6tif r ifamitg eitttf.
THE PLACE OF SLEEP,
"Bury Ms not, I pray thee, in Egypt."
Not where the restless wind and wave
Perpetual warfare keep,
Where winter's storms unfettered rave,
Would I be laid to sleep.
Though not a hurricane can break
That most profound repose,
Fain would I that last slumber take,
Far from those dreaded foes.
And not where childhood, rough and rude,
Profanes the solemn place,
Filling the holy solitude
With loud halloo.and chase;
Or idle gossips gather round,
The conclave of the day,—
Not there should my long home be found;
Leave me not there, I pray.
No! where those sleepers helpless lie,
The relics still so dear,
Should be a calm serenity,
Remote from gloom or fear.
The voice of grief, the song of praise,
Alone should echo there;
God's word the drooping spirit raise,
While He draws near to prayer.
Rest for a while, ye blessed dead,
In Jesus sweetly sleep ;
Love visitetb your lowly bed,
Both to rejoice and weep.
Absent from sight, how near in soul
Your presence still may be,—
United in one glorious whole,
Still of one family
OUR BABY'S GRAVE.
A, RECOLLECTION OF CHILDHOOD
One bright sunny day in the month
of June, a little baby was born in our
house. It had scarcely opened its
eyes, nurse told us, ere it closed thorn
again in death; and now it was lying
stretched out in its miniature grave
clothes upon the top of the chest of
drawers in the spare bedroom. A
great mystery to us was that dead
baby. How did it look ? Could we
see it ? What would be done with it?
In whispers the questions were asked
of our old nurse, with scared faces and
quivering lips.
"God has ta'en your wee baby
sister hame to heaven, my bairns,"
said nurse, solemnly ; "it is a little
angel already, I've nae doot."
"Is that 'cause she had no naughty
heart like ours?" said the youngest of
us.
"Na, my bairn, though the bonny
lamb had nae sense to ken gude from
bad, yet as sure as the flakes o' down
from you big thistle in the yard, when
they root themselves in • the ground,
will grow up nothing better than
common thistles, sae sure may we be
that the seed o' Adam's sin was in
that wee heart ; and that if our Saviour
hadna shed his precious blood to wash
away sin, even your little sister
wouldna hae been fit to go where the
angels are."
"0, nurse, then are you not sure
baby is happy now ?" .
" Ay, dearie, I am sure the new
born babe, that ne'er said nay to the
kind Saviour, canna be cast out ; and
ye may be sure she's safe in his arms,
when ye mind your Sunday text,
Suffer the little children to come
unto me, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven.' Only mind this, my bairns,
—ye are aulder, and ye ken what's
right and what's wrong; ye ken when
Jesus cries, Came unto me,' whether
ye like best to turn and hear his loving
voice, and try to show your love by
doing his bidding ; or whether ye
think ye'll no heed religion till ye re
bigger, and just gang your ain gate,
and do your ain ways, as if He was
nothing to you. Ye maun be washed
by the Holy Spirit in that blood, afore
ye can join the holy company in the
happy land."
We were all too much solemnized
to speak for a tirne, except the little
one, who, smiling through her tears,
said in her artless way, " I love Jesus;
Jesus loves me, too ; I not frightened
to come to Him, and Him will help me
to be good!"
While our kind old nurse fondled
the little prattler, my thoughts went
back to the subject so near all our
hearts—our little unknown sister—
and I mentioned the question—
" But baby's body, nurse—what is
going to be done with its little body?
Shall we see it ?"
"Cii..yes; it's like enough ye'll see
it bare it's put into its wee coffin
that's coming to-morrow night."
This was, the first time the actual
presence s of death had ever been felt
by us children, and it affected us more
or less, and in different ways.
For my own part I had a perfect
horror at the thought of viewing that
dead baby, perhaps because I had
overheard one of the servants saying
it was "my veryiimage ;" but though
trembling with fear, at the same time I
felt I could not rest till I had seen it.
Over and over again would I creep
to the door of the bedroom where it
lay, when no one saw me, trying to
get a peep of it when the door should
be opened; but just when my desire
was about to be fulfilled, I would run
away, only to return again when the
-oor was shut.
