But while we can think and maintain the rights of our own
individuality against every human combination, let us not forget to
caution all who are disposed to waver that there is a cowardice which is
criminal, and a longing for rest which it is baseness to indulge. God
help him, over whose dead soul in his living body must be uttered the sad
supplication, Requiescat in pace!
A knock at the Reverend Mr. Fairweather's study door called his eyes from
the book on which they were intent. He looked up, as if expecting a
welcome guest.
The Reverend Pierrepont Honeywood, D. D., entered the study of the
Reverend Chauncy Fairweather. He was not the expected guest. Mr.
Fairweather slipped the book he was reading into a half-open drawer, and
pushed in the drawer. He slid something which rattled under a paper
lying on the table. He rose with a slight change of color, and welcomed,
a little awkwardly, his unusual visitor.
"Good-evening, Brother Fairweather!" said the Reverend Doctor, in a very
cordial, good-humored way. "I hope I am not spoiling one of those
eloquent sermons I never have a chance to hear."
"Not at all, not at all," the younger clergyman answered, in a languid
tone, with a kind of habitual half-querulousness which belonged to
it,--the vocal expression which we meet with now and then, and which says
as plainly as so many words could say it, "I am a suffering individual.
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