"Give me joy,
Bernard," said Bob; "here's a windfall;" thrusting the official notice
into my hand; "five hundred pounds from an old female miser, who during
her lifetime was never known to dispense five farthings for any generous
or charitable purpose; but being about to _slip her wind_ and make a
_wind-up_ of her accounts, was kind enough to remember at parting that
she had a poor relation, an ~112~~artist, to whom such a sum might prove
serviceable, so just hooked me on to the tail end of her testamentary
document and booked me this legacy, before she booked herself inside for
the other world. And now, my dear Bernard," continued Bob, "you are a
man of the world, one who knows
'What's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.'
I am puzzled, actually bewildered what to do with this accumulation of
wealth: only consider an eccentric artist with five hundred pounds
in his pocket; why it must prove his death-warrant, unless immediate
measures are taken to free him from its magical influence. Shall I
embark it in some of the new speculations? the Milk company, or
the Water company, the Flesh, Fish, or Fowl companies, railways or
tunnel-ways, or in short, only put me in the right way, for, at present,
I am mightily abroad in that respect.
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