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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, the son had insensibly pressed 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 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, and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken.— Nature instantly ebb’d again the film returned to its place the pulse flutter’d—stopp’d—went on throbb’d—stopp'd again—mov’d—stopp'd-shall. 1 go on 2 No. - - STERN.E.
A few hours before Yorick breathed his last, Eugenius stept in with an intent to take his last sight and last farewell 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 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 slip for ever.—I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke, -I hope not, Yorick, said he-Yorick replied, with a look up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius's hand—and that was all,—but it cut Eugenius to the heart—Qome. come, Yoriek, -quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and sumnoting up the man within him, my dear lad, be comforted,—let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake Thee at this crisis, when thou most wantest them;—who knows what resources are in store, and what the power
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of God may yet do for thee?—Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head; for my part, continued Eligenius, 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 Engenius, cheering up his voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it. —I beseech the, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off h's night-cap as well as he could with his left-hand—his right being still grasped close in that of Eugenius, LI beseech thee to take a view of my head. P see nothing that ails it, replied Engenius. Then, alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you, that it is so bruised and misshapened with the blows which have been so unhaudsomely given me in the dark, that 1 might say with Sancho Pancha, that should I recover, and “mitres thereupon “ be suffered to rain down from Heaven as thick as hail, “ not one of them would fit it.” Yorick’s last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he uttered this;–yet still it was uttered with something of a Cervantic toile; 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 spirit, which (as Shakspeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar!
Eugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broken; he squeezed his hand,-and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eagenius with his eyes to the door—he then closed them,-and never opened them more.
He lies baried 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 uo more than these three words of inscription; serving both for his epitaph and elegy,
Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with such a. variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him: a footway crossing the church-yard close by his grave, not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it, and sighing as he walks, on,
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, . . . .
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine *
A little farm was my paternal lot,
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, -
^ CHAPTER IV.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN
Wmat beck’ning ghost, along the moon-light shade invites my steps, and points to yonder glade 2 * I's she l—but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleamus the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly tell,