In looking back to those early days,
I can remember being a very sensitive
child, easily excited. • The stories that
pleased the children, such as Blue
Beard, and the Forty Thieves, or better
still, a ghost story, sent a thrill of horror
through me; and for nights after I
would scream out with terror, awaken
ing nurse, who always declared that she
would never let me hear those stories
again. Or, if an invitation came for a
child's party, or an excursion in the
country, the knowledge of it was kept
from me till the very day it took place,
lest I should lie awake at nights
thinking of it, or fever the whole
household by day, through'my excite
ment.
The little coffin was brought the
next day and placed in the drawing
room; and a message came from our
father, that if any of us would like to
see the baby, we were to come down.
Nurse knew well I had not slept all
that night; and I saw by the deter
mined drawing in of her lips when I
prepared to follow the other children,
that she had made up her mind to
prevent me. It was no use trying to
persuade her that I would be better
when once I had seen it—that my
teeth only chattered because I was
cold.
That's a very likely thing to be on
a June day 1" said. nurse, shaking her
head ; " na, na, I ken ye better ; ye're
ane o' the kind that will never do to
look upon death, or ye become less
tender, and.so I'll no let you."
Feeling secretly thankful to nurse
for preventing me, yet wishing all the
time to go—tieing pulled, as it were,
two ways—l sat down and cried, re
fusing to be comforted, though I could
not have told any one why I wept.
The next day the baby was to be
buried, and though I could not see its
face, as the coffin was screwed down,
I determined to see where they laid it.
I slipped out unperceived by nurse,
and hid myself a little way from the
house, with the intention of following
the little funeral, come what might.
We had been told to keep in the
nursery, as girls were never seen at
funerals in Scotland ; and I knew I
should be punished. 'for disobeying,
if found out. How I trembled when
I saw them coining ! A man, with a
long cloak nearly touching the ground,
walked. first; and I saw that he car
ried. the baby under it, followed. by nay
father and a few friends. I stole out
of my hiding-place and went after
them. After a long walk they entered
the cemetery ; and I, fearing that my
father might see me, kept outside.
I discovered in a field, not far dis
tant, a high embankment that had.
been thrown up for the making of a
railing, but had never as yet been
used for that purpose. I scrambled
up there, if perchance I might see
from that height where they laid it. I
was not disappointed as I thought ;
there they all were, gathered in a
group, talking to the gardener. I had
been some time in getting to the bank,
and I knew they must have buried it;
but its grave was there where they
were standing, I did not doubt, and I
was quite satisfied to think I could
come and visit it by and by. I has
tened. home unperceived by any one,
even managing to escape the vigilant
eye of our olenurse.
Some weeks passed, and our house
was as cheerful as ever ; but the little
baby was not as yet forgotten—nothing
pleased the children better than to
gather on the quiet Sunday afternoon
round our mother's knee, to talk about
that little nameless sister in heaven.
But for my part I used to keep aloof
from the circle, though eagerly listen
ing to their prattle, for I could not
realize to myself that the baby was
anywhere but lying in that little grave
in the lonely cemetery.
It was some time before I dared to
reveal the secret of my disobedience,
but my anxiety to see the grave at last
overcame my fear of punishment; and
my sisters, when they heard the story,
contrived to coax our old nurse to
take us there. Arrived at the gate of
the cemetery, I bounded off before my
sisters to the spot where I had seen
our father standing. Yes, there it was,
a little grave, with the grass grown
quite thick upon it already, and round
it, a tiny border of earth filled with
sweet flowers growing in little patches.
"This canna be it, Miss Mary," said
nurse, coming up, just as I had seated
myself on the turf-border near it.
" Not our baby's grave, nurse ? I
know it is ; did I not see papa stand
ing here with my own eyes ?" I an
swered, my face flushing with indig
nation.
" I dinna doot that, Miss Mary ; but
the grass has grown on that grave for
many a day, or I'm much mista'en;
besides, ye couldna be sure o' the
exact spot, ye ken, frae that distance,
it may be farther along the walk."
We searched the whole walk from
beginning to end, and not another
small grave could be found; so every
one was satisfied that I must be right.
As for the grass and the flowers being
there, we agreed that the gardener
must like the little graves best, and so
take greater care of them than the
long ones.
It became a favorite walk to visit
that little grave, even nurse got to like
it ; and though our mother could
never be persuaded to go with us, yet
she seemed pleased at our going, and
would carefully press in the large
family Bible, the one little sprig we
ventured to pull.
