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Some persons

It was said of M. Abauret, a philosopher of Geneva, that he had never been out of temper. His female servant had been in his house for thirty years, and during that time she had never seen him in a passion. anxious to put him to the proof, promised this woman a sum of money if she would endeavour to make him angry : she consented; and knowing that he was particularly fond of having his bed well made, she, on the day appointed, neglected to make it. M. Abauret observed it

, and next morning spoke of the circumstance to her. She answered that she had forgotten it; she said nothing more, but, on the same evening, she again neglected to make the bed; the same observation was made on the morrow by the philosopher, and she again made some excuse in a cooler manner than before. On the third day he said to her, “ You have not yet made my bed: you have apparently come to some resolution on the subject, as you probably found that it fatigued you. But, after all, it is of no consequence, as I begin to accustom myself to it as it is.” She threw herself at his feet, and avowed all to him.

A FAMILY KEPT TOGETHER BY PATIENCE. It is recorded, that an emperor of China, once making a progress through his dominions, was accidentally entertained in a house in which the master, with his wives, children, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and servants, all lived together in perfect peace and harmony. The emperor, struck with admiration at the spectacle, requested the head of the family to inform him what means he employed to preserve quiet among such a number and variety of persons. The old man, taking out a pencil, wrote these three words-patience, patience, patience.




[A true story, showing the lamentable effects of hasty wrath.]

The spearman heard the bugle sound,

And cheer'ly smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,

Attend Llewellyn's horn :
And still he blew a louder blast,

gave a louder cheer;
Come, Gelert! why art thou the last

Llewellyn's horn to hear?
Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ?

The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home

A lion in the chase !"
That day Llewellyn little loved

The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved ;

For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,

When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gain'd the castle-door,

Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore,

His lips and fangs ran blood !
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,

Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,

And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd

(And on went Gelert too),
And still where'er his eyes were cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,

The blood-stain'd cover rent,
And all around the walls and ground

With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child—no voice replied;

He search'd with terror wild ;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,

But nowhere found the child ! “ Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!"

The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side !
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,

No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell

Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer waken'd nigh; What words the parent's joy can tell,

To hear his infant cry! Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,

His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,

His cherub boy he kiss'd !
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-

But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead

Tremendous still in death!
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain,

For now the truth was clear
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,

To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn's woe-

“ Best of thy kind, adieu !
The frantic deed which laid thee low,

This heart shall ever rue !"



And now a gallant tomb they raise,

With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,

Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmoved ;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;

And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell.


At Faenza, in Italy, during the barbarous ages, one man, conceiving deadly hatred against another, lay in wait for him, and, being of more powerful frame of body, beat him sorely, and pulled out his eyes. The other, now blind, and unable to gain his bread, retired to a monastery, where he devoted himself to such acts of charity as he was able to perform. Some years afterwards, the man who had deprived him of his eyesight fell ill of a grievous malady, and it was found necessary, for his cure, that he should be carried to the same monastery. His conscience made him fear that the man whose eyes he had put out would now revenge himself for that injury, by pulling out his eyes

in return. On the contrary, the blind man requested permission of his superior to wait upon the sick man during his illness; he asked this favour as earnestly as if something very important depended on it. Having obtained leave, he gave

himself up entirely to the service of the sick man; he watched by his bedside all night, and during the day he did every thing he could to relieve his pains, and promote his recovery. By these means a cure was effected. We may readily imagine what the feelings of the sick man would be, when he found that he was mainly indebted, for his life, to one whom he had formerly treated with so much cruelty.


The religious body of Friends, sometimes called Quakers, are distinguished from other men by their never engaging in war, or resisting any kind of violence that may be offered to them. In the reign of Charles II., an English merchantvessel, trading between London and Venice, was commanded by a Quaker; the mate, whose name was Thomas Lurting, was of the same persuasion, but the rest of the crew, four in number, were ordinary Christians. The vessel, in one of its voyages homeward from Venice, was taken by Turkish pirates, ten of whom came on board of it, in order to carry it to Africa, where these men were accustomed to sell their prisoners as slaves. The second night afterwards, when the Turkish captain was sleeping below with several of his men, Thomas Lurting persuaded the rest one after another to go into different cabins, that they might shelter themselves from the rain, which was falling heavily. When he found them all asleep, he gathered their arms together into one place, and said to his men,

Now, we have the Turks entirely in our command: let us not, however, hurt any of them ; we shall only keep them below until we reach Majorca.” Majorca being an island of the Spaniards, he calculated upon being safe there, and upon soon being enabled to return to England.

In the morning, a Turk, coming to the cabin-door, was allowed to go on deck, where he was greatly surprised to find the vessel once more in the hands of the English crew, and not far from Majorca. Going below, he told the rest, who were quite confounded by the news. With tears in their eyes, they entreated that they might not be sold to the Spaniards, whom they knew to be very cruel masters. The master and mate promised that their lives and liberties should be safe, and took measures to keep them concealed, while the vessel should remain in port at Majorca. The Turks were very much pleased with this kindness, so different from the treatment they had designed for the English.

While the vessel lay in the harbour, the master of another English ship came on board, and to him they confided their

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