march is over.

my uncle Toby.

Then what is to become of his poor boy? cried

32. Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby, to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell thee in what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of my services to Le Fevre, as sickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knewest he was but a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist, as well as himself, out of his pay, that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse, because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself. Your honor knows, said the corporal, I had no orders: True, quoth my uncle Toby, thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier, but certainly, very wrong, as a man.

33. In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him whatever was in my house, that thou shouldest have offered him my house too: A sick brother officer should have the best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him; thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs.

34. In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling, he might march. He will never march, an't please your honor, in this world, said the corporal. He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. An't please your honor, said the corporal, he will never march, but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the corporal, and what will become of his boy? He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. A well o'day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul will die. He shall not die, by H-n, cried my uncle Toby.

35. The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.

36. My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep.

37. The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bed side, and independently of all modes and customs, 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 these inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal, the night before, for him.

38. You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, said my uncle Toby, to my house-and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter and we'll have an apothecary-and the corporal shall be your nurse-and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre.

39. There was a frankness in my uncle Toby-not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it-which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, super added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him.

40. The blood and spirit of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back-the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face-then cast a look upon his boy.-Nature instantly ebb'd again—the film returned to its place-the pulse fluttered, stopped-went on-throbbed-stopped again-moved-stopped-shall I go on ?-No.

LESSON CXVII.

Prince Henry and Falstaff.-SHAKSPEARE.

P. Henry. Welcome, Jack!-Where hast thou been? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy:-ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them

too. A plague of all cowards! give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [he drinks.]—You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man; yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward!-Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat and grows old, Heaven help the while! A bad world! I say-A plague of all cowards! I say still.

P. Henry. How now Woolsack! what mutter you?

Fal. A king's son! if I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more! You Prince of Wales!

P. Henry. Why, what's the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me that.

P. Henry. An'* ye call me coward, I'll stab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward! I'll see thee hang'd ere I'll call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You're straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of friends? a plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me— give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue if I drank to-day.

P. Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd since thou drank'st last.

Fal. All's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards! still, say I.

P. Henry. What's the matter?

Fal. What's the matter! here be four of us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? Where is it?

Fal. Where is it! taken from us, it is: a hundred upon four of us.

P. Henry. What! a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hack'd like a handsaw I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!

P. Henry. What, fought you with them all?

* An', if.

Fal. All! I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no twolegg'd creature.

P. Henry. Pray Heav'n, you have not murder'd some of

them!

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point; four rogues in buckram let drive at me.

P. Henry. What, four! thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal, I told thee four,-These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me: I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target,* thus.

P. Henry. Seven! why they were but four even now.
Fal. In buckram ? -

P. Henry. Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Fal. Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of—

P. Henry. So, two more already.

Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought-seven of the eleven I paid.

P. Henry. O monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of

two.

Fal. But as Satan would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained heap, thou knotty-pated fool

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth.

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal-green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason: what say'st thou to this? Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

* Target, a small shield, used as a defensive weapon.

Fal. What, upon compulsion!-No: were I at the strappado,* or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion? Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.

P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh

Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dry'd neat's tongue, you stock-fish! O, for breath to utter! what is like thee?

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou hast tir'd thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this :-Poins and I saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth: mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and with a word out-fac'd you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carry'd yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and still ran and roar'd, as ever I heard a calf What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Fal. Ha ha ha!-D'ye think I did not know you? I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear ye, my master, was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince? why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince; instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct, I grant you and I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content!—and the argument shall be, thy running away.

Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me.

* Strappado, a punishment formerly in use, in which the offender was drawn to the top of a beam, and let fall.

+ Pronounced Her'-cu-lees, a Grecian hero, distinguished for his strength and valor.