Mercy in him than there’s milk in the male tiger.
Idem.
The bowels of Boanerges Phospher, the Spiritual Professor, were possessed of such extraordinary capacity for yearning over the fallen and lost condition of his brothers of mankind, that, not content with saving them by wholesale, and nightly, in those marvellously spiritualized lectures, his indomitable energies took up the trade of “saving” men individually and by detail.
This, let it be understood, was done between times, by way of recreation, just to keep his hand in. Let us follow him on one of these errands of mercy.
In a poor garret of Ann Street, New York, might have been seen, about these days, a young man, seated in a rickety chair, beside a dirty pine table, which was plentifully strewn with manuscripts covered with many a tedious column of figures and mysterious-looking diagrams.
You saw at once, from the disproportionate size of the broad, white, bulging brow, which brooded heavily over large mournful eyes, and thin, emaciated features, that he was a mathematician; possessing one of those precocious and enormous developments of the organs of calculation, which are so apt, when not diverted by other occupations and excitements, to consume rapidly the feeble fuel of life in their consecrated fires.
A wretched cot-bed occupied one corner of the room, which was likewise strewn with papers and books on mathematical subjects, while on the mantel lay scattered little heaps of dried cheese and crusts, which seemed so hardened, that no tooth of predatory mouse had left its mark thereon.
The young man was dressed in entire conformity with the miserable appearance of the room. His thin and silky hair hung in lank, clammy locks about his shockingly pallid features, as he leaned forward on his elbow, his forehead resting heavily on his thin hand, as he pored over the papers before him.
“Ah me,” muttered he, “this horrid poverty!” and he threw down his pen and sank back with a faint, despairing movement.
“My brain is giddy with this dizzy round of figures, figures. My weary calculation is nearly done, but my over-tasked brain sickens. Ah, but for just one good meal, to strengthen me for a few hours, and I could finish it—finish my glorious work!”