lence--all things
working for his good. The doctor used to say, that No. 12 had 'a mania
for happiness;' but it was a mania that in creating esteem for its
victim, infused fresh courage into all that came within its range.
I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his little
black silk cap, his spectacles, and the well-worn volume, which he
never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the sun rested
on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing and
thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might have supposed
that the sun was rising for him alone.
I need hardly say, that he soon interested himself in my cure, and
regularly made inquiry respecting its progress. He always found
something cheering to say--something to inspire patience and hope,
himself a living commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor
motionless figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that
smiling countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to
complain. At each painful crisis, he would exclaim: 'One minute, and
it will be over--relief will soon follow. _Every day has its
to-morrow._'
I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes
to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in cultivating
an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a kindred spirit, he
never passed his bed without pausing to offer his cordial salutation;
and then he would whisper to me: 'He is a saint on earth; and not
content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it for others also.
Such people should have monuments erected to them, known and read of
all men. In observing such a character, we feel ashamed of our own
happiness--we feel how comparatively little we deserve it. Is there
anything I can do to prove my regard for this good, poor No. 12?'
'Just try among the bookstalls,' I replied, 'and find the second
volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six years
since he lost it, and ever since, he has been obliged to content
himself with the first.'
Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of
literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of
printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness
and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion, a man was never
thoroughly committed, until he had recorded his sentiments in black
and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in
life,
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