Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands ----I beg for the unfortunate--good my Lady, 'tis for a prison--for an hospital--'tis for an old man--a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire ----I call God and all his angels to witness----'tis to clothe the naked----to feed the hungry----'tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.
The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.
----The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
He ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, etc. ----Cousin, aunt, sister, mother, ----for virtue's sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ's sake, remember me----pity me.
----The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
Take hold of my whiskers, said the Lady _Baussiere_ ----The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.
There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger--we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.

'Pity the unfortunate,' said a devout old man meekly holding up a box in his withered hands. ''tis for a prison - for an hospital - 'tis for an old man - a poor man undone by shipwreck, by fire - 'tis to feed the hungry - to comfort the sick.'
The Lady Baussiere rode on.
An ancient kinsman bowed low.
The Lady Baussiere rode on.
He ran alongside her palfrey, begging: 'Cousin, aunt, sister, mother, for Christ's sake, remember me - pity me.'
The Lady Baussiere rode on.
'Take hold of my whiskers,' said the Lady Baussiere. The page took hold of her palfrey, and she dismounted.
There are certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes; and a consciousness somewhere about the heart makes these etchings all the stronger - we spell them out without a dictionary.
