a beggar; and Demosthenes, the orator, whose eloquence controlled the fierce democracy of Athens, the son of a sword-maker. What was Daniel Defoe, the author of the enchanting story of the Solitary in the far-off desert isle, but a hosier's apprentice? Or Gay, the poet and wit, but the drudge of a silk-mercer? James Watt sold spectacles, and invented the present steam-engine; George Stephenson, who began life as a miner's-boy at two shillings per week, founded the railway system of Great Britain; "Rare Ben Jonson," as his epitaph aptly designates him, second among our British dramatists to none but Shakspeare, handled the bricklayer's trowel; and Prideaux, the divine and scholar and critic, was employed to sweep the halls and galleries of Exeter College. Telford, the architect of the Menai Bridge, was a stone-mason's labourer; Rennie, the designer of London Bridge and the Bell-Rock Lighthouse, the son of a small farmer; Burns, the poet, who walked "In glory and in joy, Behind his plough upon the mountain-side," was a poor cotter's son; Sir Richard Arkwright, the inventor of the power-loom, started in life as a barber; Gifford, the reviewer and critic, as a cobbler. [Sidenote: The moral of our book.] We see, then, that neither poverty, nor obscure birth, nor unfavourable circumstances in early life, nor lack of friends, nor all the obstacles and difficulties which seem so formidable in the eyes of an ease-loving world, can hold out against the steadfast purpose, against the presence of a clear brain and a courageous heart, determined to work and live and succeed. This is the lesson the preceding pages are intended to enforce; this is the encouragement the story of Smeaton's life should convey to the reader; this is the moral of all Biography, and one which the young should never forget,--a moral full "Of courage, hope, and faith!" The Lighthouse The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, And on its outer point, some miles away, The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,-- A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. Even at this distance I can see the tides, Upheaving, break unheard along its base;-- A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides In the white lip and tremor of the face. And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare. Not one alone;--from each projecting cape And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher, it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, Wading far out among the rocks and sands, The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.