poral, and what will become of his boy?He fhall not drop, faid my uncle Toby, firmly.-A-well-o'day,-do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point,the poor foul will die :- He shall not die, by G-,

cried my uncle Toby.

-The ACCUSING SPIRIT which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blufh'd as he gave it in-and the RECORDING ANGEL as he wrote it down, dropp'd a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.

-My uncle Toby went to his bureau,-put his purfe into his breeches pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a phyfician,-he went to bed and fell asleep.

THE fun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death press'd heavy upon his eye-lids,—and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle,-when my uncle Toby, who had rofe up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, fat himself down upon the chair, by the bed-fide, and independently of all modes and cuftoms, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did,-how he had rested in the night,-what was his complaint,-where was his pain,—and what he could do to help him?—and without giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him.

-You fhall go home directly, Le Fevre, faid my uncle Toby, to my houfe,-and we'll fend for a doctor to fee what's the matter,and we'll have an apothecary,-and Z

the

the corporal fhall be your nurfe; and I'll be your fervant, Le Fevre.

THERE was a frankness in my uncle Toby,-not the effect of familiarity,-but the caufe of it,-which let you at once into his foul, and fhewed you the goodness of his nature; to this, there was fomething in his looks, and voice, and manner, fuperadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; fo that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the fon infenfibly preffed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him.-The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and flow within him, and were retreating to their laft citadel, the heart-rallied back, the film forfook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wifhfully in my uncle Toby's face,

then caft a look upon his boy,and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken..

Nature inftantly ebb'd again,the film returned to its place the pulfe fluttered-ftopp'd-went on-throbb'd-stopp'd again-moved topp'dshall

I go on ?No.

CHA P. II.

STERNE.

YORICK' $

DEATH.

A

FEW hours before Yorick breathed his laft, Eugenius stept in with an intent to take his laft fight and last farewel of him. Upon his drawing Yorick's curtain, and asking how he felt himself, Yorick looking up in his face, took hold of his hand,--and, after thanking him for the

many

many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, he would thank him again and again; he told him, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the flip for ever.-I hope not, anfwered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the tendereft tone that ever man fpoke,-I hope not, Yorick, faid he.-Yorick replied, with a look up, and gentle fqueeze of Eugenius's hand, and that was all,but it cut Eugenius to the heart.-Come, come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and fummoning up the man within him,- my dear lad, be comforted, let not all thy fpirits and fortitude forfake thee at this crifis when thou moft wanteft them; who knows what resources are in ftore, and what the power of God may yet do for thee?-Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head; for my part, continued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he uttered the words,-I declare I know not, Yorick, how to part with thee, and would gladly flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, cheering up his voice, that there is ftill enough left of thee to make a bishop,-and that I may live to fee it.-I befeech thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand—his right still being grasped close in that of Eugenius, I beseech thee to take a view of my head.I fee nothing that ails it, replied Eugenius. Then alas ! my friend, faid Yorick, let me tell you, that it is fo bruised and mif-shapened with the blows which have been fo unhandfomely given me in the dark, that I might say with Sancho Panca, that should I recover, and " mitres there<% upon be fuffered to rain down from heaven as thick as "hail, not one of them would fit it.". -Yorick's laft breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart Z z

as

as he uttered this ;—yet ftill it was uttered with fomething of a Cervantic tone ;-and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes ;—faint picture of those flashes of his fpirit, which (as Shakespear faid of his anceftor) were wont to fet the table in a roar !

EUGENIUS was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broke; he squeezed his hand,—and then walked foftly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door,he then clofed them,—and never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, under a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of infcription, ferving both for his epitaph and elegy,

Alas, poor YORICK!

TEN times a day has Yorick's ghost the confolation to hear his monumental infcription read over with such a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him a footway croffing the church-yard close by his grave, not a paffenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it, -and fighing as he walks on,

Alas, poor YORICK!

STERNE.

CHAP.

CHA P. III.

THE BEGGAR's PETITION.

ITY the forrows of a poor old

PITY

man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will blefs your flore.

These tatter'd cloaths my poverty befpeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !
Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To feek a fhelter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief,

If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be repreft.

Z 3

Heaven