And so time passed on, and the
little baby had been dead a year, when
some cousins came from London to
vist us. We were allowed to go long
walks with them, to show them the
various sights in and around our
native city. We took them every
where we could think of; while our
mother laughingly- declared we had
left not a single corner unexplored.
" Yes, mother, there's one place left
still, the baby's grave," I whispered.
"0, your cousins will not care to
see that, my dear," said our mother.
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER I, 1866
But they did care. When it was
explained to them, those good-natured
English girls entered into our feeling
so kindly, and declared nothing would
please them more than to go there.
At the cemetery gate I was allowed
to pass in first; for somehow every
one seemed to consider that little
grave as my excluiive property. Ar
rived at the well-known spot, what
was my astonishment, when I saw a
lady dressed in mourning, busily en
gaged with a trowel freshening up the
earth round the flowers. She had a
little basket standing by her side With
a rose-tree in full bloom, ready to be,
put in' the bole elle, had made for it at
the top.
What could it all mean ? Who
was the strange lady, that she should
venture to touch our baby's grave ?
a spot so sacred in our eyes, that, with
the exception of that one little sprig
for our mother, every blade of grass
was carefully preserved. The hot
angry tears rose to my eyes as I laid
my hand on her shoulder; for though
generally frightened for strangers, I
felt no fear now.
"Why, do you plant flowers on our
bAby's grave ?" I said. But as I
a ked theq
uestion, nurse's doubts,
w en we had first discovered it, rose
tinny recollection, and I almost felt
sure what the answer would be.
The lady raised herself and turned
round to look at me. 0! what a sweet
face lit was—what large mild blue
eyes gazed into mine—and the voice
so gentle, as she answered, " My child,
what do you mean ? Your baby's
grave ! No, dear, it is my baby's
grave."
I was struck with consternation,
even though I had felt half-prepared
to hear the truth. If this be true;
where was our• baby ? Could 'it be
possible, that all those months we had
been visiting a strange baby's grave,
and our littl one lying neglected, and
if so, where ? My sisters and cousins
seemed almost as perplexed as myself.
I could not tell the lady when she
asked me to explain the story to her
I could not help repeating over and
over again, while the tears rolled
down my cheeks, " Where is our
little baby if not here? 0 ! where is,
our little baby ?"
The story, however, such as it was,
was told by one of my older cousins;
and when the lady had heard it, she
took me by the hand and said, " We
will go to the gatekeeper, my dear
children, and ask him all about it ; I
dare say he will be able to tell us."
The gatekeeper, when the matter
was explained to him, and our father's
name given, turned up a large book,
and lsaid he would soon solve the mys
tery if we would come with him. In
solemn silence he marched on before
us, away to the other end of the ceme-,
tery, up the steps above the vaults, to'
the highest part of the grounds, where
the trees seemed scarce and newly
planted ; where few graves seemed to
be as yet, and fewer flowers. Then
striding across the grass, bidding us
follow—though against the rules—
he pointed to a small hillock, and ab
ruptly left us. And this was our
baby's grave. 0, how different from
the little one below I Not a single
flower bloomed here, nor had 'a tree
been planted, only a tuft of pink-eyed
daisies half hidden away among the
thin, ivy grass ! _
" I will never come back here any
more," I said, as I turned to go away.
The cemetery had lost its charm for
me now, it was so difficult to think it
possible that our baby-sister could be
laying anywhere else than in that
sunny border so full of flowers.
," 0 ! yes, my child, you will come
akin," the lady said to me; "you
will look now ,and then at my little
Robert's grave as you pass, will you
not ? For lam sure, had you ever seen
my boy, you would have loved him,
he was so good."
" Was he quite a baby, ma'am ?"
asked one of my-cousins.
" I will tell you about him, dears,
if' you will sit down by me. I should
like you not to lose your interest in
the little grave, although it is that of
a child you never saw."
The short simple story was to this
effect :—Little 'Robert was five years..
old, when he died, her only child, a
bright,. golden-haired, blue-eyed boy.
How dearly his mother must have
loved him! how the tears filled her
eyes as she told us how good and
patient he had been during his last
illness!
