Till that moment, my father, who had a map of _Sanson_’s, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon _Nevers_, the last stage he had paid for—purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as _Obadiah_ quitted the room: but this second attack of _Obadiah_’s, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.——He let go his compasses—or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to _Calais_ (like many others) as wise as he had set out. When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother’s death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of _Nevers._——By your leave, Mons. _Sanson_, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through _Nevers_ into the table—and nodding to my uncle _Toby_ to see what was in the letter—twice of one night, is too much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. _Sanson_, to be turned back from so lousy a town as _Nevers_—What think’st thou, _Toby_? added my father in a sprightly tone.——Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle _Toby_——for then—I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live.—So giving a second nod—and keeping his compasses still upon _Nevers_ with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other—half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle _Toby_ hummed over the letter. —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —he’s gone! said my uncle _Toby_——Where——Who? cried my father.——My nephew, said my uncle _Toby._——What—without leave—without money—without governor? cried my father in amazement. No:——he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle _Toby._—Without being ill? cried my father again.—I dare say not, said my uncle _Toby_, in a low voice, and fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad! I’ll answer for him——for he is dead. When _Agrippina_ was told of her son’s death, _Tacitus_ informs us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work—My father stuck his compasses into _Nevers_, but so much the faster.—What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of calculation!—_Agrippina_’s must have been quite a different affair; who else could pretend to reason from history? How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.— C H A P. III ————And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too—so look to yourselves.