se never leaves his mark upon the world. He has
no individuality; he is absorbed in the mass, lost in the crowd, weak,
wavering, and incompetent.

"Consider, my lord," said Rowland Hill to the Prime Minister of
England, "that a letter to Ireland and the answer back would cost
thousands upon thousands of my affectionate countrymen more than a
fifth of their week's wages. If you shut the post-office to them,
which you do now, you shut out warm hearts and generous affections from
home, kindred, and friends." The lad learned that it cost to carry a
letter from London to Edinburgh, four hundred and four miles, one
eighteenth of a cent, while the government charged for a simple folded
sheet of paper twenty-eight cents, and twice as much if there was the
smallest inclosure. Against the opposition and contempt of the
post-office department he at length carried his point, and on January
10, 1840, penny postage was established throughout Great Britain. Mr.
Hill was chosen to introduce the system, at a salary of fifteen hundred
pounds a year. His success was most encouraging, but at the end of two
years a Tory minister dismissed him without paying for his services, as
agreed. The public was indignant, and at once contributed sixty-five
thousand dollars; and, at the request of Queen Victoria, Parliament
voted him one hundred thousand dollars cash, together with ten thousand
dollars a year for life.

It is a great purpose which gives meaning to life; it unifies all our
powers, binds them together in one cable and makes strong and united
what was weak, separated, scattered.

"Smatterers" are weak and superficial. Of what use is a man who knows
a little of everything and not much of anything? It is the momentum of
constantly repeated acts that tells the story. "Let thine eyes look
straight before thee. Ponder the path of thy feet and let all thy ways
be established. Turn not to the right hand nor to the left." One
great secret of St. Paul's power lay in his strong purpose. Nothing
could daunt, nothing intimidate him. The Roman Emperor could not
muzzle him, the dungeon could not appall him, no prison suppress him,
obstacles could not discourage him. "This one thing I do" was written
all over his work. The quenchless zeal of his mighty purpose burned
its way down through the centuries, and its contagion will never cease
to fire the hearts of men.

"Try and come home somebody," said his mother to Gambetta as she sent