CAPTAIN RICHARDSON SAVED BY
HIS WIFE.

Love, lend me wings to make this purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.

SHAKSPEARE.

During the struggle for Independence, Captain Richardson, of Sumter district, South Carolina, was obliged to conceal himself for a while in the thickets of the Santee swamp. One day he ventured to visit his family—a perilous movement, for the British had offered rewards for his apprehension, and patrolling parties were almost constantly in search of him.— Before his visit was ended, a small band of soldiers presented themselves in front of the house. Just as they were entering, with a great deal of composure and presence of mind, Mrs. Richardson appeared at the door, and found so much to do there at the moment, as to find it inconvenient to make room for the uninvited guests to enter. She was so calm, and appeared so unconcerned, that they did not mistrust the cause of her wonderful diligence, till her husband had rushed out of the back door and safely reached the neighboring swamp.

STRIKING INSTANCE OF PATIENCE.

Patience and resignation are the pillars

Of human peace on earth.

YOUNG.

The panegyric of Decker on patience is beautiful:

Not

Patience, my lord! why 't is the soul of peace :

Of all the virtues 'tis the nearest kin to heaven;

It makes men look like gods.

every Christian sufferer wears this garment in its celestial whiteness, as did the God-man, whom the same writer calls

"the best of men

That e'er wore earth about him."

One of the most patient beings in modern times was Miss Sarah Parbeck, of Salem, Massachusetts. A lady who visited her in 1845, gives the following account of the interview:

The door was opened by a very old lady, wrinkled and bowed down with age, who invited us to enter. The room was so dark, that, before my eyes were accommodated to the change, I could only see a figure dressed in white, sitting upon the bed and rocking to and fro. This motion was attended by a

sound like the click of wooden machinery, which arose, as I afterwards discovered, from the bones, as they worked in their loosened sockets. As we approached, she extended her hand to my companion, and said, in a painful but affectionate voice, “Eliza, I am very glad to see thee;" and then asked my name and place of residence. She had just given me her hand, when a spasm seized her, and it was twitched suddenly from my grasp. It flew some four or five times with the greatest violence against her face, and then, with a sound, which I can only compare to that made by a child who has been sobbing a long time, in catching its breath, she threw up both her arms, and with a deep guttural groan was flung back upon her pillow, with a force inconceivable to one who has not witnessed it. The instant she touched the bed, she uttered that piercing shriek again, and sprung back to her former position, rocking to and fro, with those quick, heart-rending groans which I had heard while standing at the door. It was several minutes before she could speak, and then there was none to answer her. Both my companion and myself were choked with tears. Her poor mother went to the other side of the bed, and smoothed the coverlid, and re-arranged the pillows, looking sadly upon her poor child, writhing in torture which she could not alleviate. I became faint, and trembled with sudden weakness: a cold perspiration stood upon my face. The objects in the room began to swim about me, and I was obliged to take hold of the bedside for support. I have been in our

largest hospitals, and have spent hours in going from room to room with the attending physician. I have witnessed there almost every form of human suffering, but I had never beheld any thing to be compared to that now before me. She afterwards told me, as if in apology for her screams, that when she was hurled back upon her pillow, both shoulders were dislocated, and as they sprung back into their sockets, the pain was far beyond endurance, and extorted from her these shrieks.

Her sentences were broken, uttered with much difficulty, and frequently interrupted by the terrible spasm I have described above. Yet this was her "quiet" state; this the time when she suffered least. Day after day, night after night, fourteen weary years have dragged themselves along, whilst her poor body has been thus racked. No relief; no hope of relief, except that which death shall give. When I asked her if her affliction did not at times seem greater than she could bear, "O! never," she replied. "I cannot thank God enough for having laid his heavy hand upon me. I was a thoughtless sinner, and had he not, in his mercy, afflicted me, I should probably have lost my immortal soul. I see only his kindness and love. The sweet communion I have with my Saviour more than compensates me for all I suffer. I am permitted to feel, in a measure, in my poor body, what he suffered to save me, and my soul can never grow weary in his praise." This last sentence, I must say, gave me an argument which put doubts of the verity and power of religion to flight,

more effectually than all the evidences which the wisdom of man has arrayed against the skeptic; and I could not but exclaim, "If this be delusion let me be deluded!"

She spoke in the most tender terms of her Saviour's love. Her conversation was in heaven, from whence also she looked for her Saviour, knowing that he should change her body of humiliation, and fashion it like unto his glorious body. I shall never forget the tones and language in which she entreated my sobbing companion to give that Saviour her heart. As she recovered from a spasm, I said to her, “do you not often desire to depart, and be with the Saviour you love so fervently?" She had hardly recovered her exhausted breath, but replied with great decision, "By the grace of God, I have never had that wish. Though death will be a welcome gift when my Father sees fit to bestow it upon me, yet, thanks to his supporting grace, I can wait his time without impatience. He sees that there is much dross to refine away, and why should I wish against his will?"

I remained by her side for more than an hour; such, however, were the attractions of her discourse, that I was unconscious of the time. I know not when I have been so drawn towards a fellow Christian, and never had I been led to such delightful contemplations of our Saviour's character-his faithfulness and love. I remarked to her, as I turned to go away, "God has made you a powerful preacher, here upon your bed of pain." "O," she replied,