been to me, through all my troubles and trials, and God knows I have had enough of ’em.  No one knows my ways and my ailments but her, and who can tend me so kind, or who will bear with the complaints of a poor old man but his wife.  Do, deacon, and Heaven bless you for it, and yours, do sell us together.  We have but a few days to live now, death will divide us soon enough.  Leave her to close my old eyes, when the struggle comes, and when it comes to you, deacon, as come it must to us all, may this good deed rise up for you, as a memorial before God.  I wish it had pleased him to have taken us afore it came to this, but his will be done; and he hung his head, as if he felt he had drained the cup of degradation to its dregs.  Can’t afford it, Jerry—­can’t afford it, old man, said the deacon, (with such a smile as a November sun gives, a passin atween clouds.) Last year they took oats for rates, now nothin but wheat will go down, and that’s as good as cash, and you’ll hang on as most of you do yet these many years.  There’s old Joe Crowe, I believe in my conscience he will live for ever.  The biddin then went on, and he was sold for six shillings a week.  Well, the poor critter gave one long loud deep groan, and then folded his arms over his breast, so tight that he seemed tryin to keep in his heart from bustin.  I pitied the misfortinate wretch from my soul, I don’t know as I ever felt so streaked afore.  Not so his wife, she was all tongue.  She begged and prayed, and cryed, and scolded, and talked at the very tip eend of her voice, till she became, poor critter, exhausted, and went off in a faintin fit, and they ketched her up and carried her out to the air, and she was sold in that condition.  Well I couldn’t make head or tail of all this, I could hardly believe my eyes and ears; so, says I, to John Porter, (him that has that catamount of a wife, that I had such a touss with,) John Porter, says I, who ever seed or heerd tell of the like of this, what under the sun does it all mean?  What has that are critter done that he should be sold arter that fashion?  Done, said he, why nothin, and that’s the reason they sell him.  This is town meetin day, and we always sell the poor for the year, to the lowest bidder.  Them that will keep them for the lowest sum, gets them.  Why, says I, that feller that bought him is a pauper himself, to my sartan knowledge.  If you were to take him up by the heels and shake him for a week, you couldn’t shake sixpence out of him.  How can he keep him?  It appears to me the poor buy the poor here, and that they all starve together.  Says I, there was a very good man once lived to Liverpool, so good, he said he hadn’t sinned for seven years; well he put a mill dam across the river, and stopt all the fish from goin up, and the court fined him fifty pounds for it, and this good man was so wrathy, he thought he should feel better to swear a little, but conscience told him it was wicked.  So he compounded with conscience, and cheated the devil, by callin it a