his last; his hourglass is always in his hand, and he is never guilty of
sluggishness or insincerity.

He was about to proceed, when a sudden symptom of the return of his fit
put him in mind that it was time to get his will witnessed, which was no
sooner done but he took it up and gave it to his sister, telling her that
though all he had was hers of right, yet he thought it proper, to prevent
even a possibility of a dispute, to write down his mind in the nature of
a will, wherein I have given you, says he, the little that I have left,
except my books and papers, which, as soon as I am dead, I desire may be
delivered to Mr. Anthony Barlow, a near relation of my worthy master, Mr.
Owen Parry.

This Mr. Anthony Barlow was an old contemplative Welsh gentleman, who,
being under some difficulties in his own country, was forced to come into
Cornwall and take sanctuary among the tinners. Dickory, though he kept
himself as retired as possible, happened to meet him one day upon his
walks, and presently remembered that he was the very person that used
frequently to come to visit his master while he lived in Pembrokeshire,
and so went to him, and by signs made him understand who he was.

The old gentleman, though at first surprised at this unexpected
interview, soon recollected that he had formerly seen at Mr. Parry's a
dumb man, whom they used to call the dumb philosopher, so concludes
immediately that consequently this must be he. In short, they soon made
themselves known to each other; and from that time contracted a strict
friendship and a correspondence by letters, which for the future they
mutually managed with the greatest exactness and familiarity.

But to leave this as a matter not much material, and to return to our