There is nothing like an array of instances for driving home an argument, so I mention the case of a man about whom much debate goes on even to this day.  Napoleon starved in the streets of Paris; one by one he sold his books to buy bread; he was without light or fire on nights of iron frost, and his clothing was too scanty to keep out the cold.  He arrived at that pass which induces some men to end all their woes by one swift plunge into the river; but he was not of the despairful stamp, and he stood his term of misery bravely until the light came for him.  Leave his splendid, chequered career of glory and crime out of reckoning, and remember only that he became emperor because he had courage to endure starvation; that lesson at least from his career can harm no one.  Choose the example of a woman, for variety’s sake.  George Eliot was quite content to scrub furniture, make cheese and butter, and sweep carpets until she arrived at ripe womanhood.  She felt her own extraordinary power; but she never repined at the prospect of spending her life in what is lightly called domestic drudgery.  The Shining Ones oftenest walk in lowly places and utter no sound of mourning.  She was nearing middle age before she had an opportunity of gaining that astonishing erudition which amazed professed students, and, had she not chanced to meet Mr. Spencer, our greatest philosopher, she would have lived and died unknown.  She never questioned the decrees of the Power that rules us all, and, when she suddenly took her place as one of the first living novelists, she accepted her fame and her wealth humbly and simply.  Till her last day she remembered her bitter years of frustration and failure, and the meanest of mortals had a share of her holy sympathy; she gained her unexampled conquest by resolutely treading down despair, and her brave story should cheer the many girls who find life bleak and joyless.  George Eliot was prepared to bear the worst that could befall her, and it was her frank and gentle acceptance of the facts of life that brought her joy in the end.  We must also remember such people as Arkwright, Stephenson, Thomas Edwards the naturalist, and Heine the poet.  Arkwright saw his best machinery smashed again and again; but his bull-dog courage brought him through his trouble, and he surmounted opposition that would have driven a weakling to exile and death.  Stephenson feared that he would never conquer the great morass at Chat Moss, and he knew that, if he failed, his reputation would perish.  He never allowed himself to show a tremor, and he won.  Poor Edwards toiled on, in spite of hunger, poverty, and chill despair; he received one knock-down blow after another with cheery gallantry, and old age had clutched him before his relief from grinding penury came; but nothing could daunt him, and he is now secure.  Heine lay for seven years in his “mattress grave;” he was torn from head to foot by the pangs of neuralgia; one of his eyes was closed, and at times the lid of