“’We mend the rags of this worldly robe with the pieces of the robe of Religion, which we tear apart for this end;

“’And we do our work so thoroughly that nothing remains of the latter,

“’And the garment we mend escapes out of our hands.

“’Happy is the servant who has chosen God for his master, and who employs his present good only to acquire those which he awaits.’

“It is related also of Abou, that he saw in a dream an Angel who wrote, and that having demanded what he was doing, the Angel answered, ’I write the names of those who love God sincerely, those who perform Malek-Ben-Dinar, Thaber-al-Benani, Aioud-al-Sakhtiani, etc.’  Then said he to the Angel, ‘Am I not placed among these?’ ‘No,’ replied the Angel.  ‘Ah, well,’ said he, ’write me, then, I pray you, for love of these, as the friend of all who love the Lord.’  It is added, that the same Angel revealed to him soon after that he had received an order from God to place him at the head of all the rest.  This is the same Abou who said that he preferred Hell with the will of God to Paradise without it; or, as another writer relates it:  ’I love Hell, if I am doing the will of God, better than the enjoyments of Paradise and disobedience.’”

* * * * *

With books printed by “B.  Franklin, Philadelphia,” my friend’s library is richly stored.  One of them is “The Charter of Privileges, granted by William Penn Esq:  to the Inhabitants of Pennsylvania and Territories.”  “PRINTED AND SOLD BY B. FRANKLIN” looks odd enough on the dingy title-page of this old volume, and the contents are full of interest.  Rough days were those when “Jehu Curtis” was “Speaker of the House,” and put his name to such documents as this:—­

“And Be it Further Enacted by the authority aforesaid, That if any Person shall wilfully or premeditately be guilty of Blasphemy, and shall thereof be legally convicted, the Person so offending shall, for every such Offence, be set in the Pillory for the space of Two Hours, and be branded on his or her Foreshead with the letter B, and be publickly whipt, on his or her bare Back, with Thirty nine Lashes well laid on.”

* * * * *

But I am rambling on too far and too fast for to-day.  Here is one more book, however, that I must say a word about, as it lies open on my knee, the gift of PUIR ROBBIE BURNS to a female friend,—­his own poems,—­the edition which gave him “so much real happiness to see in print.”  Laid in this copy of his works is a sad letter, in the poet’s handwriting, which perhaps has never been printed.  Addressed to Captain Hamilton, Dumfries, it is in itself a touching record of dear Robin’s poverty, and a’ that.

“SIR,