Never did a family party start for the metropolis with gayer hearts,
or on a more agreeable mission. Our honored relative (_authoritate_
the Methodist Magazine) had "shuffled off" in the best marching order
imaginable. Before the rout had arrived, her house had been perfectly
arranged, but her will, "wo [**Unreadable] day," was afterward found
to be too informal. It was hinted that the mission to Timbuctoo,
although not legally binding on the next of kin, should be considered
a sacred injunction and first lien on the estates. In a religious
light, according to the Reverend Mr. Sharpington, formalities were
unnecessary; but my father observed, _sotto voce_, in reply, and in
the plain vernacular of the day, what in modern times would have been
more figuratively expressed, namely, "Did not the gospel-trumpeters
wish they might get it!" The kennel, whose door for two years had not
been opened, was again unlocked; whitewashing and reparations were
extensively ordered; a prudent envoy was dispatched to re-purchase the
pack, which, _rebut egenis_, had been laid down, and the colonel, in
his "mind's eye," and oblivious of cloth shoes, once more was up to
his knees in leather,[2] and taking everything in the shape of fence
and brook, just as the Lord pleased to dispose them.

A cellar census was next decided on, and by a stout exertion, and at
the same time with a heavy heart, my father hobbled down the stone
steps and entered an underground repertorium, which once he took
much pride in visiting. Alas! its glory had departed; the empty bins
were richly fringed with cobwebbed tapestries, and silently admitted
a non-occupancy by bottles for past years. The colonel sighed. He
remembered his grandfather's parting benediction. Almost in infancy,
malignant fever within one brief week had deprived him of both
parents, and a chasm in direct succession was thus created. A summons
from school was unexpectedly received, and although the young heir and