CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
Full of wise saws and modern instances.
As You Like It.
"I wish to Heaven, Hector," said the Antiquary, next morning after breakfast, "you would spare our nerves, and not be keeping snapping that arquebuss of yours." "Well, sir, I'm sure I'm sorry to disturb you," said his nephew, still handling his fowling-piece;--"but it's a capital gun--it's a Joe Manton, that cost forty guineas." "A fool and his money are soon parted, nephew--there is a Joe Miller for your Joe Manton," answered the Antiquary; "I am glad you have so many guineas to throw away." "Every one has their fancy, uncle,--you are fond of books." "Ay, Hector," said the uncle, "and if my collection were yours, you would make it fly to the gunsmith, the horse-market, the dog-breaker,-- Coemptos undique nobiles libros--mutare loricis Iberis." "I could not use your books, my dear uncle," said the young soldier, "that's true; and you will do well to provide for their being in better hands.

But don't let the faults of my head fall on my heart--I would not part with a Cordery that belonged to an old friend, to get a set of horses like Lord Glenallan's." "I don't think you would, lad--I don't think you would," said his softening relative.

"I love to tease you a little sometimes; it keeps up the spirit of discipline and habit of subordination--You will pass your time happily here having me to command you, instead of Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,' as Milton has it; and instead of the French," he continued, relapsing into his ironical humour, "you have the Gens humida ponti--for, as Virgil says, Sternunt se somno diversae in littore phocae; which might be rendered, Here phocae slumber on the beach, Within our Highland Hector's reach.
Nay, if you grow angry, I have done.

Besides, I see old Edie in the court-yard, with whom I have business.

Good-bye, Hector--Do you remember how she splashed into the sea like her master Proteus, et se jactu dedit aequor in altum ?" M'Intyre,--waiting, however, till the door was shut,--then gave way to the natural impatience of his temper.
"My uncle is the best man in the world, and in his way the kindest; but rather than hear any more about that cursed phoca, as he is pleased to call it, I would exchange for the West Indies, and never see his face again." Miss M'Intyre, gratefully attached to her uncle, and passionately fond of her brother, was, on such occasions, the usual envoy of reconciliation.