our products across the country; but more is due to the genius of our inventors, who recognized the necessity of improved methods on the farm, and who under great difficulties and in the face of

opposition provided the farmers of America with 5 machines and implements which have enabled them to produce more cheaply than in any other land under the sun, whereby they have been enabled to sell their products in the markets of the world.

discarded: thrown away. - gaveling: holding.

CHARLES DICKENS

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811–1863), a distinguished English novelist, was born in India, but at the age of five was taken to England. After some years of preparation at the old Charterhouse school, he entered Cambridge University, 5 but did not remain to take a degree. His fondness for caricature was shown at this early date by his work on The Snob, a college magazine, and by his burlesque on Timbuctoo, the subject for a prize-poem contest in which Tennyson was victorious.

After leaving Cambridge he studied art in Rome and in some 10 of the German cities. At Weimar he met Goethe and was much impressed by his power. Returning to England, the loss of his fortune made it necessary that he should go to work, and he began his career as a writer for Fraser's Magazine. The columns of the humorous Punch were next enlivened by Thackeray's pen. 15 For ten years he poured into the pages of Punch "ballads, songs, burlesques; lectures on English history; papers humorous, wise, witty, pathetic."

It was not, however, until 1848, when Thackeray was thirtyseven and Dickens, a year younger, was already famous, that 20 Thackeray made an enduring name for himself by the publica

tion of Vanity Fair, still counted as one of the greatest of English novels. The rest of his short life was occupied with novel writing and with lecturing.

There is a man in our days whose words are not framed to 25 tickle delicate ears; who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society much as the son of Imlah came before the throned kings of Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophetlike and as vital, a mien as dauntless and as daring. CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ.

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One of the qualities we most admire in him is his comprehensive spirit of humanity. The Edinburgh Review.

As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kindnesses which he has conferred upon us all,upon our children, upon people educated and uneducated, upon the myriads here and at home, who speak our common tongue, have not you, 5 have not I, all of us, reason to be thankful to this kind friend who soothed and charmed so many hours, brought pleasure and sweet laughter to so many homes, made such multitudes of children happy,, endowed us with such a sweet store of 10 gracious thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoyments? There are creations of Mr. Dickens's which seem to me to rank as personal benefits,-figures so delightful that one feels happier and better for knowing them, as one does 15 for being brought into the society of very good men and women. That atmosphere in which these people live is wholesome to breathe in; you feel that to be allowed to speak to them is a personal kindness; you come away better for your contact 20 with them; your hands seem cleaner from having the privilege of shaking theirs. Was there ever a better charity sermon preached in the world than Dickens's Christmas Carol? I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout England; was the 25 means of lighting up hundreds of kind fires at

Christmas time; caused a wonderful outpouring of Christmas good feeling, of Christmas punch brewing; an awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys and roasting and basting of Christmas beef. As for 5 this man's love of children, that amiable organ at the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know two that do, and read his books ten times for once that they peruse the dismal preachments of their 10 father. I know one who, when she is happy, reads

Nicholas Nickleby; when she is unhappy, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she is tired, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she is in bed, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she has nothing to do, reads 15 Nicholas Nickleby; when she has something to do, reads Nicholas Nickleby; and when she has finished the book, reads Nicholas Nickleby over again. This candid young critic, at ten years of age, said, "I like Mr. Dickens's books much better than your 20 books, papa"; and frequently expressed her desire that the latter author should write a book like one of Mr. Dickens's books. Who can? Every man must say his own thoughts in his own voice, in his own way; lucky is he who has such a charming gift 25 of nature as this, which brings all the children in

the world trooping to him, and being fond of him.

LYRIC OF ACTION

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE (1830-1886), an American poet, belonged to a cultured family of Charleston, South Carolina. After his father's death he became the ward of his uncle, Robert Y. Hayne, the opponent of Daniel Webster in the celebrated debate that will always be one of the glories of America. After 5 his graduation at Charleston College he turned with longing to a literary life, a longing that he thus expressed:

Yet would I rather in the outward state

Of Song's immortal temple lay me down,

A beggar basking by that radiant gate,

Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown.

The outbreak of the Civil War rudely interrupted his growing fame as a poet. He promptly volunteered for service, and was assigned to duty on the staff of Governor Pickens. Ill health, however, soon forced his retirement from the field.

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The war brought many disasters upon Hayne. His friends were killed or scattered; his home, including a large library, was burned; and his ample fortune was swept away. Without murmuring and without resentment, he retired to the pines, built near Augusta, Georgia, a modest home, and there slowly achieved 20 an enduring fame.

'Tis the part of a coward to brood

O'er the past that is withered and dead :

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled?

Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead,

Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul, "Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!"

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