o get very deep hold of
_me_," was the cold reply.

"Thou needest have no uneasiness on that score," rejoined Friend Hopper;
"for there never was anything deep in thee to get hold of."

The sense of justice, so conspicuous in boyhood, always remained a
distinguishing trait in his character. Once, after riding half a mile,
he perceived that he had got into the wrong omnibus. When he jumped out,
the driver called for pay; but he answered, "I don't owe thee anything.
I've been carried the wrong way." This troubled him afterward, when he
considered that he had used the carriage and horses, and that the
mistake was his own fault. He kept on the look-out for the driver, but
did not happen to see him again, until several weeks afterward. He
called to him to stop, and paid the sixpence.

"Why, you refused to pay me, when I asked you," said the driver.

"I know I did," he replied; "but I repented of it afterward. I was in a
hurry then, and I did not reflect that the mistake was my fault, not
thine; and that I ought to pay for riding half a mile with thy horses,
though they did carry me the wrong way." The man laughed, and said he
didn't often meet with such conscientious passengers.

The tenacity of the old gentleman's memory was truly remarkable. He
often repeated letters, which he had written or received twenty years
before on some memorable occasion; and if opportunity occurred to
compare them with the originals, it would be found that he had scarcely
varied a word. He always maintained that he could distinctly remember
some things, which happened before he was two years old. One day, when
his parents were absent, and Polly was busy about her work, he sat
bolstered up in his cradle, when a sudden gust of wind blew a large
piece of paper through the entry. To his uneducated senses, it seemed to
be a living creature, and he screamed violently. It was several hours
before he recovered from his extreme terror. When his parents returned,
he tried to make them understand how a strange thing had come into the
house, and run, and jumped, and made a noise. But his lisping language
was so very imperfect, that they were unable to conjecture what had so
frightened him. For a long time after, he would break out into sudden
screams, whenever the remembrance came over him. At seventy-five years
old, he told me he remembered exactly how the paper then appeared to
him, and what sensations of terror it excited in his infant breast.

He h