“I am now worth one hundred thousand pounds,” said old Gregory, as he
ascended a hill, which commanded a full prospect of an estate he had
just purchased; “I am now worth one hundred thousand pounds, and here,”
said he, “I’ll plant an orchard: and on that spot I’ll have a pinery--
“Yon farm houses shall come down,” said old Gregory, “they interrupt my
view.”
“Then, what will become of the farmers?” asked the steward, who attended
him.
“That’s their business,” answered old Gregory.
“And that mill must not stand upon the stream,” said old Gregory.
“Then, how will the villagers grind their corn?” asked the steward.
“That’s not my business,” answered old Gregory.
So old Gregory returned home--ate a hearty supper--drank a bottle of
port--smoked two pipes of tobacco--and fell into a profound
slumber--and awoke no more; and the farmers reside on their lands--and
the mill stands upon the stream--and the villagers rejoice that Death
did “business” with old Gregory.
* * * * *