And there an end; but now they rise again,"

as Macbeth observes, with some confusion of syntax, excusable in a
person of his circumstances. Now, suppose they--or he--the man whose
brains are out--goes about with his coffin under his arm, like my worthy
uncle? and suppose he blandly, politely, relentlessly insists upon
reading to you, out of that octavo sarcophagus, passages which in his
opinion prove that he is not only not dead, but immortal? If such a man
be a stranger, snub him; if a casual acquaintance, met in an evil hour,
there is still hope,--doors have locks, and there are two sides to a
street, and nearsightedness is a blessing, and (as a last resort)
buttons may be sacrificed (you remember Lamb's story of Coleridge), and
left in the clutch of the fatal fingers. But one of your own kindred,
and very respectable, adding the claim of misfortune to his other claims
upon you,--pachydermatous to slights, smilingly persuasive, gently
persistent,--as imperturbable as a ship's wooden figurehead through all
the ups and downs of the voyage of life, and as insensible to cold
water;--in short, an uncle like my uncle, whom there was no getting rid
of;--what the deuce would you do?

Exactly; run away as I did. There was nothing else to be done, unless,
indeed, I had throttled the old gentleman; in which case I am confident
that one of our modern model juries would have brought in the popular
verdict of justifiable insanity. But, being a peaceable man, I was
averse to extreme measures. So I did the next best thing,--consulted my
wife, and retired to this village.

Then consider the shock to my feelings when I looked up that day and saw
the enemy of our peace stalking into our little Paradise with his book
under his arm and his carpet-bag in his hand! coming with his sermons