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When the illness of any friend had led us to speak generally on the subject, we had been accustomed to represent it as an occurrence, to which we must all, at some time or other, look forward, as likely to happen to ourselves. It had therefore been presented to his contemplation, as an almost unavoidable incident in the drama of life, to be supported with dignity, as far as might be possible, by the actor, and to be viewed by the spectator with calmness. In conformity with these impressions, too congenial with the character of his mind to be effaced from it, he met his sufferings. But the idea of death, which seldom torments childhood by anticipation, did not seem to enter his thoughts, or to interfere with his more auspicious topics of reflection. On the contrary, he talked of his recovery with pleasure and confidence. When he had been ill for three weeks, as his mother was sitting by his bed-side, he enquired, "Do you think my illness is half over, Mama?" She answered, that she hoped it was much
