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 and convulsions—and the blowing of noses, and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a dying man's room.—Strip it of these, what is it—'Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle Toby.—Take away its herses, its mutes, and its mourning,—its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids—What is it?—Better in battle!continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brother Bobby—'tis terrible no way—for consider, brother Toby,—when we are—death is not;—and when death is—we are not. My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my father's eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man—away it went,—and hurried my uncle Toby's ideas along with it.

For this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect, how little alteration in great men, the approaches of