IIO

THE OATH BLOTTED OUT.

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 you can for him," said Trim, maintaining his point, "the poor soul will die." "He shall not die, by God," cried my Uncle Toby.

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.

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

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 rose up an hour before his appointed 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 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 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."

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 superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him, so that before my Uncle Toby

THE LAST PULSATION.

III

had finished the kind offers he was making to the father, the son had insensibly pressed close up 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, 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 the ligament, fine as it was, was never broken.

Nature instantly ebbed again. The film returned to its place. The pulse fluttered, stopped, went on, throbbed, stopped again, moved, stopped

Shall I go on? No.

HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF

ORFORD.

BORN OCTOBER 5, 1717; DIED MARCH 2, 1797.

Selection.

THE MYSTERIOUS HELMET.

P