brightly with every emotion. The lines about the finely curved mouth tell it has been used to smile on iron circumstance, ay, these eighty years! Every furrow upon that countenance speaks of heroic battles with misfortune, ending in victories, of perfect faith crowned with the halo of peace, of the sympathetic nature that looks benignly upon all creation. The Patriarch's step has not lost its firmness, nor his voice its full, melodious tones, for his warm, fervent spirit has melted the frost of Age's winter before it could gather on his heart and paralyze his faculties. The movement of his life has ever been rapid, impulsive, energetic, persevering. His hands more diligently employed in succoring than acquiring, his every blessing shared, his worst enemy pardoned,—well has he earned the rare attributes that distinguish his age. Rich is he in years, aged in no other sense.
And yet he has suffered more, perhaps, than most men. He has known the sting of treachery, the sharp pinch of penury, the icy touch of ingratitude, the agony of bereavement! A single stroke of Fate has hurled him, in an instant, from the pinnacle of wealth and worldly dignity into the abyss of poverty, embarrassment, and what would have been despair to weaker men. Again and again he has been lifted up, he has achieved great successes, he has welcomed Heaven's good gifts in abundant showers, and again and again has he been cast down and stripped of all. Prosperity essayed
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