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tell you, that there have been many fragments of time which he has wasted, and many opportunities which he has lost forever. If he had only seized upon the fleeting advantages, and gathered up the fragments of time, he might have pushed his researches out into new fields, and, like the immortal Bacon, have amassed vast stores of knowledge.

The mighty minds which have gone before us, have left treasures for our inheritance; and the choicest gold is to be had for the digging. Hence, all that you ever have, must be the result of labor hard, untiring labor. You have friends to cheer you on; you have books and teachers to aid you, and multitudes of helps. But, after all, disciplining and educating your mind, must be your own work. No one can do this but yourself; and nothing in this world, is of any worth, which has not labor and toil as its price.

The first and great object of education is, to discipline the mind. Make it the first object to be able to fix and hold your attention upon your studies. He who can do this, has mastered many and great difficulties; and he who cannot do it, will in vain look for success in any department of study. To effect any purpose in study, the mind must be concentrated. Patience, too, is a virtue, kindred to attention; and without it, the mind can

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not be said to be disciplined. Patient labor and investigation, are not only essential to success in study, but are an unfailing guarantee to success.

In addition to attention and patient perseverance, the student should learn to think and act for himself. True originality consists in doing things well, and doing them in our own way. A mind, half-educated, is generally imitating others; and no man was ever great by imitation. Let it, therefore, be remembered, that we can not copy greatness or goodness by any effort. We must acquire them, if ever attained, by our own patience and diligence.

Students are also in danger of neglecting the memory. This is a faculty of the mind too valuable to be neglected; for by it wonders are sometimes accomplished. He who has a memory, that can seize with an iron grasp, and retain what he reads, the ideas, simply, without the language, and judgment to compare and balance,— will scarcely fail of being distinguished. Why has that mass of thought, observation, and experience, which is embodied in books by the multitude of minds which have gone before us, been gathered, if not, that we may use it, and stand on high ground, and push our way still further into the boundless regions of knowledge? Memory is the

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grand store-house of the mind, capable, both of vast improvement and enlarged capacity, in proportion as it is properly cultivated.



Edward Everett was born in Dorchester, Mass., November 11, 1794, and died at Boston, Mass., January 15, 1865. He was a beautiful writer, an able statesman, and a great orator.

UCH as we are indebted to our observatories


for elevating our conceptions of the heavenly bodies, they present, even to the unaided sight, scenes of glory which words are too feeble to describe. I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from Providence to Boston, and, for this purpose, rose at two o'clock in the morning. Every thing around was wrapped in darkness, and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed, at that hour, the unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene, midsummer's night; the sky was without a cloud; the winds were hushed. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen; and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of

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the day: the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east: Lyra sparkled near the zenith: Andromeda veiled her newly discovered glories from the naked eye, in the south: the steady Pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign.

Such was the glorious spectacle, as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible. The intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens: the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the blue hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and

turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for gaze of man, began his course.

I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient Magians, who, in the morning of the world, went up to the hill-tops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of his hand. But I am filled with amazement when I am told that, in this enlightened age, and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say, in their hearts. "There is no God."



Henry Ward Beecher, the great pulpit orator, was born in Litchfield, Conn., June 24, 1813, and died in Brooklyn, N. Y., March 8, 1887. He possessed wonderful control over his vocal and mental powers, being never at a loss for tones or words to express his thoughts, and never losing his hold on his listeners, whom he was able to sway at will, and a voice of wonderful sweetness, compass, and power, which, together with his extensive learning, made him one of the greatest orators of modern times. He excelled both as a pulpit and a political speaker, winning equally high renown in both classes of oratory. His style of delivery was simple, but of the simplicity which carried

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