Mrs. Bull. Really, husband, you went through a very notable course.
J. Bull. One of the things, that first alarmed me, was, that they showed a spite against my poor old mother[1]. "Lord," quoth I, "what makes you so jealous of a poor, old, innocent gentlewoman, that minds only her prayers, and her Practice of Piety: she never meddles in any of your concerns?" "Foh," say they, "to see a handsome, brisk, genteel, young fellow, so much governed by a doating old woman! why don't you go and suck the bubby? Do you consider she keeps you out of a good jointure? She has the best of your estate settled upon her for a rent-charge: hang her, old thief, turn her out of doors, seize her land, and let her go to law if she dares." "Soft and fair, gentlemen," quoth I; " my mother's my mother; our family are not of an unnatural temper. Though I don't take all her advice, I won't seize her jointure; long may she enjoy it, good woman; I don't grudge it her; she allows me now and then a brace of hundreds for my lawsuit: that's pretty fair." About this time the old gentlewoman fell ill of an odd sort of a distemper[2]; it began with a coldness and numbness in her limbs, which by degrees affected the nerves (I think the physicians called them) seized the brain, and at last ended in a lethargy. It betrayed itself at first in a sort of indifference and carelessness in all her actions, coldness to her best friends, and an aversion to stir or go about the common offices of life. She, that was the cleanliest creature in the world, never shrunk now, if you set a closestool under her nose. She,
