining a scholarship, and twice gaining the Chancellor’s medal for a poem called “Pompeii.” To crown his triumphs, he secured a “Craven Scholarship,”—the highest distinction in classics which the university confers.

Lord Macaulay’s glowing description of the Puritans has been pronounced the finest writing of its kind to be found in our language. It is the product of pre-eminent literary ability, and the highest genius.

We would first speak of the Puritans of the sixteenth century,
the most remarkable body of men, perhaps, which the world has
ever produced.

Those who roused the people to resistance—who directed their
measures through a long series of eventful years—who formed,
out of the most unpromising materials, the finest army that
Europe had ever seen—who trampled down king, church, and
aristocracy—who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and
rebellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on
the face of the earth—were no vulgar fanatics.

Most of their absurdities were mere external badges, like the
signs of freemasonry or the dresses of friars. We regret that
these badges were not more attractive; we regret that a body,
to whose courage and talents mankind has owed inestimable
obligations, had not the lofty elegance which distinguished some
of the adherents of Charles I., or the easy good breeding for
which the court of Charles II. was celebrated. But, if we must
make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from
the specious caskets which contain only the Death’s head and the
Fool’s head, and fix our choice on the plain leaden chest which
conceals the treasure.

The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar
character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and
eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general
terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every
event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was
too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with
them the great end of existence.

They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other
sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of
catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring
veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable brightness,
and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their
contempt for terrestrial distinctions.

The difference between the greatest and meanest of mankind seemed
to vanish when compared with the boundless interval which
separated the whole race from Him on whom their own eyes were
constantly fixed.

They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and,
confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments
and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted
with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read
in the oracles of God; if their names were not found in the
registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded
in the Book of Life; if their steps were not accompanied by a
splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had
charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands;
their diadems, crowns of glory which should never fade away.

On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they
looked down with contempt; for they esteemed themselves rich
in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime
language—nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests
by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them
was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance
belonged—on whose slightest actions the spirits of light and
darkness looked with anxious interest—who had been destined,
before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which
should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away.

Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes
had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had
risen and flourished and decayed; for his sake the Almighty had
proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp
of the prophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from
the grasp of no common foe; he had been ransomed by the sweat of
no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was
for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been
rent, that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at
the sufferings of her expiring God!

ON BEING IN TIME.

BY C. H. SPURGEON.

When we examine Mr. Spurgeon’s writings we are able to discover one great secret of his power. As no preacher of modern times was more successful, in like manner no other had such a vigorous command of plain English in the pulpit. The great majority of his words are short and simple, reminding one of the terse writings of the old Puritan authors. Mr. Spurgeon was born in 1834 and died in 1893. No other writer has published so many sermons and volumes of miscellaneous writings, and no other author of similar works has been so widely read. He was the marvel of his generation.