G. Mogridge
fellows had gone through in previous terms. He devoted the hours of play, and not a few of the hours of sleep, to the mastering of these; till, in a few weeks, he gradually began to rise, and it was not long before he shot ahead of all his companions, and became not only leader of the division, but the pride of Har- You may see the statue of that boy, whose career began with this fit of energetic application, in St. Paul's Cathedral; for he lived to be the greatest Oriental scholar in modern Europe-it was Sir William Jones. row.
When young scholars see the lofty pinnacle of attainment on which that name is now reposing, they feel as if it had been created there, rather than have travelled thither. No such thing. The most illustrious in the annals of philosophy once knew no more than the most illiterate now do. And how did he arrive at his peerless dignity? By dint of diligence; by downright painstaking.
A gentleman, named Quatremer Disjonval, was once thrown into a dungeon in the city of Utrecht.
Without a companion, without books, what could he do in his solitary prison? Apparently nothing. But unwilling to be idle even there, he gave himself to the careful study of the habits of a spider, which had spun its web within his cell. He soon found himself able to predict changes in the weather from its movements -a trifling discovery, but yet vastly useful to him in the issue; for the next winter a French army invaded Holland, and was in full tide of victory, when a sudden thaw stopped its progress, and led its chiefs to ORK, work, my boy, be not afraid, Look Labor boldly in the face ; Take up the hammer or the spade, And blush not for your humble place.
Earth was first conquered by the power Of daily sweat and peasant toil; And where would kings have found their dower, If poor men had not trod the soil?
Hold up your brow in honest pride, Though rough and swarth your hands may be Such hands are sap-veins that provide The life-blood of the Nation's tree.
There's honor in the toiling part, That finds us in the furrowed fields ; It stamps a crest upon the heart Worth more than all your quartered shields.
There's glory in the shuttle's song, There's triumph in the anvil's stroke; There's merit in the brave and strong, Who dig the mine or fell the oak.
Work, work, my boy, and murmur not, The fustian garb betrays no shame ; The grime of forge-soot leaves no blot; And labor gilds the meanest name.
There's duty for all those my son, Who act their earthly part aright; The spider's home-threads must be spun, The bee sucks on 'twixt flowers and light.
The hungry bird his food must seek, The ant must pile his winter fare; The seed drops not into the beak; The store is only gained by care.
The wind disturbs the sleeping lake, And bids it ripple pure and fresh; It moves the green boughs till they make Grand music in their leafy mesh.
God grant thee but a due reward, A guerdon portion fair and just; And then ne'er think thy station hard, O But work, my boy, work, hope, and trust!
Good Company.