Dickory Cronke | Page 9

or hesitation, went directly into the neighbourhood, and
brought home her two select friends, upon whose secrecy and sincerity
she knew she might depend upon all accounts.
In her absence he felt several symptoms of the approach of his fit,
which made him a little uneasy, lest it should entirely seize him before
he had perfected his will, but that apprehension was quickly removed
by her speedy return. After she had introduced her friends into his
chamber, he proceeded to express himself in the following manner;
Dear sister, you now see your brother upon the brink of eternity; and as
the words of dying persons are commonly the most regarded, and make
deepest impressions, I cannot suspect but you will suffer the few I am
about to say to have always some place in your thoughts, that they may
be ready for you to make use of upon any occasion.
Do not be fond of anything on this side of eternity, or suffer your
interest to incline you to break your word, quit your modesty, or to do
anything that will not bear the light, and look the world in the face. For
be assured of this; the person that values the virtue of his mind and the
dignity of his reason, is always easy and well fortified both against
death and misfortune, and is perfectly indifferent about the length or
shortness of his life. Such a one is solicitous about nothing but his own
conduct, and for fear he should be deficient in the duties of religion,
and the respective functions of reason and prudence.
Always go the nearest way to work. Now, the nearest way through all
the business of human life, are the paths of religion and honesty, and
keeping those as directly as you can, you avoid all the dangerous
precipices that often lie in the road, and sometimes block up the
passage entirely.
Remember that life was but lent at first, and that the remainder is more
than you have reason to expect, and consequently ought to be managed
with more than ordinary diligence. A wise man spends every day as if it
were his last; his hourglass is always in his hand, and he is never guilty

of sluggishness or insincerity.
He was about to proceed, when a sudden symptom of the return of his
fit put him in mind that it was time to get his will witnessed, which was
no sooner done but he took it up and gave it to his sister, telling her that
though all he had was hers of right, yet he thought it proper, to prevent
even a possibility of a dispute, to write down his mind in the nature of a
will, wherein I have given you, says he, the little that I have left, except
my books and papers, which, as soon as I am dead, I desire may be
delivered to Mr. Anthony Barlow, a near relation of my worthy master,
Mr. Owen Parry.
This Mr. Anthony Barlow was an old contemplative Welsh gentleman,
who, being under some difficulties in his own country, was forced to
come into Cornwall and take sanctuary among the tinners. Dickory,
though he kept himself as retired as possible, happened to meet him
one day upon his walks, and presently remembered that he was the very
person that used frequently to come to visit his master while he lived in
Pembrokeshire, and so went to him, and by signs made him understand
who he was.
The old gentleman, though at first surprised at this unexpected
interview, soon recollected that he had formerly seen at Mr. Parry's a
dumb man, whom they used to call the dumb philosopher, so concludes
immediately that consequently this must be he. In short, they soon
made themselves known to each other; and from that time contracted a
strict friendship and a correspondence by letters, which for the future
they mutually managed with the greatest exactness and familiarity.
But to leave this as a matter not much material, and to return to our
narrative. By this time Dickory's speech began to falter, which his sister
observing, put him in mind that he would do well to make some
declaration of his faith and principles of religion, because some
reflections had been made upon him upon the account of his neglect, or
rather his refusal, to appear at any place of public worship.
"Dear sister," says he, "you observe very well, and I wish the
continuance of my speech for a few moments, that I might make an

ample declaration upon that account. But I find that cannot be; my
speech is leaving me so fast that I can only tell you that I have always
lived, and now die, an unworthy member of the ancient catholic and