on the trouble and think within themselves, “Now is the hour of trial; it is needful to be strong and audacious;” weak men drop into hopeless lassitude, and the few who happen to be foolish as well as weak rid themselves of life.  I dare say that hardly one of those who read these lines has escaped that one awful moment when effort appears vain, when life is one long ache, and when Time is a creeping horror that seems to lag as if to torture the suffering heart.  We need only turn to the vivid chapter of modern life to see the utter folly of “giving in.”  Let us look at the life-history of a statesman who died some years ago in our country, after wielding supreme power and earning the homage of millions.  When young Benjamin D’Israeli first entered society in London, he found that the proud aristocrats looked askance at him.  He came of a despised race, he had no fortune, his modes of acting and speaking were strange to the cold, self-contained Northerners among whom he cast his lot, and his chances looked far from promising.  He waited and worked, but all things seemed to go wrong with him; he published a poem which was laughed at all over the country; he strove to enter Parliament, and failed again and again; middle age crept on him, and the shadows of failure seemed to compass him round.  In one terrible passage which he wrote in a flippant novel called “The Young Duke” he speaks about the woful fate of a man who feels himself full of strength and ability, and who is nevertheless compelled to live in obscurity.  The bitter sadness of this startling page catches the reader by the throat, for it is a sudden revelation of a strong man’s agony.  At last the toiler obtained his chance, and rose to make his first speech in the House of Commons.  He was then long past thirty years of age; but he had the exuberance and daring of a boy.  All the best judges in the Commons admired the opening of the oration; but the coarser members were stimulated to laughter by the speaker’s strange appearance.  D’Israeli had dressed himself in utter defiance of all conventions; he wore a dark green coat which came closely up to his chin, a gaudy vest festooned with chains, and glittering rings.  His ringlets were combed in a heavy mass over his right shoulder; and it is said that he looked like some strange actor.  The noise grew as he went on; his finest periods were lost amid howls of derision, and at last he raised his arms above his head, and shouted, “I sit down now; but the time will come when you will hear me!” A few good men consoled him; but most of his friends advised him to get away out of the country that his great failure might be forgotten.  Now here was cause for despair in all conscience; the brilliant man had failed disastrously in the very assembly which he had sworn to master, and the sound of mockery pursued him everywhere.  His hopes seemed blighted; his future was dim, he was desperately and dangerously in debt, and he had broken down more completely than