But I recollect some scrubby old fable about grasshoppers and ants, by a scrubby old knave yclept AEsop; the grasshoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter.
"A distant relation of mine, one Patrick Branwell, has set off to seek his fortune in the wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic, knight-errant-like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad.

Leeds and Manchester--where are they?
Cities in the wilderness, like Tadmor, alias Palmyra--are they not?
"There is one little trait respecting Mr.W.which lately came to my knowledge, which gives a glimpse of the better side of his character.
Last Saturday night he had been sitting an hour in the parlour with Papa; and, as he went away, I heard Papa say to him 'What is the matter with you?
You seem in very low spirits to-night.' 'Oh, I don't know.

I've been to see a poor young girl, who, I'm afraid, is dying.' 'Indeed; what is her name ?' 'Susan Bland, the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent.' Now Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the Sunday-school; and, when I heard that, I thought I would go as soon as I could to see her.

I did go on Monday afternoon, and found her on her way to that 'bourn whence no traveller returns.' After sitting with her some time, I happened to ask her mother, if she thought a little port wine would do her good.

She replied that the doctor had recommended it, and that when Mr.W.was last there, he had brought them a bottle of wine and jar of preserves.