November 13th, Nine O’clock P.M.
Here is still another member of that sacred phalanx who , in the battle of life , always march in front for the example and the salvation of the world ! Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry ; for this one it is `` Country , '' for that `` Home , '' for a third `` Mankind ; '' but they all follow the same standard -- that of duty ; for all the same divine law reigns -- that of self-sacrifice . To love something more than one 's self -- that is the secret of all that is great ; to know how to live for others -- that is the aim of all noble souls . November 13th , Nine O'clock P.M. I had well stopped up the chinks of my window ; my little carpet was nailed down in its place ; my lamp , provided with its shade , cast a subdued light around , and my stove made a low , murmuring sound , as if some live creature was sharing my hearth with me . All was silent around me . But , out of doors the snow and rain swept the roofs , and with a low , rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters ; sometimes a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles , which rattled together like castanets , and afterward it was lost in the empty corridor . Then a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins : I drew the flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me , I pulled my threadbare velvet cap over my eyes , and , letting myself sink deeper into my easy-chair , while my feet basked in the heat and light which shone through the door of the stove , I gave myself up to a sensation of enjoyment , made more lively by the consciousness of the storm which raged without .