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into our hands now-where it may be hereafter, Heaven knows! but be it where it will, the brave, Trim, will not use it unkindly."

"God forbid," said the corporal.

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Amen," responded my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon his heart.-STERNE.

91. AN ENGLISH BARRISTER.

How cold and dead a figure does an orator often make at the British bar, holding up his head with the most insipid serenity, and stroking the sides of a long wig that reaches down to his middle! The truth of it is, there is often nothing more ridiculous than the gestures of an English speaker; you see some of them running their hands into their pockets, as far as ever they can thrust them; and others looking with great attention on a piece of paper that has nothing written on it; you may see many a smart rhetorician turning his hat in his hands, moulding it into several different cocks, examining sometimes the lining of it and sometimes the button, during the whole course of his harangue. A deaf man would think he was cheapening a beaver, when, perhaps, he is talking of the fate of the British nation. I remember, when I was a young man, and used to frequent Westminster Hall, there was a counsellor who never pleaded without a piece of pack-thread in his hand, which he used to twist about a thumb or a finger all the while he was speaking the wags of those days used to call it "the thread of his discourse," for he was unable to utter a

word without it. One of his clients, who was more merry than wise, stole it from him one day in the midst of his pleading; but he had better have left it alone, for he lost his cause by his jest.-ADDISON.

92. THE LEGACY.

A. Ah, sir, you will be very much afflicted. I have most lamentable tidings to communicate to you.

B. What is it? Can one of my creditors have presumed to threaten me?

A. Not that. The misfortune, that I have to announce to you, is far greater. Our heavenly Father . . . alas, we are all mortal! do not be terrified.

B. What's the meaning of your miserable whining and sighing?

A. Your uncle has been struck with an apoplectic fit. B. How, my uncle is dead?

A. He has only just given up the ghost; he expired in my arms.

B. What a lamentable event!

A. He loved you much, as it appears. An hour before his death he was still speaking of you.

B. Ah, the good venerable man, the excellent pious man! He has probably appointed me his universal legatee! But tell me, is he, indeed, dead?

A. I have received his last sigh; I have closed his eyes.

B. May God have him in His holy keeping! it is well for him! let us not envy him his repose. Do you think he has left a handsome property?

A. His strong-box is piled up high with money-bags.

B. Oh cruel fate! thou snatchest from me him whom I held dearest upon earth. I shall never be consoled for this loss; throughout my whole life I shall bewail the untimely demise of my dear late uncle. He was

the most deserving, the most virtuous of men; ah, woe is me!

A. I know he was worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.

B. Go quick, and make the necessary preparations for the interment. Let the large hearse with six horses be kept in readiness. I wish the funeral obsequies to take place with all imaginable pomp. Over his grave a marble monument shall be erected with a magnificent epitaph, that may hand down to posterity the excellent qualities of my dear uncle. The whole house from the top to the bottom shall be hung with black. Every one shall put on crape and mourning, and the whole town shall be invited to pay the last honours to the defunct.

A. By the bye, I had nearly forgotten it; I found these papers in his pocket, and laid hold of them, lest they might fall into strange hands; perhaps you will find some notices of his past life in them, which will surprise you.

B. Let us see! Hum, doctors' bills, apothecaries' bills! a list of his debts! it is very considerable.-Hah, here comes the chief thing: the will. Let us read it: "I bequeath to God my poor soul." Good! "I bequeath to my neighbour N. for the friendship which he has constantly had for me, my house, goods, and chattels;

to my coachman my carriage and horses; to my manservant my whole wardrobe," &c.

A. But you, sir! should he have forgotten you?

B. Strange! I see here a quantity of legacies, and my name not amongst them. But here it comes.

"As

for my nephew, who has never shown me the slightest affection, who is a spendthrift, a low libertine

-Oh, the old dotard!

A. Read further, sir.

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B. "And who would never hearken to my good counsel, I ought to entirely disinherit him . What malignancy! "Yet, as he most probably has not a farthing in the world, I give him voluntarily one shilling, that he may be enabled to pay hangman's fee. He may content himself with that!"

A. How many mourning coaches shall I bespeak for the mourning procession, sir?

B. Pack yourself off, sirrah!

93. THE KING AND THE ASTROLOGER.

Blushing, and borne down by this close examination on the part of one whose expression was so reverent at once and commanding, Quentin* bent his eyes on the ground, and did not again raise them, till in the act of obeying the sonorous command of the Astrologer: "Look up and be not afraid, but hold forth thy hand."

When Martivalle* had inspected his palm, according to

the form of the mystic arts which he practised, he led the king some steps aside. "My royal brother," he said, "the physiognomy of this youth, together with the lines impressed on his hand, confirm, in a wonderful degree, the report which I founded on his horoscope, as well as that judgment which your own proficiency in our sublime arts (sing.) induced you at once to form of him. promises that this youth will be brave and fortunate." "And faithful?" said the king; "for valour and fortune square not always with fidelity."

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"And faithful also," said the astrologer; "for there is manly firmness in look and eye, and his linea vitæ is deeply marked and clear, which indicates a true and upright adherence to those who do benefit, or lodge trust in him. But yet"

"But what?" said the king; "Father Galeotti, wherefore do you now pause?"

"The ears of kings," said the sage, "are like the palates of those dainty patients, which are unable to endure the bitterness of the drugs necessary for their recovery."

"My ears and my palate have no such niceness," said Louis; "let me hear what is useful counsel, and swallow what is wholesome medicine. I quarrel not with the rudeness of the one, or the harsh taste of the other. I have not been cockered in wantonness or indulgence; my youth was one of exile and suffering. My ears are used to harsh counsel and take no offence at it."

"Then plainly, sire," replied Galeotti, "if you have aught in your purposed commission, which—which, in short, may startle a scrupulous conscience-entrust it not

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