" And young though he was, my
children," , said the lady, "he knew
that Christ had died for him, that
heaven was to be his future home;
and on the night when he died, when
he saw his father standing at the foot
of his little crib weeping, he looked
up, and told him not to cry, for his
little Robert was going to heaven. He
was what people call an old-fashioned
child, perhaps pretty, from being the
only one, and associating so much
with grown-up people; and," con
tinued the lady, "I, his mother, who
had taught him that Jesus loved him,
and that it was from God all good
gifts and all trials came, rebelled in
my heart against Him, and would not
bend in submission to His will. Why
should,. my boy be taken—my only
child—while parents living close to
the, who had many children, had all
theirs spared to them ? I thought
my heart would have broken, and
;my eyes seemed to have turned into
balls of fire in my head, drying up
the tears ; but I restrained my grief,
and sought to say, " Thy will be
!done,"—when I saw my - darling lying
{so patiently through his dread
ful suffering, always giving the same
answer, when I asked him how he
felt, "Me better, mamma, me better 1"
trying in his childish way to comfort
me. A few minutes before he died
he duped his little hands together,
and ,said his prayers, finishing with
the little simpls"prayer I had taught
him
This night when I lie down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
For Christ's sake. Amen.'
Afterward he asked me to lie down
beside him, and clasping his arms
round my neck, he kissed me, and
his lag words were, "I going to sleep,
mamma. Good-night, my sweet
mamma !" And before the light of
another day dawned, my little Robert
was in heaven."
This was the history of the real in.
mate of that little grave. How much
she missed him ! for he had been her
only companion sometimes, when his
father, a sea captain, was away with
his ship ; and though he had been
dead more than a year, she seemed to
miss him more and more.
1 It calmed and soothed me to hear
the story. There was something so
gentle and resigned about her, that
unconsciously I slipped my hand into
hers and promised to go back again.
I could never love the little grave as
I had done before; but I would look
kindly at it when I passed. And our
own little baby, who had no history
—who even had no name—was in
heaven, too ; it might be, perhaps, for
those very reasons the angels had a
special charge over her. But for many
a day I was very sad when I thought
of that little neglected grave ; and
many , years passed, and changes came,
and more graves were round it, before
I visited it again.— Christian Treasury,
Edinburgh.
THE TRUE STANDARD OF DRESS.
We are always excessive when we
sacrifice the higher beauty to obtain
the lower one. A woman who will
sacrifice domestic affection, conscience,
self-respect, honor, to love of dress, we
all agree loves dress too much. She
loses the true and high beauty of wo
manhood for the lower beauty of gems
and flowers and colors. A girl who
sacrifices to dress all her time, all her
strength, all her money, to the neglect
of the cultivation of her mind and
heart, and to the neglect of the claims
of others on her helpfulness, is sacri
ficing the higher to the lower beauty.
Her fault is not the love of beauty,
but loving the wrong and inferior
kind. . _ - _
In fine, girls, you must try your
selves by this standard. You love
dress too much, when you care more
for your outward adornings than for
your inward dispositions, when it
afflicts you more to have your dress
torn than to have lost your temper—
when you are more troubled by an ill
fitting gown than by a neglected duty
—when you are less concerned at
having made an unjust comment, or
spread a scandalous report, than
having worn a passe bonnet—when
you are less concerned at the thought
of being found at the last great feast
without the wedding garment, than
at being found at the party to-night
in the fashion of last year. No Chris
tian woman, as I view it, ought to allow
it to take up all of three very import
ant thin g s , viz.: all her time, all her
strength, all her money. Whoever
does this, lives not the Christian, but
the Pagan life—worships not at the
Christian altar of our Lord Jesus, but
at the shrine of. the lower Venus of
Corinth and Rome.—Mrs. Stowe.
BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATION.
If a child had been born and spent
all his life in the Mammoth Cave, how
impossible would it be for him to com
prehend the upper world! Parents
might tell him of its life, its light, its
beauty, and its sounds of joy; they
might heap up the sands into mounds,
and try to show him by stalactites
how grass, flowers and trees grow out
of the ground; till at length, with,la
borious thinking, the child would fancy
he had gained a true idea of the un
known land.
And yet, though he longed to be
hold it, when it came that he was to
go forth, it would be with regret for
the familiar crystals and rock-hewn
rooms, and the quiet that reigned
therein. But when he came up, some
May morning, with ten thousand birds
singing in the trees, and the heavens
bright and blue and full of sunlight,
and the wind blowing softly through
the young leaves, all aglitter with dew,
and the landscape stretching away
green and beautiful to the horizon,
with what rapture would he gaze
about him, and see how poor were
all the fancyings and interpretations
which were made within the cave of
the things which grew and lived with
out; and how he would wonder that
he could ever have regretted to leave
the silence and dreary darkness of his
old abode !
