“Sometimes,” replied my father, “but you have not seen Shakespeare’s, Mrs. Shandy. And it is for the like of you, I tell you point-blank——” As my father pronounced the word point-blank my uncle Toby rose up to say something upon projectiles, but my father continued:— “It is for the like of you that these Shakespeare Memorialists are sending their strolling players around the country, to set the goodwives wondering about Shakespeare, as they wondered about Diego’s nose in the tale of the learned Hafen Slawkenbergius.” “Surely the wonderful nose was Cyrano’s?” said my mother. “Cyrano’s or Diego’s, ’tis all one,” cried my father in a passion. “Zooks! Cannot a man use a plain analogy but his wife must interrupt him with her foolish questions about it? May the eternal curse of all the devils in——” “Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried my uncle Toby, “but nothing to this.” “As you please, Mr. Shandy,” said my mother. “Where was I?” said my father, in some confusion, and letting his hand fall upon my uncle Toby’s shoulder in sign of repentance for his violent cursing. “You was at Slawkenbergius,” replied my uncle Toby. “No, no, brother, Shakespeare, I was speaking of Shakespeare, and how they were going to carry him round the country because they had not money enough to build a theatre for him in London.” “But could they not hire one?” said my uncle Toby. “No, for my Lord Lytton said that would be too speculative a venture.” “’Tis a mighty strange business,” said my uncle, in much perplexity. “They buy their land, as I understand it, brother, to build a house for Shakespeare in London, but lease it for a house for young Christians instead, and spend their money on sending Shakespeare packing out of London.” “’Tis all the fault of the Londoners,” replied my father. “They have no soul for Shakespeare, and for that matter, as I believe, no soul at all.” “A Londoner has no soul, an’ please your honour,” whispered Corporal Trim doubtingly, and touching his Montero-cap to my uncle. “I am not much versed, Corporal,” quoth my uncle Toby, “in things of that kind; but I suppose God would not leave him without one, any more than thee or me.” LADY CATHERINE AND MR. COLLINS Elizabeth and Charlotte were seated one morning in the parlour at Hunsford parsonage, enjoying the prospect of Rosings from the front window, and Mr. Collins was working in his garden, which was one of his most respectable pleasures, when the peace of the household was suspended by the arrival of a letter from London:— “THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, “LONDON, _December, 19—_.