So, when we emerge from this cave
of earth into that land where spring
growths are, and where is eternal
summer, how shall we wonder that we
could have clung so fondly to this
dark and barren life !
REST,
I am waiting by the river,
And my heart has waited long;
Now I think I hear the chorus
Of the angel's welcome song.
0, I see the dawn is breaking]
On the hill-tops of the blest,
"Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary be at rest."
Far away beyond the shadows
Of this weary vale of tears,
There the tide of bliss is sweeping
Through the bright and changless years.
0, I long to be with Jesus,
In the mansions of the blest,
" Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the -weary be at rest."
They are launching on the river,
From the cairn and quiet shore,
And they soon will bear my spirit
Where the weary sigh no more ;
For the tide is swiftly flowing,
And I long . to greet the blest,
" Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary be at rest."—Bonar.
"I WILL WAIT TILL AFTER HAR-
'NEST."
I heard these words carelessly
spoken, yet they rested with a sad
weight on my heart, and echoed and
re-echoed drearily for many days. One
spoke who had advanced to manhood
—that period of life when maturity is
rapidly going forward, and the unmis
takable tigns of virtue or vice mark
the chosen - path.
Such an one, urged by a friend to
go to church and regard the Word of
God once more, made answer kindly,
yet carelessly, "I will wait till after
harvest." And now the harvest is
past, the summer ending, and the soul
of such an one may not be saved.
'Tis sad to see those who might be
way-marks in society, honored by men
and looked upon with approbation by
God, yielding to vice against their
better judgment; giving to Satan's
service the talent, the time, the energy
and ability of manhood; laying up no
treasures in heaven ; and establishing
no permanent hope for the future
which might make life charming,
death cheerful, and heaven glorious.
Waiting till after harvest ere they flee
to Christ when wasted life and feeble
body warn them Death is near—wait
ing until vicious habits and associates
demoralize the heart and soul and take
the energy God will claim at the last
when the harvest of the world shall
come. Waiting until after harvest—
the smmmer-time of life passed in folly,
the summer sun shining, not on the
maturing fruit of manhood, but on the
wasted wilds of life ; and though the.
rich autumn-time comes with full gar
ners, yet the heart is found wanting of
the rich fruit of love and perfection
God gives those who seek Him early.
How many are living blanks, as it
were—the world absorbing all their
thoughts; Time, though the tomb
builder, to them ever an unfailing
s-arety, wherein. they -ehall _sow , -wad..
reap and have space for repentance.
Waitina till after harvest! How many
bright, beautiful and blessed dreams
have faded as the harvest waned ; how
many hopes of better days and deeds
have fled with life's autumn-time; how
many tears have been shed over wasted
treasures, lost forever; how many
visions of brightness have died as the_
harvest-time closed and the summer
ended, leaving the soul . desolate and
alone, standing garbless in the face of
Death.
Why not, then, accept love and
mercy now, so kindly offered, and
begin at once a pure and peaceful life,
hastening to redeem the wasted mo
ments, losing sight of the world awhile,
looking inward and above—resolving
to do noble deeds, live noble lives, and
make" the world the better for it
H. H. Lincoln.
SELLING 9. BIRTHRIGHT.
" Father," said Charlie one day,
" Mr. Reed is going to take the whole
school to Union Hill on the Fourth,
and we are to have a dinner, and a
grand good time. We are to choose a
captain out of the first class, and to
morrow is election-day."
"For whom are you going to vote ?"
"Morton, the tallest fellow in school;
and the best boy, too, I think. But
George has gone over to the opposi
tion."
" How's that, George, my boy ?
Who is your candidate? Let us hear
the other. Side •
" Chester," said George. " I don't
see why he won't make as good a cap
tain as Morton."
"He is not so good a scholar," said
Charlie ; " besides, he swears some
times, and then, he is baying up votes,
and I think that is mean.",
George flushed up a little, but made
no reply.
" George," said his father, " I want
you. to tell me whether Chester has
given you anything to influence your
vote."
George hung his head, and was
very slow to reply ; but there was no
escape from his father's question, and
at last he answered, " I broke my new
bat yesterday, playing base-ball, and
he gave me his, if I would promise to
vote for him."
"And did you promise ?"
" Yes, father."
"You were wrong, my boy.' Your
vote is your birthright. Not very
long ago, when we read how Esau
sold his birthright for a mess of pot
tage, you thought him very little of a
man. And now you have sold yours
for a second-hand bat! You have
sold yourself, your influence, as far as
it goes, to elect a boy who by taking
unfair means to secure this honor for
himself, shows himself unfit for it, and
shows also that he has reason to be
lieve that a majority of the school
think some one else more worthy.
Now, as you look over the whole
affair, do you not think it is dishonor
able to both of you ?"
" Yes," answered George ; " but I
did not think it was so much a matter."
" Why, if you can be bought over
with a bat when you are a boy, you
may be bought over with an office, or
with money, when you are a man. I
want my sons to be above taking a
bribe, or selling the rights of their
manhood."
" What ought I to do, father ?"
" Take the bat back to Chester, ma
tell him how the matter appears to
you on further consideration. If he
has any honor in him, he will release
you from your promise; if he has not,
he can hold you to it, and you must
keep your word, and I am sorry for
you. And take care not to be caught
in such a false position again."
George wished the old bat at the
bottom of the sea a dozen times, as he
carried it back with shame to Chester.
He was laughed at, reproached, and
held to his promise as he expected to
be ; and acquired such a contempt for
his candidate's selfish want of princi
ple that he was glad when he founds
himself on the losing side next day,
and joined heartily in the cheer which
the winners gave for Morton.—lnde
pendent.
PROMPT OBEDIENCE.
A little boy, whose name was Fred
dy, had gone with his papa and mam
ma by the train, to spend a day at the
sea-side. On their return, the train
passed along the edge of some high
cliffs, which overlooked a beautiful
bay. Far below could be seen chil
dren at play on the beach, and the
water was here and there dotted with
the white sails of yachts and pleasure
boats. You may fancy that little
Freddy liked to see this. He jumped
off the seat and leaned against the
door, to get a better view.
"Freddy," said his mamma, "don't
lean against the door."
Freddy did not wait to ask why not,
but immediately re-seated himself, al
though in that position he could not
see so well. He had scarcely been
seated a minute when the door flew
open.. The shaking of the train had
caused the fastening to move, I sup
pose. With sudden instinct his mam
ma threw her arms around the boy,
while his papa carefully closed and
fastened the door. The little fellow
looked rather alarmed when he saw
what he had escaped, and his mamma
said, "Now, Freddy, you know how
often I haVe made you Obey 1310 quick
ly against your will. Happily, this
time you did so; otherwise you would,
in all probability, have lost your life."
We trust that little Freddy will
never forget this i lesson, and that it
may be of service ro some of our little
friends who do not always do what
they are told at once, but wait to ask
the reason why.
SIMPLE FAITH.
A missionary in Africa asked a little
boy if he was a sinner. The boy said,
" Yes, we are all sinners." The mis
sionary then asked him who could
save him 'from. his sins. He replied,
"Jesus Christ."
" What has Jesus Christ done to
save sinners ?"
"He has died on the cross."
"Do you believe Jesus Christ will
save you?"
"Yes"
" Why do you believe it ?"
"I feel it; do you think He would
send His servants, the missionaries,
from such a far country to tell us
about salvation, and, after all, cast out
a sinner ?"
" Not so, indeed, for He has said,
' Him that cometh to me I will in no
wise cast out.' "
OTHER PEOPLE'S TROUBLES EASY
TO BEAR.
"You must really exercise patience,"
said an old rat to a brother that had
been caught in a trap. "No doubt it
is painful; but squeaking will do you
no good whatever, and it is very dis
tressing to us to hear."
" You are mighty compassionate,"
said the prisoner, trying to ease his
leg.
" 0, I assure you I feel beyond all
description for you," said the old rat ;
"I can enter into your sufferings
most fully ; but, you see, notwithstand
ing that I grieve so acutely, I can
command myself and behave with
moderation."
" Very fine," replied the captive;
"I could do the same if I were sitting
at my ease looking at you in this trap;
but I doubt exceedingly if your phil
ospohy would hold out if you were
here instead of there."
ADVERSITY exasperates fools, de
jects cowards, draws out the faculties
of the wise and industrious, and puts
the modest to the necessity of trying
their skill, awes the opulent, and
makes the idle industrious.
THERE is something in sickness
that breaks down the pride of man
hood, softens the heart, and brings it
back to the feelings of infancy.